“Feel better?” she asked, trying to brush strands of hair out of her face without getting more paint on her.
“A lot, actually.” I offered her a faint smile as I dried my hands with a rag. “I needed that.”
“You know, Nat . . .” She heaved out a sigh as she sat back down on her stool in front of her canvas. “You’re only twenty-two. You’re so young, and I don’t want you to live some of the best years of your life as a passenger, worried about the next stop you’re getting off at.”
I tried not to let the tension that settled in me show on my face, and I took a measured breath. “That’s a pretty metaphor, but I’m okay. Really, I am.”
She nodded, but seemed unconvinced. Silence settled between us, with nothing but the sound of Fleetwood Mac floating through the air, and even though I could have (maybe should have) ended the conversation, I still lingered. Sometimes I just needed my mom, but didn’t know how to ask. Thankfully, she knew my looks as well as I knew hers.
“Your sister is going to be all right, you know.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m your mother, I know everything.”
A laugh escaped me, and I decided that for now, it was good enough. “Right, of course.”
Mom called after me once more as I retreated to the door to the house. “Nat? Promise me you’ll have fun this summer. Before you decide to go off and be a successful adult.”
“I promise.”
Three
I spent the rest of the weekend helping Mom finish painting the kitchen cabinets. Even though I was nowhere near as delicate with my brush handling as she was, I knew she was letting me help because otherwise I’d go insane cooped up in my room in front of a blank Google Doc.
Mom wanted me to “have fun” this summer, but a few weeks in I felt like all I was doing waswaiting. Waiting to hear back from agents, waiting around until I could visit my sister, waiting for customers to visit the bookstore so I could point them to the sports-romance section, waiting for creative inspiration to strike me like lightning in an open field.
Waiting wasnotfun for someone like me—I wanted to be able to plan accordingly, so there were no more unexpected happenings that could unstick me from the solid ground I was comfortable on. My dad passing had filled my quota for unexpected happenings for the rest of my life.
So come the following Monday, I was bright-eyed and ready tonotbe waiting as I drove out to Otter House for visitation hours.
Even though nothing eventful usually happened during my visits, and Nikki and I would spend our time vegging, online shopping, and watching early 2000s rom-coms, I knew I needed to be there. I was her older sister, so there was nowhere else Ishouldhave been.
But when I parked in my usual spot and made my way up the cobblestoned path to Otter House’s main entrance, the single most eventful thing that had happened to me since my summer had started was standing there underneath the shadow of the overhang, and he looked like he waswaiting, coffees in hand.
He wore a Charleston RiverDogs T-shirt that was faded just enough to look intentionally vintage, and his hair was windswept just enough to look intentionally messy. When I got closer to him, I caught a whiff of fresh and clean cologne coming off his T-shirt.
“Hey,” he greeted me with a similar smile as last time—unassuming but frustratingly enticing.
“Were you—” I turned around to make sure he was in fact talking tome. Wouldn’t want to be embarrassed in back-to-back encounters. “Were you waiting for me?”
“I told you I owed you,” he replied with a shrug. “I really did feel bad for knocking you over. I was in a rush to leave, and—” He paused and shook his head. “Anyway, I was hoping you’d come back around the same time.”
He handed me an olive branch in the form of an iced coffee, sandy colored from maybe a bit too much milk or creamer, and when I took it, the brushing of my fingertips against his shot static up my arm.
“Well, thank you.” I tapped my pink-painted fingernails on the plastic of the cup, hyperfixating on a chip on my pointer finger. I’d have to have Nikki fix that. “You didn’t have to do that, but I willneverturn down free coffee.”
That got him to laugh, and the static moved into the pit of my stomach, buzzing and excited.
“I’m Brooklyn, by the way.”
Obviously the latte assassin had a name, but now that I knew it, it humanized him and made him all too real.
“Like the city,” I said with a soft smile.
“Like the bridge, actually.”
It was my turn to laugh. “I’m Nat. Well, Natalie, but Nat to most people. Like the tiny flying bug, I guess?”
