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Three months he’ll be gone this time, jetting around the world with nothing but his camera equipment and a camping backpack stuffed full of holey t-shirts. My brother has built a career making documentaries in the wildest, strangest, most dangerous locations, and tomorrow morning he sets off again.
Leaving me behind to fret and count down the days until he’s home safe. Chest suddenly tight, I grip Stephen’s forearm and squeeze. “You will be careful, won’t you?”
He smiles down at me, freckled cheeks dimpling. “Always, little sis.”
He doesn’t need to call me that for people to know we’re related. We have the same dark red hair; the same pale, freckled skin; the same blue eyes. Whoever designed us used only one color chart.
But that’s where the resemblance ends. Stephen is loud, tall, cheeky, brave. A favorite with the local men and women, he scans the room with lazy interest over his drink. Stephen never has to go home alone if he doesn’t feel like it.
I am… also here. Invisible and cranky from the heat, wishing for one specific man so badly that I’m gonna get an ulcer.
Is Andre coming tonight? Or is he at home, his windows lit up in the darkness?
The song changes to another folksy classic. Someone whoops, and the crowd lurches as a few start to dance, couples swinging in tight circles.
Tucked safely by the bar, I stab at the ice in my drink with my paper straw. The soggy end crumples, and I sigh and toss it in the nearest empty glass.
“Not dancing?”
Goosebumps ripple down my bare arms, and I suck in a steadying breath before I look up. Andre Silva, the chef at the local diner and the man who haunts my dreams, leans one elbow on the bar by my side.
When did he get here? How the hell didn’t I notice?
Too wrapped up in my funk, I guess. Well, my sour mood is long gone now, evaporating off me like morning mist, because Andre is here. All is well with the world.
“Hey, neighbor,” I say.
He nods, mouth curving up into that almost-smile of his. A red t-shirt clings to the broad planes of his chest, and even though I see him more at his house than anywhere else, it’s always weird seeing Andre out of his white chef’s tunic.
Maybe because he wears that thing in ninety percent of my daydreams. I like to imagine peeling it off him, revealing his tanned skin and his dark chest hair. Like to imagine rubbing my cheek against his bare abs.
“Heard Stephen’s leaving tomorrow.” Andre watches me closely, but my brother is always about to leave. “You gonna be okay?”
I shrug and take an awkward gulp of my drink. The ice cubes slosh against the glass. “I’m always okay,” I say, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand.
Andre grunts, and he clearly doesn’t believe me.
Awesome.
Maybe if my neighbor was less protective, less inclined to watch over me, he’d notice the signals I’m putting out there. He’d see how red I get when he’s near, and how I suddenly can’t stop fussing with my hair, and how my voice gets all breathless.
Believe me, I wish I were less obvious. Cooler about my crush. Whenever he’s home, Stephen teases me to hell and back over how lame I am around Andre.
So maybe our neighbordoesknow how gone I am for him.
Maybe he doesn’t want to talk about it. Maybe he’s repulsed.
As Andre orders a drink—a craft beer with tequila in it—I fumble my phone out of my cross-body bag. It’s loud and hectic and hot in here, and I tune it all out as I bring up the Dear Hattie column.
Dear Stubborn Heart…
My pulse thuds in my throat, and I take another shaky gulp of rum and coke. The ice cubes are melting, and my drink tastes watered down but I don’t care.
She answered my letter. Hattiereadmy letter, and she’s published a reply online.
Holy crap.
Someone barges my shoulder and I step into Stephen’s side, hunching over the screen. My teeth worry my bottom lip as I read.
