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My uncle starts, his fingers clambering down flat over his laptop keys. He’s writing—still sporting that plaid robe.
I hop up, my breathing heavy. And for some reason—I suppose the floor just isn’t cutting it for this moment—I jump up onto the couch, rocking side to side on the cushions. “He texted me! He texted me, Bob!”
“Who texted you?”
I bounce, thankful Uncle Bob is in his recliner next to me and not on this couch I’ve turned into a surfboard. “Levi!”
“The grouch with the bike?”
“He isn’t a grouch. He just needs some understanding.”
“You know,” Bob says, eyes still on his screen, “Mr. Darcy was a grump.”
“That’s right. He was.” I point at him, like he’s just discovered a gold mine in his recliner chair. “Until he was understood by Lizzy.”
“Are you Lizzy?” My uncle peers at me over his round spectacles. His eyes on mine for once.
“No!” I wave a hand at him, I could never be as wonderful as Lizzy Bennet. “I don’t even know Levi that well.”
“But you like him?” He sets his fingers back to his keyboard and blinks away the eye-to-eye contact he’s made.
“I do. I like his eyebrows and the way he talks to his niece. And he smells nice.”
Uncle Bob is typing now, his fingers blazing over the keyboard. “Sounds like the start of a nice story. You better write him back.”
I nod, but I don’t feel like writing Levi next to Uncle Bob writing his next best seller. The world may know him as Allen Finch, best-selling mystery fiction author—who never posts a photo of himself on social media or even prints one in a book jacket—but to me, he’s just Bob.
I hop down from the couch, my insides still buzzing, and find a spot on the front porch swing. I stare down at my phone and read his message two more times.
Levi is a potential friend. At least I hope he is.
I can’t screw up this message.
Me:I’ll pick it up when I bring you more cookies. AKA my next lesson.
Levi:You mean your poisonous cookies?
Oh, snap. He isn’t a fan of overly salty-sweet treats. But poison? That’s a bit dramatic.
I write back a tiny fib. Because I’m here for life experience. And I might not get any more bike lessons with Levi without a fib.
Me:I didn’t poison you. My uncle likes them that way.
Levi:Is your uncle a fish in the ocean?
Me:They weren’t THAT salty.
Levi:They were.
I’m trying cookies again—only this time I need to see if Nikki’s mom will let her help me. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t let my teenage daughter go to someone’s house for baked goods if I didn’t know them. So, there’s a chance Nikki’s mom still won’t be okay with it. But then I was raised by a paranoid father who feared I’d get hurt using a can opener.
Me:I’ll bake a new batch for our next lesson. When is that again?
Levi:How about never?
Me:That’s no good for me.
Levi:Meredith, you got hurt.
