“The next movie doesn’t get out until ten-thirty and the play down the street won’t be over until at least eleven,” I tell Allie. “Plus we’ve been slow all evening. I can hold down the fort for an hour or so.”
“I don’t know, Liv. I hate leaving you alone.”
“I’ll be fine. We’ve only had six customers all evening. If we get a crowd, it’ll be after the movie lets out.”
She’s wavering, her gaze going from me to Brent. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.” I grab her bag from beneath the counter and wave them both toward the door. “Just bring me back some sort of dessert. Chocolate.”
“Okay. We won’t be long.”
Brent beams at me as he holds open the front door for Allie. Their anticipation and happiness reminds me of those early days when I’d get all fluttery inside the minute Dean walked in the door of Jitter Beans.
Ignoring a twinge of heartache, I straighten out the supplies on the front counter, then spend the next hour arranging the books to make the shelves look more well-stocked. I clean up the toys in the kids’ section and talk with a couple of customers who come in to browse.
As I’m reshelving a few misplaced magazines, the bell over the door rings. Several male voices boom into the store. A sudden tension constricts my chest.
I move behind the counter and watch as three young men enter. College boys, by the looks of them. Two of them are big, dressed in jeans and sweatshirts beneath their jackets, and the third is tall and skinny with a mop of shaggy blond hair.
I do a quick scan of the store. The other customers have all left. It’s nine-fifteen. My heart is beating too fast.
“It was third and twenty-three, dude.” The one wearing a King’s sweatshirt pauses by the front table to flip through a pop-up book. “No way he should’ve got that pass off, you know?”
I’m starting to shake. Sweat trickles down my sides.
“Amazing because they’re a shit team this year,” the other guy responds. He stops in front of the magazine section. “If they’d get rid of Samuels, they might have a shot. Oh, hey, check this out. Fantasy football depth chart.”
He tosses a magazine to his friend. “Scott, you going to Chicago for the Super Bowl party next semester?”
“Yeah,” the skinny guy says. “Frat’s renting a bus. You?”
“Can’t. Academic probation. Asshole Dennison failed my last paper.”
They all snort with derision. The skinny boy wanders past the counter and shoots me a grin.
“How’s it going?” he asks.
Cold freezes the blood in my veins. I force in a few breaths and consciously try to relax the stiffness in my shoulders. My spine feels like it’s about to snap in two.
“Hey, look, that’s Vanessa Fairfax.” The King’s sweatshirt guy holds up the magazine so his friend can see a photo of a sexy brunette lounging against a car. “Remember I told you I saw her at the Dax concert? She’s so fucking hot.”
“Speaking of hot, what happened with that girl you hooked up with last weekend?”
“Oh, man, that was awesome.”
Without thinking, I grab my cell phone and speed-dial Dean’s number. He answers on the first ring.
“Hello?” he says.
I can’t speak past the tightness in my throat. I clench my fingers on the phone.
“Liv?”
“I’m here,” I manage to whisper. The college kids are still talking, their voices and laughter growing louder and clashing with the sound of my heartbeat.
“Liv, what’s wrong?” Alarm spikes the question.
“I’m…”
“Where are you?”
“B-bookstore.”
“Olivia, listen to me.” Dean’s voice settles into a firm but reassuring tone. “Breathe. I’m on my way.” There’s a rustling sound on the other end. “Count of two, okay? One, two.”
I inhale a breath. My vision blurs, my throat constricting. He repeats the count. I force myself to exhale.
“Hey, do you have the spring semester calendar in yet?” The King’s sweatshirt guy stops in front of me and leans his elbows on the counter. His face is too close to mine.
I step back until my hips bump the other side of the counter. “No. Not yet.”
“When do they come in?” he asks.
“Liv?”
“Just a… a customer,” I tell Dean. A wave of dizziness hits me.
“Keep breathing. Count of five now.”
“When do the calendars come in?” the sweatshirt guy repeats.
“Beginning of January.”
He straightens, his gaze still on me. “You go to King’s?”
“No.” God in heaven, go away.
“Hey, dudes, look at this.” The skinny guy approaches from the kids’ section with a topsy-turvy puppet that changes from Little Red Riding Hood to the wolf with one flip. “Little Red has a wolf under her skirt.”
Their burst of laughter scrapes my insides like nails. The panic intensifies, tilting the world into a crazy spin. My husband’s voice is a steady, deep stream as he instructs me to breathe to the count of eight.
I force air into my lungs. Time has stretched to the point of breaking.
“Stay with me, Liv,” Dean says in my ear. “I’m turning onto Emerald right now.”