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“Wow, I’m so sorry. I’m not trying to draw you into my sad childhood or anything,” I promise, feeling completely stupid right now. “Like I said, it’s just kind of insane how much you remind me of him. Even though you’re not him.”
The differences are there when I try to see them, even though I feel like I might be making a few of them up just to make myself more comfortable.
“I bet your friend was lucky to have you,” the stranger tells me and snags a bird book from the stack by the counter. “I also hope you don’t think I’m weird, but I’m here to buy this for a friend of mine.” His grin is blinding as he slides it toward me on the counter, and I stare at the book, deadpan and only a little bit surprised.
“Jays of the Americas?” I quote sourly, poking the cover.
“You’re judging me.”
“I mean…” I ring it up and slide him the card reader as he procures his wallet from his pocket. “I’m not going to lie. I’mkind ofjudging you here, buddy.”
He meets my eyes and smiles, looking more amused than I could ever imagine anyone being in this situation.
“My friend likes birds,” he admits. “I don’t think he’s going to actually go around looking for Jays of America if that makes you feel better. He just collects weird bird books.”
I can’t relate. Not aboutbirds, anyway. But I can’t help the smile that fights to curl my lips, and I hand the man a bag to put the book in to protect it from the rain.
“Have a good day,” he tells me, and just as I open my mouth to ask him what his name is, he’s out the door and letting it close hard behind him, his hood going up to cover him from the rain.
I watch him, leaning over the counter to do so, and see him approach a figure standing on the sidewalk on the other side of the street. This man, too, wears a hooded jacket, and I can’t see his face because of it and the rain that pours down the window of the shop.
But Idosee the guy I’d just talked to approach him without slowing down, and the awaiting figure reaches out to wrap his arms around Isaac’s doppelgänger in an embrace.
Are theykissingin the rain? It’s possibly the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen, and I immediately rock back on my heels, not wanting to somehow be caught even though I don’t know how they’d see me through the obscured glass of the window.
But not only that, it feels weird to watch them when I don’t even know who theyare. They’re allowed to have any relationship they want, obviously. And I’m not a creepy stalker who’s into voyeurism on street corners.
Well, okay. That’s alittle bitof a lie. Voyeurism is hot, and I hold fast to my belief that everyone in the world has a littlevoyeurin them somewhere. But it’s rude when the person doesn’t know that I’m watching, and while I might not ever see Isaac’s lookalike again, I don’t want to bethat weird girlwatching two guys make out while pressing her face to the glass and steaming it up.
Just the mental image of it is enough to make me snort, and I look back down at the newspaper under my hand.
It’s enough to sober my mood instantly. The smile falls away, and I let out a breath through my nose as I pick it up again.
Had this truly been sent tomeon purpose? Just a newspaper article?
That’s stupid. Crazy, even though I can’t figure out what I’m missing about it.
I want to throw it away. Ishouldthrow it away if only to keep my whirring, busy brain off of dwelling on it for the rest of the week. I know myself. I know my problems, and Iknowthat my mind will love to take this as its new project for however long.
But I don’t throw it away. I fold it up and put it in my pocket, half hoping I forget about it and throw it in the laundry when I get home so that I reallycan’tkeep thinking about it for however long.
The rain lets up finally, though by the time it does, Sera is back, and she tells me that her kid’s doctor appointment went way over. She says it like I’ll be upset, or like I’m worried that I’llmisssomething because I’ve stayed at the shop so long waiting for her.
It’s not true at all because I have no social life outside of her, and really, I have no plans for tonight. Or tomorrow night.
My firstplanis on Friday, and even that’s not social. Getting a tattoo is a purchase, no matter what kind of pleasant conversation I might have with the artists that work atInkubus.
Then again…my mind trails back to the voice on the phone, and I grit my teeth together. They initially hadn’t seemed too happy about me calling, but maybe that was just athemthing.
Besides, if I don’t like the vibe of the shop when I go in on Friday, I just won’t stay. No one isforcingme to sit down and get a tattoo, after all. No one is going to chain me down or handcuff me to a tattoo chair.
The thought summons a sexier version of itself to my head, and suddenly I’m thinking about the logistics of getting handcuffed to a tattoo chair and fucked.
Which is…definitely inappropriate for the situation and probably forty kinds of unsanitary. I let out a breath through my nose and grab my keys from the back room, shoving them in the front pocket of my jeans and giving a little wave to Sera as she goes through the register even though we haven’t had any cash sales today.
“See you next week,” I tell her, happy it’s not raining now that I have to walk three blocks home.
“You’re off Friday, right?” she calls, glancing up from the bills in her hand with a thoughtful look.
