Page 4 of Find My Way Down to You

“A valid but overused reason,” I say. “I have things to do.”

She grabs my elbow before I can walk away. Her grin is like a hurricane. “It’ll be worth it.”

Discreetly, she gestures to the corner booth, where a boy sits alone. His chin is lowered. From this distance, his features are slightly shadowed, but—

“He’s cute, right?” Max whispers.

I don’t answer. At the end of the bar, Hal coughs roughly. He rotates his left arm in a small circle above his head. Sweat dampens his shirt. Tonia drops off a glass of water and fresh napkins for him.

Max’s elbow digs into my ribs again. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

She exhales as her phone pings. “Just take him his order. He’s into you.”

The comment surprises me. Absently, my thumb traces the ink stained on the inside of my left forearm—a daffodil. Then, purposefully, my hand reaches for the threaded bracelet around my wrist. Blue twined around yellow. I never take it off.

It was a gift. Now a reminder.

Max notices. Her eyes soften with sympathy. I avert my gaze before that look turns into something worse:

Pity.

Without thinking, I focus on the corner booth again.

Early golden-hour light filters through the large window. It glints against the boy’s dark hair. A crown of flames. He studies every movement around the pizzeria: A family of four walking in. Junie tossing mushrooms on a new pizza. Hal mopping his face dry.

I don’t recognize him. He’s not a regular. Santa Barbara is made up of more college students than locals. Streams of tourists who come and go. People who never leave their mark.

But something stirs in my belly, as if Ishouldknow his face.

“Auggie,” Max tries. Her voice drips with that tone I hate. The unspokenyou can’t live like this forever; you need to try again.

It’s a conversation I dance away from at every opportunity. Because I don’t know how to have it. Even after all this time.

I wish there was a way for me to tell her—to tell everyone—that I can’t move on as easily as they did. As if that night never happened. As if they’ve made their peace with the past.

So instead, I say, “You don’t even know if he’s into guys.”

Max scoffs. “He’s stared at you at least ten times since you got here.”

That sounds like a lie. But heat still prickles my face.

Max slides a warm plate into my hands while reading the order ticket attached to it. “His name’s Cary.”

The intense sweetness of pineapples rises into my nose. I frown at the slice of pizza. It’s not even Hawaiian with ham…only pineapples.

Who orders that?

When I hesitate, Max gives me a “polite” shove. A scowlthreatens to darken my face. But it’s not worth it. Max has already returned to focusing on her phone. This is no longer her problem.

An impatient throat clears.

I almost drop the plate. How did I get to table nine so quickly?

Up close, this boy’s beauty is unnerving. His features are like the carved marble of statues in the art galleries Max loves. High cheekbones, a long straight nose, lips shaped in a delicate bow. His dark brown hair reminds me of damp soil after a storm. It’s slicked away from his face, a single curl resting against his forehead.

He looks around my age, yet somehow older. It’s hard to describe. Like he’s seen the world in ways I haven’t.