34
OLIVER
The espresso machine chooses the exact moment I’m locking the front door to make a sound like a dying whale.
“Not now,” I mutter, jiggling the key in the lock. “I already turned you off. You’re supposed to be quiet.”
The machine gurgles again, defiant to the last. I make a mental note to have a serious conversation with whoever scheduled maintenance, then finally get the deadbolt to cooperate. The click of the lock is satisfying in that end-of-shift way that makes minimum wage almost worth it.
The Brew sits dark behind me now, the chairs stacked on tables, the display case empty, the chalk menu wiped clean for tomorrow’s specials.
I pocket the keys and walk down the sidewalk, already mentally composing my evening plans. Shower. Food. Text Ryan. We haven’t talked since the picnic, and the silence is starting to feel like a physical weight on my chest.
That’s when I walk directly into a human being, sending us both stumbling backward. “What the?—”
“Oh golly, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t?—”
We both freeze.
Ryan Abrams stands in front of me, illuminated by the single functioning streetlight like he’s been staged there by a romantic comedy director with no sense of subtlety. He’s wearing his usual khakis and a button-down, and his brown hair is slightly windswept.
“Ryan?” My voice comes out approximately two octaves higher than intended. I try again. “Ryan? What are you doing here?”
“I was—” He gestures vaguely at the coffee shop behind me. “I came to see you. But then I noticed it was dark and thought maybe I’d missed you, so I was walking toward the Hockey House, and then?—”
“You walked into me.”
“Youwalked intome.”
“I think it was mutual.”
“Mutually catastrophic,” Ryan agrees, and there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth that makes my stomach flip. “My apologies for the collision. I should have been watching where I was going.”
“You came to see me?” The words finally register, cutting through my post-collision brain fog. “It’s almost eleven.”
Ryan’s cheeks flush, visible even in the dim light. “I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about…things. And Jackson said that thinking about things was not the same as doing something about things, and then he threatened to physically carry me here if I didn’t leave on my own, so.”
“Jackson threatened to carry you?”
“He’s surprisingly strong for someone who spends most of his time cuddling a stuffed penguin.”
I laugh, and some of the tension in my chest loosens. This is Ryan.MyRyan. The guy I’ve kissed under stars, held hands with in the archive basement and made come in a public park. There’s no reason for my heart to be pounding.
Except there’s every reason, because we still haven’t talkedabout what we are, and the not knowing is slowly driving me insane.
“Come on,” I say, gesturing toward a nearby bench. It’s wrought iron and uncomfortable, but it’s better than standing in the middle of a sidewalk. “Sit with me?”
Ryan follows without hesitation, settling onto the bench close enough that our arms brush. The contact sends a familiar spark through my body, and I have to resist the urge to close the remaining distance between us.
“So,” I say.
“So,” Ryan echoes.
We sit in silence for a moment, watching a moth circle the streetlight with suicidal determination. The night air is warm, carrying the faint scent of coffee from my clothes and something floral from the garden beds along the walkway.
“I had an interesting conversation with Kyle the other day,” I offer, because someone has to break the silence, and it might as well be me. “At the gym.”
“Oh?”
