Page 29 of Spiced!

Me: You left before I got down.

A pause, longer than his other pauses.

Puck’s Dad: I know. Sorry.

I looked at that for a second, then typed:

Me: Don’t be. What you left still has me smiling.

I set my phone down, picked up my Fanta, and sat there for a few more minutes, watching the bar wind toward closing. When my phone buzzed again, I let it sit for a moment before looking.

Puck’s Dad: Are you working next Saturday?

Me: I’m always working Saturdays. They’re our best nights.

Puck’s Dad: Save my booth for me, please. Tell Jacks I’ll take a whiskey neat.

I grinned as I finished my Fanta and went to change.

The bar kept doing what the bar did.

Somewhere across Tampa, a man was reading a text with a ferret on his shoulder and a plant on the windowsill, and three weeks was nothing, really.

Three weeks was practically tomorrow.

Chapter 7

Brendan

Sunday morning arrived with Puck on my face. He apparently exited his sleeping hammock sometime before six, conducted what sounded like a thorough audit of the bathroom, and arrived at my pillow with an energy that said he required my immediate participation.

“Off,” I groaned.

He dook’d directly into my nose.

“Puck, for the love of God, please.”

I lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling with a ferret’s asshole now positioned on my head. For no apparent reason, my mind immediately drifted to a text conversation I’d had at one in the morning that I had definitely not read three more times before going to sleep.

Me: Save my booth for me, please. Tell Jacks I’ll take a whiskey neat.

I moved Puck to the pillow beside me, where he immediately began investigating the pillowcase with great suspicion, as though it would somehow become animated and try to capture him. Knowing my furry friend wouldn’t let me get another moment’s sleep, I got up, made coffee, and stood at the counter looking at Gerald on the windowsill.

Gerald looked back.

Or rather, Gerald existed on the windowsill, which I interpreted as a returned gaze.

“He’s coming back Saturday.”

Gerald said nothing. He wasn’t much of a talker.

“He texted first.” I picked up my coffee. “That’s a big deal, isn’t it?”

Still nothing.

“You’re right, I don’t know if it’s significant. It might just be how he is.” I glanced at my phone on the counter. I had thus far resisted opening the conversation again this morning. “He’s very warm. He might text everyone like that.”

Puck emerged from his pillowcase audit, skidding to a halt at my feet and looking up.