And they have been for over two hours. Mildred only opens the place from noon to four on Sundays; she doesn’t want to obstruct anyone’s religious practices. Which is good of her, and the kind of thing you rarely see outside the Bible Belt.
Soon Shane returns with our drinks; I can’t tell what he has, but it’s not a frap since it’s in a hot beverage cup with paper guard around it. He drops into an adorable sprawl across from me, long legs taking up the space between us. If I had more confidence, I’d prop my feet on top of his, but this thing has just gotten started between us, even if we’re already sharing a locker. Just … for the first time, I want so bad for someone to like me back. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had crushes before, guys I’d never meet or ones I knew would never look at me like that. Sometimes it’s safer to pin your dreams on somebody who’s never going to see you. While it’s sad, it’s also safe. Because there’s no chance he’ll ever break your heart for real.
Shane? Could crush me.
To cover the thumping of my heart, I sip my chai latte. He didn’t sweeten it, which is perfect. “This is great, thanks. What’s yours?”
I ask because the next time we come here—and I hope there will be a next time—I intend to get his drink. While I like that he wants to buy things for me, I can’t let him do it all the time.
To my surprise, the tips of his ears go pink. “Hot chocolate. I don’t like tea or coffee. I realize that makes me sound like I’m nine.”
“With whipped cream or without?”
“Without.”
“Cinnamon?”
He raises a brow at me. “Are you writing a paper on this?”
“Maybe.”
“Yes, cinnamon.”
I memorize his preferences, so I’ll get the right drink when it’s my turn to buy. Before I can reply, the door bangs open, ruffling the papers tacked to the walls. A guy dashes in carrying a battered guitar case; the thing has all kinds of stickers on it, some ancient and peeling off, others from bands I recognize, some of which I even like, including Paramore and All Time Low. He’s out of breath and cradling his hand against his chest.
The counter girl yells, “You’re late, Jace! This is the third time … which means you’re out of the showcase for good. I’m calling the manager.”
Customers respond poorly to this, grumbling. Jace heads to the front of the shop.
“Come on, it wasn’t my fault. I had a tire blow out, and then I slammed my hand in the car door after changing it, and I dropped my phone—”
“Whatever,” she interrupts. “These people came down to hear you play. Now what?”
“I don’t know,” Jace says miserably. “But please don’t call the boss.”
He’s pretty cute, if you like black hair and dark eyes. Jace’s probably in his early twenties and he’s failing to grow a goatee. I’m interested in the drama unfolding before us; this is almost as good as live music. It’s entertainment anyway. But the older women don’t seem to agree, bitching as Jace argues with the barista. The injury isn’t fake, though. His hand is swollen, black and blue across the knuckles. If he really had a flat, then broke his phone, he’s on course for the worst day ever.
Shane cuts me a look that I can’t interpret. So I’m just looking at him when he puts down his hot chocolate and heads over to the counter. Because I’m straining, I hear him say, “I could fill in for him, just for today. Should be better than nothing.”
He’s incredible, I want to say, but I register how much of a big deal it is that Shane’s volunteered at all. Just a few weeks ago, he was talking about how he wanted to lie low and graduate. Now, he’s willing to play music in public. If I know anything about him, I suspect he’s doing it to help the guy out more than from pure desire, but he’s not backing off as the barista looks him up and down.
“Are you any good?” the girl asks.