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“Do you want any?” he asks me. Shocked by the question, it takes me a moment to respond.
“No, thanks.”
He shrugs as if to say suit yourself and pours his egg and milk mixture into a hot skillet.
“So what music store is it? Where’s it at?”
“You haven’t heard of it.”
Annoyed by the little shake of his head, I straighten on the barstool and narrow my eyes at him.
“How do you know? I live here,” I remind him.
“The Hep Cat.” He flicks a glance at me as he turns his five slices of bacon in a second skillet. He’s got me, and he knows it. I snort when he rolls his eyes. “It’s in Soulard.”
“Oh, okay.”
“I know the owner.”
“How do you know the owner of a random music store in St. Louis?”
“Met him in Tupelo several years ago.”
“I thought you were in Nashville.”
“I was.” He nods.
“So, you move around a lot?”
A little smirk slides over his face, there and gone immediately. He plates his scrambled eggs and bacon and then scoots it across the counter to the seat next to where I’m sitting. This is new. The other night, he took his Thai food to the loveseat and ate there while studying something on his iPad. I stewed in the recliner, frustrated again that he wasn’t friendly and fun like Chloe, not to mention that he was in my favorite spot in the apartment.
“I do.”
“Why?”
I hadn’t planned to ask, but of course, I want to know. Gideon forks a big bite of eggs, shoves it in his mouth, and looks at me.
“I didn’t eat today,” he says to excuse the monster bite.
“Why not?”
“Got busy,” he mumbles. He stares at his plate for a few minutes while he eats. I take that as the end of our conversation, so I slide off the stool to get a bottle of water. “Why not?”
“Why not what?” I twist the top off the bottle and take a long drink. “You want water?” I ask when I notice he doesn’t have anything to drink.
“Apple juice,” he answers with a headshake.
“Apple juice,” I repeat and open the fridge again, half expecting to see an eight pack of juice boxes for little kids. I find the jug of store brand apple juice and get a glass for him.
“Why not move around a lot?”
“Mmm.” I nod and shrug as I push the glass toward him. When he takes it, our fingers touch. Gideon swallows a mouthful of food like the world didn’t just explode in his fingers—like it did in mine—and takes a big swig. “I don’t know. I guess I needed to find a job.”
“I’ve had jobs,” he says, nonplussed. The look on his face as he watches me scramble, trying to find a way to saya real jobwithout putting down hisjobs, is cool amusement.
“I like St. Louis,” I mumble, suddenly feeling pedestrian.
“I like it alright,” he agrees.
