“Sure. Of course.” I look up as Tag mumbles something offensive under his breath and purposely finds a separate table across the room.
My eyes swing back to Chase, then dip to the tabletop.
No coffee today.
Over the last few weeks, Chase has always been waiting with a vanilla late, no foam.
Tossing my hair over my shoulder, I lean back in the chair. “You should sing something.”
A blank stare. “Zero chance.”
“It’s not so bad,” I say through a smile. “I’ve witnessed a lot of questionable talent over the years, and I doubt you’ll even come close to that.”
“Sorry, Annalise.”
“Um…yeah. No worries.” I curl a strand of hair around my finger. “Did you want me to move? I know I can be too much sometimes. If you want space, I’ll just—”
“No.” His response is sharp, immediate, startling me into stillness. He finally looks at me, and his eyes fill with a sadness that makes my chest ache. “You’re not too much. Never. Not at all.”
Those words shouldn’t hurt.
They shouldn’t wash over me like a storm-charged tidal wave and steal the breath from my lungs. But they do. Because I’ve spent so long believing the opposite, being told the opposite, that hearing him say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world feels foreign.
I don’t know how to respond, so I don’t.
As the first person takes the platform—a mid-thirties dad looking to impress his preschool-age twins with a lively rendition ofFrozen’s“Let It Go”—I stand from my seat and approach the counter, ordering three drinks: a latte for me,an Americano for Chase, and a decaf Frappuccino with extra chocolate syrup and a gazillion cherries for Tag.
After depositing two of the drinks on my table, I breeze over to my brother and slap the cup in front of him with a napkin note that reads,“Something sweet to awaken your dead soul.”
“Hilarious.” He pushes it aside as if it might come to life, levitate off the table, and force its way down his throat. “Are you singing next?”
“Eventually. Chase seems distracted, so I’m going to keep him company for a bit.”
“He’s probably just busy plotting out his next crime.”
“You’re literally dreadful.” My eyes wheel to the front of the room, where the suspender-clad father belts out the iconic chorus. “Hey, you should take notes.”
“Hey, what does your boyfriend think of these secret meetings with your abductor?”
My eyes slant with scorn. “He’s unaware.”
“Clearly.”
“It’s not a big deal. But it would be to him. You know how he gets.”
“As do you. Which begs the question: What the fuck is a sensible, intelligent woman such as yourself still doing with that asshole?”
Anger crawls its way under my skin, making me flush. “I’m taking this back.” With a kill-on-the-spot look, I snatch up the faux coffee and whip around, hightailing it back to the less-caustic table. Chase sits there, fidgeting in place, glancing around the room like something might jump out and bite him.
I take my seat as the man onstage finishes his animated performance, and everyone claps. Out of my periphery, I notice the wheelchair-bound girl inching her way toward the front of the room. She peeks over her shoulder at her father, her eyes wide and terrified, her knuckles locked around the wheels with an iron grip. Nerves have her trembling, rooted to the spot.
Chase watches with cautious interest, slinking down in his seat. He taps his ring against the tabletop. Reaches for the cup of coffee. Twirls it in circles, but doesn’t take a sip.
Clearing his throat, he looks over at me. “Thanks for this. You didn’t have to buy me coffee.”
“Just returning the favor.” I grin widely, hoping my optimism will brighten his spirits.
It doesn’t.
