I tell myself his change of mood has nothing to do with his time expiring, and everything to do with me, but it’s the chicken and fries. As he indulges, I set my book on the table and fold my hands in my lap, staring out the widow as we ride the sea of clouds.
“I’m scared,” I say.
“Scared?”
I nod.
“Of what?”
“Everything.” I flit my gaze to him for a second.
He slows his chewing, tension building in his brow.
“Scared to dream. Scared not to. Scared of death. Scared of life.” I lean my head back and sigh. “I’m deliriously happy, but utterly lost.”
Flynn wipes his fingers across his lips as he swallows.
“My grandma’s going to be okay,” I say with as much conviction as possible. “And when she is, I want to find a place on the map that feels like our own. Some place like Magnolia Springs, Alabama, or Harpers Ferry, West Virginia. A little one-bedroom apartment. Maybe a tiny house. You’ll get a job at family-owned garage where they have a hound dog that hangs out by the door. His name will be Dewey or Ruckus.”
Flynn grins, eyes alight with as much hope as I’m feeling.
“I’ll work at a yarn store and take up knitting. We’ll have the weekends to make pancakes with syrup and local berries that we pick in the wild. Of course, we’ll have a convertible like Rupert’s Chevelle. And you’ll drive us along windy roads with my hairtangled in the wind, sun on our faces. And we’ll—I don’t know. Just find ourselves. Fall deeper in love.”
His eyes remain captivated as he hums.
“What do you think?” I ask.
His smile fades a bit. “I think it’s missing something.”
“A cat?”
Flynn shakes his head. “A stage. A beautiful dress. A cello from Italy. And an auditorium of adoring fans.” He sets the bag aside and leans forward, reaching for my hand. “Me in the front row. Sitting between your parents, of course.”
I lace my fingers with his. “Lise will live with us. I’ll even put on a dress. But my adoring audience will be you, you, and you.”
“Lise?”
I nod. “Lise Cristiani, my cello. Lise was the first female concert cellist. A Parisian virtuoso.”
He sits back. “You should be touring with your band. It’s your passion.”
“I’m pretty sure you’ve been the recipient of my passion most recently.” I smirk. “Flynn, I don’t want everything all at once. I just want you.”
“Well”—he focuses on his bag, pulling out a chicken strip—“I think I’m available. Can I get back to you?” He holds out the chicken strip.
I shake my head.
“Take it. It’s all I have to offer.”
“Stop it.” I giggle. “You had your five minutes of playing your violin.”
“It’s a kazoo.”
I take the chicken and toss it over my shoulder.
His jaw drops, then he grabs his phone, thumbs tapping the screen.
“What are you doing?” I reach for his phone, but he pulls away. So I dive across the table and onto his lap, stealing his phone while straddling his legs.
