“Okay, maybe.” I shrugged, settling back farther into the couch. “You know, you should be happy I’m making friends.”
“I am, I am.” She held up her hands in defense. “So, what’s his name?”
“Who said it’s ahe?”
“Your face,” she teased with another smirk.
And as if my face could give me away any more, I was sure it was now flushed and red.
I couldn’t let her know about Brooklyn without running the gambit on who he was and how we met, and lying—especially to Mom—was never my strong suit.
“Regardless of gender, he’s only a friend,” I explained, and at the very least, that wasn’t an outright lie.
“Iamglad you’re making friends.”
But as soon as she finally diverted her attention back to theBake Offepisode we were watching, I pulled out my phone (more discreetly this time) to respond to his texts.
NAT:I barter good recommendations for iced coffee
I was kind of joking, but his response came lightning fast.
BROOKLYN KELLER (like the bridge):you got a deal
Eight
Running had been a part of me for as long as I could pick out my own pair of sneakers at Sports Authority. Mom would have me run back and forth on the little makeshift track in the shoe section to make sure I liked how they fit. She signed me up for soccer to get me socialized over the summer, and while I was crappy at kicking a ball around, I was a good runner. I liked running. I believed in runner’s high.
However, I wasn’t sure even runner’s high could calm the buzzing energy coursing through me. Sure, I could keep my cool on the outside, but on the inside, my nerves were all frayed live wires.
Last weekend Brooklyn and I had both agreed that we were friends. That was all well and fine, but as much as my brain agreed, my body insisted on rebelling. Friend or not, I’d never been so frazzled by a boy before. Boys were boys, but Brooklyn was, well, Brooklyn.
He was everything I’d read about in romance novels about the perfect “book boyfriend”—kind, attentive, funny, and honest almost to a fault. The thing aboutreadingabout those kinds of boys was that when you closed the book you were reminded of what they were: fictional. As in, not real, didn’t exist, fantasy. Except now, here he was. And maybe for the first time inforever, maybe I wanted him to be that, a boyfriend.
I repeated that to myself (and Gracie) about fifty times while deep in contemplation about what I was wearing to work (Is a summer dress too fancy?I asked Gracie, to which she replied,You can never be overdressed), and continued to do so until the clock forced me to leave. I didn’t exactly enjoy the fact that the knowledge of Brooklyn’s presence had me changing up my whole work routine, but I wasn’t sure what I could do about it by this point except grin and bear it.
By the afternoon the shop was quiet, the late-day sunlight slanting in dusty stripes through the front windows, the hum of the old ceiling fan wobbling just enough to sound like a sigh. I was perched behind the counter, nursing a cold brew that had melted into watery ice, trying to decide if I had the will to open my laptop and write something—anything—before my shift ended.
You’d think working in a bookstore would fill me with inspiration, but somehow, it made me feel worse.
The idea of publishing felt half myth, half miracle. I’d gotten a few “promising” rejections lately, which was the literary equivalent of being told you’re almost pretty. I still checked my inbox too often, still imagined an email withWe’d love to discuss your work furtherblinking in bold at the top, even though all I ever saw wereUnfortunatelyandNot a fit for our list at this time.
Sometimes I thought about how Dad would’ve handled that kind of failure; if he would’ve told me to keep sending things out or to stop trying so hard altogether. I hadn’t decided which advice would hurt less.
I was lost in that thought when the bell over the door jingled and Brooklyn appeared with a bag of chips in one hand and a bottle of soda in the other.
“You know,” I said as I watched him shake the bag open, “every time you bring snacks in here, I should remind you food’s technically not allowed.”
He shrugged and popped a chip into his mouth. “Technically, rules are meant to be broken.”
“Yeah, that’s what they say right before they spill salsa on a display copy of Harlan Coben novels.”
He looked scandalized. “This is dry snacking. I’ve matured.”
“Big step for you,” I teased, leaning on the counter.
He gave me a mock glare before his mouth curved into a grin. “So, I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Nat. What do youdo? Besides waiting around for me to show up and brighten your day?”
“What do you mean? That’s literally all I do.”
