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I don’t mind her bluntness, nor the mindless work. I’m lucky to get this job, and not only to pay my bills.
I’m glad for anything that keeps my mind off Tudor Sinclair.
* * *
I’m clearing plates when I feel it: a pair of eyes on me. The hairs rise on my forearms and the back of my neck prickles. My heart pounds faster and my mouth goes dry.
I pause, halfway through stacking up plates. The diner is filled with soft chatter and the hum of the radio; the clink of cutlery and the thump of glasses on wood.
This fluttery feeling… it’s so familiar.
Slowly, so slowly, I glance to one side. The booths are filled now, mostly with young families trying to beat the dinner rush, but there’s no mop of curly dark hair.
I scan the other side of the room. Nothing.
…He’s not here.
It’s just wishful thinking.
And I can’t examine that, can’t look too closely at how freakingdisappointedI am, because for a second there I thought I might look across the room and see Tudor Sinclair in a booth, smirking at me as he peels the label off a beer bottle.
That’s nuts. He never spoke to me once all summer, and he made no attempt to stay in touch. Why on earth would he ever come here?
My hands shake as I stack the rest of the plates, and even though I’m wilted with disappointment, the tickly feeling on the back of my neck never leaves.
It’s wishful thinking.
He’s not here. He’s not.
He can’t be.
Five
Tudor
It’s intoxicating seeing Carmen in her natural habitat. To see her ride her bike to the diner she now works at, and sip coffee on her deck in the mornings. To see her wear clothes she didn’t bring on tour over the summer, and to smell the food she cooks for dinner when she leaves the kitchen window open.
Over the summer, I saw her rigging lights and loading trucks. Selling merch and lounging in the green room. I saw her out of her element, trying on another life for size, butthisis her. Pure Carmen.
I can’t get enough. With each detail I learn of her, I want three more.
Carmen is my addiction.
I should be home in my own city by now, or working with another band. Hell, I could piggyback on another tour, so long as it took me far away from this girl and the non-stop temptation she provides. But every day, I make no move to leave the coast.
Driving away from her… it’s unthinkable. I might as well chop off a limb.
But now and then, I think maybe she’s spotted me. She’ll pause while waiting tables in The Cozy Kelp, or she’ll go quiet on the deck and tilt her head like she’s straining to hear. Can she sense me? Is that it? Is she as electrified by my presence as I am by hers?
That’s nonsense. Pure delusion.
But when she starts leaving her bedroom window open… I wonder. Fall is here, and the wind is cold. The ocean is rough, the frothy waves lunging at the beach, and it can’t be comfortable having the howling wind whistle through her bedroom while she sleeps.
Tonight, I wait until the moon glows high above the dark waves, then stroll along the beach with my hands in my pockets. I’ve memorized all the different paths to Carmen’s house, and I walk a slightly different way each time, relying on the waves to wash away my footprints before dawn.
Sometimes, she stays up late and watches a movie alone. One night I peered through her living room window and saw her curled on the couch, hugging a pillow to her chest as the light of the TV screen washed over her front.
She looked so lonely, hugging that pillow. It took every ounce of self control to keep from knocking on the window that night.
