Nora glanced toward the pay phone. Her mother held the receiver to her ear, one toe tapping anxiously like she could tap a conversation into existence.
“She took a pretty bad tumble,” Nora said quietly. “People just kept stepping on her. It was”—she swallowed—“kind of awful.”
Joe’s brows lifted. “Yeah. People lose their minds the minute tear gas hits the air. Understandable, but still. Their primal instincts kick in, and things turn into a deranged stampede. Your mom’s lucky she didn’t come out with anything broken. And you’re lucky you weren’t pulled under.”
Nora’s shoulders were still tense, expecting the horde to come crashing through the diner doors to repeat the stampede. “I’m glad as hell you turned up. I really hope my grandma is okay.”
“The action was mostly near the gate, well away from where your grandma was. From what I understand, all the bands went out the back way in their vans. She’s been traveling with Moon’s entourage, so I’m pretty sure she is safe.”
“Good, that’s a relief. We’ve been so worried about her and to think she could have been in all that chaos.” Nora drew in a deep breath and then let it out, her shoulders relaxing, knowing that her grandmother was most likely safe. This entire thing was just crazy. Boy, was she going to have some stories to tell her friends back home.
Then, wanting to change the subject, Nora shook her head, narrowed her eyes, teasing. “So, Joe Dumas, are you following me?”
Joe flushed pink from his cheeks to his ears. He scratched the back of his neck as if it might have helped him find a response other than “yes.” “Swear I’m on assignment. Scout’s honor.” He held up three fingers in a Boy Scout salute. “But, you know, if I were tailing you, it’s only because your drink orders are incredibly intriguing.”
“There’s more to me than a soda order.”
He tilted his head. “Challenge accepted. If I wanted to get to know you, what would I have to ask?”
Warmth spread through Nora’s chest. “That’s your job to figure out, journalist.”
Joe leaned closer. “Okay. Then what do you want to do after college, Miss Yale-bound mystery?”
The question hit differently than all the others. She felt the weight of it like someone had set her leather-bound notebook—currently tucked deep inside her bag—onto her chest. That prized possession since junior year, with its cracked cover, worn like an old baseball glove, the edges thinned from the number of times she’d flipped the pages. Inside were bits of her soul scribbled in blue and black ink. Half-finished poems, lines of overheard dialogue, pages of messy, untamed story ideas that had never made it past paragraph three.
She carried the journal everywhere but never talked about it. Not even with her best friend, not even with her mother. That notebook was her proof. Her secret. Her almost-belief that she could be a writer.
“I told my parents I wanted to get a business degree, a minor in English, and maybe go into marketing like my dad,” she said slowly. “You know. A practical career. Something clean. With desks.”
“But…?”
“But what I really want to do is major in English and write.” It was a confession she hadn’t meant to make. “Not just copy for toothpaste ads. I want to create stories. Whole worlds. Characters that feel real. Dialogue that cuts to the bone. Stories that move people.”
Joe’s face lit up like she’d just handed him the Pulitzer. “I knew it.”
“You knew nothing,” she said, smiling in spite of herself.
“You have the eyes.” His tone was sincere and serious.
“What eyes?” Suddenly she wished for a mirror so she could look into her own eyes and try to discover what he might mean.
“The kind that people have who eavesdrop on others in diners and write down what they said later. The kind of eyes that see details—notice how the waitress’s earrings don’t match, but she keeps wearing them like she doesn’t care, or maybe like she does care but wants you to think she doesn’t.”
Nora’s mouth twitched. “Okay. That’s…scary accurate.”
“Reporter’s instinct.” His gaze held hers.
She stared back at Joe. This tousle-haired, harmonica-carrying, leather-satchel-wearing boy, asking her questions. Actuallylisteningto her answers. His elbows rested on the counter like he had nowhere else to be, and his gaze didn’t dart past her to scout the room. He looked at her and talked to her like what she said mattered. Not too many people did that. She wasn’t sure a guy ever had.
“I’m just not sure my parents would accept me as a writer,” Nora said, her voice low, self-effacing. This was the first time she’d spokenher truth out loud to someone other than herself or the pages of her notebook. Not even Kelley knew this part of her.
She supposed she kept it hidden because there’d been plenty of comments at home about starving artists, and Nora didn’t want to give her parents reason to think she’d live in their house until she retired. Yet now she’d confessed it to someone she hardly knew. She moved her eyes back to her mom at the pay phone then reconnected her glance with Joe’s, feeling self-conscious for being so vulnerable and open with him.
There wasn’t even a hint of a smirk in his gaze. Instead, he nodded, his expression suggesting that she’d told him she was going to fly to the moon and had asked if he would like to pack snacks for the ride.
“You never know; you should talk to them about it.” From his serious air, she could tell he meant what he said, but the idea of doing so was terrifying.
She didn’t respond because she couldn’t think of what to say.
