“Half-baked?—”
He held up a hand, interrupting me. “No, let me finish. I’d like to get to know you, Juniper Haddock. As friends, asmore.”
“Stop.” It was my turn to interrupt. Ihadto interrupt him. There wasn’t room for that train of thought, not like this. Not with him.
Not with anyone.
“There is no more… I’m notlookingfor more, Ansel.” I said after taking a measured breath. “Not after everything. After Joel and the divorce and the — god, the pain. I can’t do that to myself again. Iwon’tdo that to myself again.”
I’d been avoiding his gaze for several minutes, feeling all too inadequate to be here, with him, and telling this celebrity hot-shot that I wasn’t interested inmore.
There were so many people that would kill to be in my shoes.
There was a version ofmethat would kill to be in my shoes.
“June?” A soft touch to my wrist pulled me from my spiral. His fingers barely brushed mine. Just enough to be felt. Just enough to make me look at him.
“I heard you,” he said. Quiet. Sincere. “I won’t ask for more. Not now. I just…” He shook his head, tongue running over his bottom lip. “I want to sit across from you and drink this shitty coffee. I want to ask about your favorite books and your worst jobs and how the hell you know how to rebind a first edition. I want to… exist near you. Whatever that might look like.”
I stared at him. At the way he looked at me like I was some kind of miracle instead of a walking pile of broken pieces.
It would have been easier if he’d scoffed. Rolled his eyes. Gotten up and left. Instead, he smiled. Small. Sad. A little hopeful.
“I’ll take what you give me,” he said, “and I’ll be damn grateful for it.”
God, it hurt.
Because Iwantedto give him something. But I didn’t know what I had left. Didn’t know if I evenhadanything left.
So I reached across the table. Hooked my pinky through his.
That was all I had right now.
He glanced down at our hands, then back up at me — and for once, didn’t say anything stupid. For one blissful, quiet moment, he just let it be.
But then —
“I’m gonna remember this,” he said, soft as anything. “This exact moment. Your sleeves pulled over your hands. The little line between your eyebrows. I’m gonna remember all of it.”
I blinked. “What?”
His eyes widened slightly. “What?”
“You said?—”
“Did I?” He coughed into his mug, grimacing like he’d burnt his tongue on the coffee. “No, I don’t — I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re gonna remember the little line between my eyebrows?” Ihatedhow my heart skipped the tiniest beat at his words, even as I tried to tamp it down. He wasn’t the one for me. This was a short-term friendship after an awkward bout of longing.
That I regret.
Thathurtme.
He interrupted my spiral. “I meant in like, a purely platonic — archival — non-weird way.”
“That’s worse.”
“I blacked out. What did I say?”
