I could just ask him. That would clear things up.
Be upfront and honest: Are you awash in strange, new feelings for me? Because I can’t stop thinking about you, and you’re messing up all my plans, and now I need to know if I’m under a dark generational curse, or if you feel the same way, because I’ve never done this before, and I don’t know what I’m doing.
I think about texting him several times. I even compose a practice message, but before I hit Send, Evie walks behind the bookshop counter and catches me in the act.
“Want a little advice from Madame Evie the Great?” she says, dark circles under her eyes. “The spirits would tell you not to send that. Let him come to you. Or even better, just let him go. ChasingAdrian when he ghosted me after our first date got me where I am now, and I regret it completely.”
I’m a little insulted she’d even lump Lucky and Adrian into the same group; then again, she’s got more experience in these matters. Maybe she’s right and I should just wait. The more I hesitate, the more unsure I become … until all I end up doing is watching Lucky come and go, wondering what I did wrong, from the bookshop window.
I try not to think about it. When I’m not working, I load a fresh roll of film into my Nikon F3 and stroll through the historic district, snapping some interesting closeup shots of the horse-drawn carriages and one of the drivers, dressed in colonial costume. I’m concentrating so hard on my work, I’m able to ignore a kissy-face gesture thrown my way by a random Golden across the Harborwalk.Don’t know you, don’t care.But when I spy someone familiar eating at a café—my teacher, Mr. Phillips, his round Harry Potter glasses glinting in the afternoon sun—I get nervous that he’s heard about me trying to hustle my way back into the magazine offices, and that’s just too much; I cap the lens of my camera and head back home before he sees me.
At lunch on the third day of radio silence, I’mstillwondering about Lucky while shelving books in the psychology section when I hear a couple of noises that catch my attention. The first is a dog barking outside the shop. Not out of the ordinary. Lots of dog owners on our street.
The second thing is Mom talking at the register. Again, nothingunusual. It’s the tone of her voice that’s alarming. She’s using her Not Friendly tone. And when I peer around the antique printing machine in the middle of the shop to see who she’s talking to—when I see the tiny black dog on the leash that’s tied up outside our steps—I understand why.
I stride around the Nook’s printing machine, heart racing.
“Of course you can. It’s a free country,” Mom is telling Lucky, who is standing in front of the counter with his back to me, black leather jacket stretched across his broad shoulders and jeans hanging low on his hips like he’s a walking, talking advertisement for sexy rebel-without-a-cause teenage dreams. “Not going to kick you out of the store. I’m just asking why it is you’re here, is all. If you’re not buying anything. And why is that dog yapping?”
“He’s Bean the Magic Pup, and he’s trying to tell you that he wants to come inside. He hates being outside when he can see people inside.”
“I hate dogs,” Mom says, making a face. “They pee on things.”
“He’s house-trained. Mostly.”
“Nope. He’s not coming inside. Why are you here?”
“Trying to tell you,” he says, sliding something across the counter.
She frowns. “What is this?”
“Looks like cash,” he says. “A hundred and fifty dollars, to be exact.”
Mother of God.
“Hi, uh. Hi. H-hi,” I say in the most awkward way possible,sliding around the side of the counter. A tiny earthquake shakes me from the inside out at the sight of his long black lashes and the playful swoop of his hair. I’m not prepared for this. I can’t see him here—not in front of my mom. She’s going to know something happened between us. Isn’t it obvious? Every molecule in my body remembers. They’re practically shouting.
LUCKY. LUCKY. LUCKY.
I’ve got a tangle of weird emotions about why he hasn’t texted me, and I’m very panicked right now, but …
But I still want him.
The worst part is thathe knows. He sees it all over my face, the wanting, and he lights up like a city skyscraper at midnight.
His scarred eyebrow lifts. Andoh, the evil look behind his eyes. In the history of the world, no one has smirked like he’s smirking. This smirk of his is sly. It’s full of knowing. It says,Why yes, I kissed your face off, and we both know it was damn good, but here I am, turning the tables on you. And there’s nothing you can do about it.
Dead. Me. Go ahead and call an ambulance, because I’m going to have a heart attack right now, right here. Goodbye.
“Good afternoon,” he says, like he’s a Jehovah’s Witness, come to save my soul with a pamphlet and a smile. “I was just asking your mother here about hiring out your services.”
“Were you, really?”
“I was, yes. Need a photographer.”
“Is that right?”
“Yep.”
