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“My mom’s cooking too,” I said, feeling suddenly silly and immature. “I just wanted to say hi.”
“Well, you have my number,” she said, offering a genuine laugh that warmed my belly.
“Yeah, but face-to-face is better.”
“I agree,” her dad said, walking past us. “Everyone with these cell phones these days. Nobody knows how to have a real conversation anymore.”
“See?” I said to Lennon, nudging my chin in her dad’s direction. “He gets it.”
Lennon stared at me, shaking her head just a little. Like she couldn’t quite wrap her head around what was happening, but was desperate to figure it all out.
The feeling was mutual; I’d been trying to figure her out since the night I’d met her.
Maybe that was why I couldn’t seem to leave her alone.
“What do you want to do?” she finally asked.
“I dunno,” I replied. “Maybe go find me another book.”
That startled her. “Another book?” she parroted, raising one brow slightly.
I nodded, allowing a smug grin to tug at my lips. “I’m almost done with the one I got last time,” I said, puffing my chest out with pride.
She snorted, as if she wasn’t two seconds away from being impressed. “Took you long enough,” she teased as she turned to head back up the stairs.
“Excuse me, but I’ve been a little busy,” I fired back. “And where are you going?”
“Uh …” She gestured toward the red-and-black flannel pajama pants. “I’m not going out, looking like this, thanks.”
“Good idea,” I replied even though I found I didn’t care all that much about what she was wearing.
As long as she was wearing it with me.
***
“You guys are making this a habit,” the dude named Scott said behind the counter as he readjusted his slouchy gray beanie.
“You have to do something more than every couple of months to make it a habit,” Lennon pointed out, her voice barely above a mumble.
I ordered a vanilla chai latte, and Lennon teased me for not knowing anything else to order. But she was wrong about that. During the time I’d spent in River Canyon, I had frequented their local coffee shop, owned by Devin and his wife, Kylie. In that time, I had tasted my share of artisan teas and coffees—most of which were delicious. But there was something about that vanilla chai I couldn’t get enough of. Something that reminded me of inconspicuous bookstores and the women they attracted.
Besides, she wasn’t one to talk—it was all she ever drank too.
Scott set to work, making our lattes, while Lennon fussed with a display of disorganized gift cards. It was busy work, similar to how she had fussed with the mess of napkins and straws in the center console of my car. It didn’t take a genius in social interaction to know she was avoiding something, and I was pretty sure that something was me.
“So, um, is there anything you want to talk about?” I asked, giving her the opportunity to say whatever she needed to say.
But she shrugged, lining the gift cards up in perfect order. “No, not really,” she replied, too flighty to be honest.
“Okay.”
It wasn’t though. While Lennon and I had never been the best of conversationalists, there had always been that unavoidable draw that kept me coming back over and over again. And I knew it was mutual. But today, she was distant. Closed off and overall strange. Like something was in the way.
Or someone.
“So, what’ve you been up to since we last talked?” I asked innocently, desperate to relocate that connection. And desperate for information.
“Um, mostly writing,” she replied.
