Page 18 of XOXO, Yours

“You have a face.”

“I’ve been told.”

“By who?”

“You, mostly.”

She gives me the finger, actually flips it at me across the table, and it makes me laugh out loud.

“I can totally picture you teaching elementary school.”

She snorts. “Doubtful. You’ve known me for an hour.”

“Closer to two.”

“Stop counting.”

“I’m not the one counting.” I take a deep breath. “I can picture it because you’ve made a strong impression.”

Her gaze catches mine, and for a second neither of us moves.

The taco place noise goes soft and far away, like someone turned the volume down on the whole world except for in our tiny booth.

“What do you teach them?”

“Art.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I got that part.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“I mean, what kind of art?”

“All kinds. Painting, drawing, clay when I’m feeling particularly masochistic.”

“Why is clay masochistic?”

“You’ve obviously never given twenty-three seven-year-olds wet clay.”

“Fair.”

“There’s also cutting—with age-appropriate scissors, of course, then gluing, sometimes glitter. Although glitter, ugh. The herpes of the art world. So I avoid it whenever possible.”

I choke on my Coke. Actually choke. I’m thankful the carbonated drink doesn’t come out of my nose.

She looks pleased with herself, sits back a little, arms crossing loosely over her chest.

“You cannot say herpes to seven-year-olds.”

“Of course I don’t say that to the children.”

“Good.”

“I tell them glitter is Satan’s dandruff.”

She holds my gaze for approximately two seconds before cracking, the corners of her mouth twitching, and then losing. Her laugh is husky and warm. It comes from somewhere low in her chest, rough at the edges. And it spreads through my body like warmed honey.

I don’t even care that she’s messing with me. “You’re terrible,” I say.