“I’ll have to take your word for it,” I say. “I’m more of a visual learner.”
We fall into an easy rhythm while we wait. Maisie and I debate the merits of page-to-screen adaptations. Meanwhile, Eli and Amber are having their own conversation a few steps away.
“…the hydrangeas were just… mush,” I hear Amber saying softly. “I think the cold storage unit is fluctuating again. I’m worried about the roses.”
“I know a guy who does HVAC work. I can call him,” Eli offers.
“You don’t have to do that, Eli.”
“I want to.”
As I listen, I catch a whiff of Amber’s scent. It’s fainter than it must be when she’s right next to Eli, but it drifts over on the air currents.
Jasmine and rain. It’s a beautiful smell, complex and layered. I can see why Eli is smitten.
She’s not just pretty; she has a gentleness to her, a fragility that makes you want to protect her, but she’s also got a backbone—she’s standing up to her daughter, managing a business, dealing with life.
If I hadn’t met her in the context of Eli’s obvious infatuation, and if I didn’t know she had a kid and a history, I definitely would have tried to hit on her. She’s exactly the kind of woman I usually go for—pretty, sweet, interesting.
But that ship has sailed. We don’t share our women.
Besides, I look at her, at the way she looks at Eli when she thinks he isn’t looking, and I know she’s not the Smokehouse type. She doesn’t need a casual fling with a tattooed butcher. She needs what Eli is offering—stability, kindness and gentleness.
I’m happy for him. Really. Even if it means I have to hear about it for the next six months.
We finally reach the ticket counter. The cashier looks tired, chewing on a wad of gum.
“Four forHow to Train Your Dragon?” Eli asks before anyone else can speak.
He pulls out his wallet and pays for Amber and Maisie’s tickets along with ours.
Amber protests. “Eli, no, you don’t have to?—”
“I insist,” he says, handing over his card with a charming smile. “Consider it a celebration for the tooth.”
“Thank you,” she says softly.
“And two large popcorns,” I add, stepping up to the counter. “And three sodas. Dr. Pepper for me, and…”
“Root beer!” Maisie chimes in.
“Root beer for the lady,” I finish. “And a water for the fancy pastry chef here.”
Eli rolls his eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with water, you know?”
If we were alone, I’d call him a nerd. His argument that he eats too much sugar at work so he skips on soda and most kinds of sugar outside of the kitchen makes absolutely no sense to me.
Or maybe I just have a sweet tooth.
I pay for the concessions, and then I turn to the three surly teenagers who are now standing at the counter, looking sullen as they count out crumpled dollar bills.
“And tickets for these three,” I say to the cashier, tossing a twenty onto the counter.
The three boys look up, stunned. “What?”
“Just take it,” I tell the cashier, waving them off.
The boys stare at me, mouths open, as the cashier hands them their tickets. They mumble a confused “thanks” and scurry away toward the theater, probably wondering what kind of crazy town they’ve walked into.
