A slow smilespreads across his face, lighting his eyes. He bumps his elbowagainst mine. “Stella.”
My cheeks achefrom the grin that overtakes my face. “Leland.”
LelandLevesque. He was one of Wesley’s best friends in high school. Ialways thought of him as a unicorn—magical and rare—because he wasgood-looking, smart, played sports,andwas nice to everyone from thegeeks to the goths and every clique in between. He floatedseamlessly from group to group, including the one I was part ofduring my second last year of high school.
“Wesleytold me you were back in town,” we say at the same time, then breakinto laughter.
I wave him on andhe says, “It’s really good to see you, Stella. It’s been toolong.”
“Yeah,it has. It’s good to see you too.”Reallygood. The attractive teen Iknew all those years ago has grown into an even more handsome man.His short, dark hair still has a hint of a wave to it like it didback then, but now it also has a touch of silver woven throughoutlike glittering threads. The fine lines around his eyes and mouthtell me he still laughs and smiles as often as he used to, and thethin layer of stubble on his chin and cheeks makes him look…well,unbelievably sexy. It takes my brain a moment to replace the imageof the boy I knew with one of the man standing in front ofme.
“Thisplace is amazing, isn’t it?” he says, gesturing around to encompassthe Village as a whole.
“Itreally is. I worked as an elf here when it was Santa’sVillage.”
Leland’s eyes widen, glimmering with mirth. “NowthatI would like to haveseen. Those costumes were pretty elaborate.”
I let out a ‘ha!’and shake my head. “You have no idea. It took me at least tenminutes to get dressed for each shift. It was like ‘buckles andbuttons and belts, oh my!’ I never did get used to wriggling intothose striped tights.”
He laughs alongquietly as I speak. I tell myself the fizzy feeling in my stomachis a result of seeing a familiar face I haven’t seen in years andhas nothing to do with the way Leland’s eyes crinkle at thecorners.
“I hopeyou have pictures,” he says.
“I do.”I pause, suddenly feeling brave. “In fact, I think I have one on myphone. Would you like to grab a drink with me at the café and I’llshow you?”
Leland’s smilewavers. “I’d love to, but I’m actually meeting someone in a fewminutes.” He reaches out and grips the sleeve of my coat betweenhis thumb and forefinger, giving it a friendly little tug, as ifhoping it’ll soften his rejection. “Maybe some othertime?”
“Yeah,definitely. I’m staying in Bellevue, so…”
“Samehere.” He releases my sleeve and jams his hands into his jacketpockets. He stares at me for a long minute until I raise myeyebrows expectantly and he chuckles to himself. “Sorry. I reallyshould get going, but I’m glad we ran into each other.” His handsleave his pockets as abruptly as they went in, and he holds out hisarms for a hug.
I have a flashbackto the only time Leland ever hugged me: the day he graduated fromhigh school. That hug was long and felt full of meaning—althoughI’m sure I gave it more meaning than Leland intended—but this oneis quick and somewhat awkward. We’re both smiling when we pullaway, though.
“Seeyou around, Stella.” He gives me a little wave before disappearinginto the crowd.
I turn away fromthe bookstore and meander through the makeshift streets of theVillage, lost in thought. Being around Leland in high school waswonderful, yet confusing. At times, I was certain we had a genuineconnection as friends, while other times, I convinced myself he wasnice to me the way he was nice to everyone else. Or because I washis best friend’s little sister. Or maybe even because he feltsorry for the way my life became a bit of a horror show for awhile.
Regardless,whenever Leland Levesque was around and you had his full attention,it felt like basking in the warm glow of summer sunshine. I feltthat glow again just now. Despite my disappointment at Lelandhaving to leave, something strange and wonderful bubbles in mystomach. It’s foreign at first, something vaguely familiar that Ihaven’t felt in a long time.
And then it hitsme: it’s hope. Seeing Leland, even just for a few minutes, somehowset off something in me. When I told Wesley earlier that thingswouldn’t always be this way, I only half believed it. I’m still nota hundred percent there, but Leland stirred up a remembering ofsorts in me about the girl who dreamed of big things once upon atime.
I can be that girlagain. I just have to find her first.
CHAPTER THREE
Cravings isbustling when I step inside. Couples and groups are scatteredaround the spacious room; there seems to be some sort of craftingevent happening in one corner, where a bunch of tables are pushedtogether. The overall ambiance of the place—warm and cozy, deckedout in gorgeous autumn decor, and full of happy people—has a smiletugging at my lips.
Proving the worldreally is smaller than anyone can truly fathom, Cravings isco-owned by a woman named Willow Stewart, who I met while I livedin Toronto. She worked at a wonderful nerdy-themed café not farfrom where I lived, and I would often run into her while she waswalking to or from work. I ventured into the café a few times—theplace was my idea of heaven: coffee, pastries, and fandommemorabilia everywhere—but my then-husband’s passive-aggressivecomments about me not needing fattening baked goods kept me awayfor the most part.
During one of ourbrief conversations, Willow and I discovered we were both fromBellevue and even went to the same high school, although she was ayear ahead in Wesley’s grade. She moved back to Bellevue last yearto open Cravings with one of her childhood best friends.
“Well,hey there, stranger,” Willow says as I weave through the tables.She scurries around the front counter and wraps her arms around me,enveloping me in the scents of pumpkin spice and coffee.
“SorryI haven’t been in for awhile,” I tell her when she releases me.“I’m still looking for a job and I’ve been checking out apartmentlistings, even though I can’t get a place until I have a job.” Idon’t add that I’ve been avoiding the Village because I feel guiltyfor spending money on anything other than necessities these days.As much as I love Willow’s culinary creations and libations,they’re an unnecessary expense.
“Don’tworry about it,” Willow says. “Are you just popping in or were youplanning to stay for a bit?” When I tell her I have the wholeevening free, she points to an unoccupied table in the corner. “Whydon’t you have a seat while I get someone to cover for me, and wecan have a little catch up.”
Willow joins me afew minutes later, setting down two steaming cups and sliding intothe seat across from me. “I hope this is okay. I remembered youusually ordered hot chocolate when you came into the café inToronto.”
