And so was Mia. The thought flashes from nowhere. I immediately push it aside. As unwanted as ...
Our food arrives, saving me from revealing too much too soon. I try to focus on my food, but my attention keeps drifting to Elise.I eat and pretend not to stare, but every part of her pulls at me. I've spent years missing these things. Now they're right in front of me.
"I saw Mia's post, by the way," I say when there's a lull in conversation. "About the coffee shop."
Elise's expression darkens. "I'm going to write her into my next novel as the first victim."
"Nah, that's too quick. She deserves a slower death. And you'd want her terrified, like maybe every other character dies, and she's the last one standing, and she knows the monster is coming for her."
She looks at me, a flicker of surprise in her eyes, quickly replaced by something warmer. The corner of her mouth twitches up. "You're right. I'm thinking something with insects. Or maybe tiny demons that slowly hollow her out from the inside."
"Starting with her personality shouldn't take long. There's not much there."
She laughs again, and the sound travels straight to my core. This is the Elise I've always wanted to know. The real Elise emerging from behind her walls—darkly funny, sharp-witted, slightly macabre. Exactly the girl I glimpsed in those horror stories she wrote for the school paper, the ones I collected and kept hidden in my desk drawer.
"So you still write horror?" I ask, genuinely interested.
"Trying to. I've got a manuscript making the rejection rounds." She makes a face. "Number seventeen arrived this morning, actually."
"Their loss." When she raises an eyebrow, I add, "I used to read your column in the school paper. The horror stories."
She looks genuinely shocked. "Shut the front door. You did?"
"Every issue. That one about the locker room that ate the swim team? Couldn't shower after practice for a week."
Her face lights up in a way that makes my chest ache. "I can't believe you remember that."
"It was good. Really good. Have you ever thought of publishing them as a compilation?"
"Hmm, no. I never thought of that."
"You should consider it. I mean, I'd buy the first one thousand copies. James would buy the next two thousand."
She doesn't say anything.
Silence stretches between us, taut and humming. I can feel it in my chest, the pull toward her, the restraint it takes not to give in. Her hand accidentally brushes mine, just barely, and that's all it takes to make the moment feel unbearable.
She doesn't look away. Neither do I.
James, bless him, starts talking about his renovations, giving me a moment to breathe.
When she turns to ask James a question, I study her profile—the slope of her nose, the curve of her jaw, the subtle dip above her upper lip. I want to touch that spot with my thumb, feel her breath against my skin.
Look at me being pathetic.
The conversation shifts to basketball somehow, and I'm surprised when Elise makes a comment about my three-pointer in the fourth quarter.
"You watched the game?" I ask.
"I was literally in the front row," she points out drily.
I can't help grinning. "Yeah, but you were watching moi."
"James made me," she says quickly, her face beet red.
"Right," James drawls. "I forced you to learn all those stats and player names."
She kicks him under the table, and I feel an unexpected stab of jealousy at their easy banter, the years of friendship they've shared while I've been on the outside, wanting her from a distance.
