Maybe none of them did.
As she stood in line for a soda, craving that crisp bite of Coca-Cola against the back of her throat, a boy—maybe her age, maybe a year or two older—turned around in front of her. He had white teeth and a small chip to his incisor that made his smile more interesting than perfect. “Great concert, right?” His voice was easy and warm.
Nora looked at him more closely. He wore a white button-down like what her father wore with his suits, only rumpled, and this guy’s sleeves were rolled to his elbows. It was tucked into slim-fitting jeans that weren’t quite bell-bottoms but nodded in that direction. A leather satchel hung across his chest. Unlike most of the festival crowd, he wore no fringe, no face paint, no visible flower crowns—but somehow, he still fit. Like someone who knew who he was without needing a costume to say it.
In his upper shirt pocket, a harmonica popped out beside a notebook and pencil.
“Yeah, so far.” Nora brushed hair from her face. “We got here about an hour ago, but I’m loving it.”
He raised an eyebrow. “So you missed Grandma, huh?”
There it was again—that nickname. That strange, reverent tone everyone used when they said it.
“We did,” she admitted. “But I heard she was amazing?”
“Maybe even the act of the day,” he said, laughing. He patted the notebook in his pocket. “Got it all written down. Front-row view.”
“Are you a journalist?” she asked, intrigued.
“Hoping to be. Right now, I’m an intern for the summer at theSan Francisco Chronicle. Out here chasing a story on the next wave of musical stars. And I think I might’ve just found one.” He held out a hand. “Name’s Joe.”
“Nora.” She shook it—firmly, confidently, and quickly.
He grinned again, cocking his head like he was sizing her up.
“You strike me as the kind of girl who drinks black coffee and reads Sylvia Plath.” He tapped his lower lip, eyes scanning over her with studied practice. “But here you are…waiting in line for a soda. Is this your plot twist?”
Nora lifted an eyebrow, trying for nonchalant even as her belly was filling with butterflies. “Impressive guesswork. What does my soda order tell you about my tragic backstory?”
“Ah, that depends.” A twinkle entered his eyes, mesmerizing her, and Nora had to straighten herself up or risk falling for his charm.
“Oh, yeah?” she asked. “On what?”
“Well, if you order root beer, you’re nostalgic. If you order Sprite, you’re avoiding commitment. And if you order a Coke, you secretly long for Parisian cafés but are stuck in a world of diner booths—and I would know.Je suis en partie français, mademoiselle.” He winked. “Or maybe you just really wanted a soda, and I’m overanalyzing. But where’s the fun in that?”
Nora didn’t answer. Instead, she stepped forward in line, smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“Three Coca-Colas, please,” she said to the vendor. The teenager in a tank top handed her the first sweating bottles of soda from a galvanized tub packed with ice.
Nora could feel Joe watching her as she took the next two and the glass bottles clinked together in her hand. She handed over the money, grabbed the drinks, and turned just enough to throw him a glance over her shoulder.
“What does this say about me?” She held up the three sodas.
“That you’re here with someone.” He narrowed his eyes for a moment, then smiled when she didn’t reply. “And that you’re a mystery I’ve already started writing about.”
“For the sake of accuracy in your exposé?” Nora said, with a challenging lift of her brow. “I prefer Woolf to Plath.”
Joe’s grin widened, and he said, “Ah-ha.” He made the phrase sound as if he’d just discovered a significant secret. Reaching into his shirt pocket with dramatic flair, he pulled out a stubby pencil and worn notebook. As he eyed her, he licked the tip of the pencil with exaggerated seriousness and began to narrate while he scribbled.
“Developing story: Subject prefers Woolf. Possible influence of stream-of-consciousness on worldview. Coca-Cola preference remains unexplained. Mystery deepens. Must investigate further.”
Nora rolled her eyes, thrusting one of the ice-cold bottles toward him. As he took it, their hands brushed. Cool condensation slipped between their fingers—briefly, but long enough to send a jolt up her arm.
“Careful, Joe the Journalist,” she said lightly. “Some mysteries don’t want to be solved. For example, Woolf is only my preference in classics. Right now, I’m digging Mario Puzo.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t break eye contact.
“That just makes this a mystery more worth chasing.”
