He pointed at me. “See, that right there? Deflection.”
I snorted. “No. Observation.”
“Deflection,” he repeated in more of a singsong voice, smirking.
I reached across the counter for the bag of chips and grabbed one. “No, I’m snacking.”
Brooklyn’s laugh filled the empty store—loud, unrestrained, warm enough to echo off the shelves. I couldn’t help smiling. The sound made the quiet feel less heavy.
“Well, if it makes you feel better, Idowait around to hang out with you, or my friend Alec. But he’s always busy, and I’m pretty sure I’m starting to annoy him. He’s put up with me since middle school, so . . . your turn.”
“To put up with you or tell you what I do?” I sat back in the stool behind the counter and arched an eyebrow at him.
“Both.”
I hesitated, suddenly aware of the way the sunlight hit the counter between us. “Well, I write.”
He leaned forward, forearms braced on the counter like I’d confessed something top secret that he had no business knowing. “No shit, you’re a writer? I guess the bookstore job makes even more sense now.”
“No, I said Iwrite,” I corrected him. “Writer implies success. I’m not there yet.”
“Success is subjective,” he said, serious now.
I shrugged. “Tell that to my inbox full of rejections.”
His lips quirked. “Maybe the world just hasn’t caught up to you yet. I bet you’re way better than you think you are.”
I wasn’t quite sure what to say to that, so I looked away and pretended to straighten a stack of bookmarks beside the checkout screen. But Brooklyn’s curiosity was disarming; it made me feel seen in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying. While considering my next words would normally be the smart move, here it gave me too much time to study the way Brooklyn slid a silver pendant back and forth on a thin chain hanging around his neck, and the way themckinnley’s seafoodlogo on his gray T-shirt looked faded enough to either be vintage or just worn too often.
Finally, I surrendered with a sigh. “I’ve been trying to get a couple of short stories published in like an anthology sort of thing, but that’s not really working. So I’m trying to write something different in hopes that maybe that works out better. I guess I’m distracted lately.”
“I know how that part feels.”
“Okay, then,” I said. “Your turn. What doyoudo, besides being distracting and loitering around small businesses?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“Oh, I see.” I nodded. “Very convincing.”
He heaved out a sigh. “My mom owns a boutique downtown, and with my semilegit community college accounting degree, I help her do her payroll and books and stuff. Very serious business.”
I scrunched my face up. “I thought you went to Clayton, Mr. Hot Shot Baseball Player.”
“Idid. I just didn’t graduate from there.” His face flushed, and he sat back on the bench. “That whole painkiller thing might have gotten me kicked off the team and out of school. But it’s fine. I mean, I’m fine.”
I heard my sister in him—the constant need to reassure people how badly youdidn’tneed help because god forbid you asked for it, as if it was a crime to do so. Brooklyn handled it with admittedly a bit more humor and pluck, but the sound was still familiar enough. I offered him a faint smile, and swore I could see the tension leave his shoulders.
“I’m sure you are,” I said, softer than I meant to. “But it’s okay not to be fine too.”
He tilted his head, studying me. “Spoken like someone who’s been to family therapy.”
I smiled faintly. “Yeah. I guess you would know, wouldn’t you?”
“My family therapy sessions weregreat, okay?” Brooklyn scoffed. “My therapist, John, looked and sounded exactly like the guy fromJurassic Parkwho tries to steal the egg embryo things and gets attacked by the Dilophosaurus. You know,Get the stick, stupid?”
“The fact that you know exactly what dinosaur that is is astounding.” I shook my head. “What is your obsession withJurassic Park, anyway?”
“I was one of those toddlers who really loved dinosaurs, and I guess I never grew out of it.”
