by Darcy Woods
“Glad you enjoyed it.” The soft glow of the dash lights Grant’s features. His brow is wrinkled, jaw muscles tensed, as his fingers tap the side of the steering wheel. “You know, I think Seth likes you—a lot.”
I can feel his eyes on me as I occupy my restless hands with the string hanging from my hem. I’m shallow-breathing, and the longer I’m quiet, the more it spotlights my nervousness. Which again, I have no reason to be. “He…he’s been really sweet. Even tolerated me bogarting the dumplings at dinner.”
“Now I know he really likes you.”
“He, um, also surprised me with a hot-air balloon ride. It was pretty amazing.”
Grant chuckles to himself, making the tension hold less tightly on my body. “Yeah, Seth’s a fan of grand gestures, always has been. Classic example, when he was in fifth grade, he was desperately crushing on this seventh grader—Morgan Mitchell.”
“Pretty big age gap for then.”
“Oh, for sure, it was scandalous. So Valentine’s Day rolls around—”
“Wait, wait, let me guess. He got her an industrial pallet of those candy hearts?”
“Close. He had a dozen roses delivered to her classroom.”
“Aw, that’s so cute!”
“Every hour on the hour.” Grant stops at a light and laughs at my bug-eyed expression. “I know, that’s, like, five dozen, and each delivery had a single-word message. Until it pieced together the question: Will-you-be-my-Valentine?” He shakes his head. “Course she said yes.”
“Whoa,” I breathe, “and that was only fifth grade?” Although, knowing Seth, it wasn’t as far-fetched as it sounded. “But how does a ten-year-old get that kind of coin?”
Grant makes a hammering motion with his fist. “Slaughtered his piggy bank. He’d been saving up for a rare comic or something. Guess they cost a pretty penny.”
“That’s devotion,” I marvel. “Okay, so what about you, how did you win over your Valentine?”
“Huh. I don’t remember that year. But I remember in fourth grade, I had some pretty wicked skills on the jungle gym. I was the tallest kid in class, and my playground prowess was second to none. And red rover? Forget it. I was an unstoppable force.”
“Oh man,” I giggle, “I can see it now, you wooing the girls on the monkey bars.”
“In the end, it was probably my pocket full of warm gummy worms that won Amanda over.”
“Warm? Oh, ick.” I shake my head. “Gummy anything is bad enough, but warmed to a balmy ninety-eight point six?”
He grins. “Hey, they were in a bag. It’s not like they were covered with pocket fuzz or anything.”
“Don’t care. My position on gummy is absolute.” The message alert chimes on my phone as we take the downtown exit off the highway. I quickly read it. “Seth and Ryan just got back to Absinthe.”
“What took them so long?”
“Uh-oh…They reversed the jumper cables. Ended up frying Ginger’s battery and her alternator. Plus Seth’s on-board computer is toast. So they had to wait for two tow trucks.”
He laughs. “Yeah, I’m psychic.”
No kidding. He’s a Pisces. That alone warrants extrasensory perceptions. I reply to Seth, explaining my hasty departure and suggesting a movie tomorrow night. My phone chirps. “Bummer,” I mutter.
“What?”
“Oh, just, Seth has inventory in the morning and will be out of town the rest of the weekend.” I slouch in my seat. “Now I feel really bad about having to leave.”
“That’s right.” Grant nods. “I think he’s ca-brewing with our cousin Jonah and some buddies up north in Lannister.”
“Ca-brewing?”
He chuckles. “I take it you’ve never been?” I shake my head. “Ca-brewing is canoeing—plus a lot of beer.”
“Ah. Got it.” My cell chimes again. Seth’s last text perks me up. And it’s definitely not one I can share with Grant. Because it involves a lot of—
“He’s disappointed he didn’t get to take you home, huh?” Grant’s tone is teasing, at odds with the tightness that’s resumed in the set of his mouth.
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
“Because I would’ve been.” He quickly averts his eyes. “I mean, in general, as far as dates go. That’s when you usually…” Grant clears his throat. “You know.”
My heart thuds in my chest. I do know. And so does Seth, which is why he’s extra disappointed we didn’t get any time alone before I left. No goodnight kiss. And now Grant knows it, and we’re all thinking about the kiss that wasn’t.
We turn onto my tree-lined street. Old Victorians sit shoulder to shoulder on narrow lots disproportionate to their girth. “Which house?”
My blood feels fizzy as if carbonated. Relentless bubbles bounce around my veins. “Five fifty-two. The…the second to the last on the right.” Gram hasn’t left the porch light on. Maybe it’s a sign she’s still not feeling well. Or maybe she feels just fine and is wearing night-vision goggles.
Grant pulls into our driveway, and before he puts the car in park, I’m frantically unbuckling my belt. I have to get out of here. Now. I can’t be having thoughts of kissing while alone in a dark car with Grant. In my rush, I knock my purse to the floor—keys, lipstick, some cash—everything spills across the floor.
“Shoot!” I hiss, blindly feeling around the scratchy floor mats for my things. When I find the most embarrassing of my whatnots, I breathe a teensy bit easier. Tucking the tampon back in my purse, I continue my search.
“Here, lemme help.” Grant leans, groping around the floor. “I’d turn on the interior light, but something’s wrong with the wiring. It’s been on my list of things to—”
Our hands touch in the darkness. The shock of the contact ripples through me. We are both stock-still. I can hear him breathing. I shouldn’t be aware of Grant’s breath or the subtle way I imagine it’s accelerating. But I am. God help me, I am.
“Interesting necklace,” Grant says softly. “Isn’t that the key I gave you?”
I look down and notice the silver key dangling alongside my amethyst. The stream of light filtering in from the streetlamp catches and reflects on its metallic surface. My pulse rate quadruples.
I sit up and shove the key back under the neckline of my dress, pressing a hand hard against my racing heart. “I…I lose things sometimes.” It’s true. It’s totally true. This would be the very sort of thing I would misplace. And it is my golden ticket into Absinthe.
“Well”—he moves slowly back to his seat—“I guess as long as you don’t go losing your heart, you’ll always know where to find it.”
Seconds span what feels like hours. Oh God, this is worse than flashing my thong. The key has betrayed me, hinting at things that it shouldn’t, posing as something illicit and meaningful. So it will be removed from the necklace tonight.
But if it weren’t for the fact I was dating Seth, or that the constellations had arranged themselves in such a dangerous way on the day of Grant’s birth—this might have been our date. I find myself wondering what we would have done. Definitely not the hot-air ballooning. But we would have had fun. We would have laughed. I bet he would have kissed me right here in the green station wagon with the crescent of moon as our only witness. And I would’ve asked him the meaning behind the tattoos on his arm.
Because secretly, I am dying to know.
While I feel the loss of what could’ve been, there’s the certainty of what is. What is meant to be. Seth.
Grant’s hands curl around the steering wheel, ten and two. He stares at our blue three-story Victorian with its loose shingles in dire need of replacement. “I hope your grandma’s feeling better. Goodnight, Wil.”
The dismissal brings me back. I fumble with the handle, recalling my desperation to get out. “Yes. I…g’night, Grant.”
I race up the porch steps without a backward glance. I don’t want him to see how shaken I am. Once inside, I lock the door and slump against it, tossing my clutch to the bench.
I release a ragged breath of my own before bending to kiss her temple. “You’re okay,” I whisper. But it took seeing it with my own eyes to truly feel it.
Returning to the entryway, I realize I still haven’t checked to make sure I got everything back in my purse. So I do a quick inventory.
That’s when I see it.
Right there, nestled in among my keys, cell, and Parisian Pout.
A guitar pick.
It glows, like a little piece of Grant, lost and waiting to be found. I count seven ticktocks of the clock before I’m mobilized again.
“This has to stop.” I gaze to the ceiling and visualize the starry sky that stretches beyond layers of plaster and wood. “I won’t let you down.”
Then I shut off the light and head upstairs.
The message alert chimes on my phone—my daily horoscope. Excellent.
State your intentions in current relationships and discover happy revelations.
Talk about divine timing. This is precisely the affirmation I want for what I’m about to do. The traffic light turns green as I chuck my phone back in my bag.
It’s Saturday morning and I’m the only animated thing in the warehouse district. Downtown is buzzing with activity as people set up for tomorrow’s farmers’ market and artisan fair—but here, it’s a graveyard. Building after building, dilapidated cement structures hunker like rows of headstones made drearier under the blanket of gray. I flick on the wipers to clear the sheen of mist.
Absinthe stands at the end of the street, a little taller and prouder than the other warehouses, as if sensing a grander purpose than housing surplus tires or cheap textiles.
I creep over the speed bump and steady the coffees on the passenger seat. I want to catch Seth before he leaves for his camping adventure to apologize in person for my disappearance last night. And nothing says I’m in like with you like one of Gram’s humongous cinnamon rolls washed down with a large coffee.
Coffee with a splash of guilt.
Capricorn’s beard, nothing happened! Grant’s fingers touched mine. Big whoop. So his guitar pick is a screaming banshee in my bag. Once I’ve exorcised that, I’m totally in the clear.
Today I will state my intentions to Seth. My horoscope’s dead-on with that prediction.
As I pull up to the front of the building, the clouds go from misting the city to pelting it with chubby raindrops. While I’d had the sense to pull on my favorite red galoshes, I’ve forgotten the umbrella to go with them. Fabulous.
I make a mad dash to the cover of the awning. The striped cotton dress sticks to my skin; my hair hangs damp and drooping. Balancing my bag, the goodies, and our coffees, I hook a free finger in the door handle, relieved to find it unlocked.
“Hello?” My voice echoes down the tunnel entry, rubber boots squeaking loudly. “Helloooo?” The magic of Absinthe has totally transformed. Without the music and fairies and mysterious green lights, it seems so…ordinary. “Is anyone he—”
“Wil?” Grant appears at the end of the hall, pencil tucked behind one ear and a stack of file folders in his arms. “What…what are you doing here?”
I trip over my own feet and nearly dump the coffees.
“Whoa!” He tosses the folders on a nearby table and rushes over. “Why don’t I handle the precious cargo, okay?”
Bewildered, I stare through my rain-splattered lenses. “The, uh, front door was unlocked. Isn’t…is Seth here?” The question edges on desperate. But I am desperate. I have to state my intentions and Grant was not part of the morning’s equation.
Thunder rumbles. That’s the universe belly-laughing at my expense.
“He was on the schedule, but—shocker—he overslept. Packed up and headed straight to Lannister.” He checks his watch. “He’s been on the road a couple of hours now. Probably about halfway there.”
I numbly follow Grant past the hodgepodge of chairs and couches, and over to the bar, where he sets the coffee carrier down. He holds out a towel he’s taken from behind the counter. “You look a little soggy. Did he say he’d meet you here or something?”
Great. I’m drenched and my mission is a giant fail. I set the pastry box on a stool and take the towel. “Thanks. No.” I frown, patting myself dry. “I was going to surprise him.”
“Oh. Then sorry to break it to you but your trip’s a bust—just me here.” Grant brushes the dust from his flannel shirt before pushing up a sleeve. Once again I find myself wanting to decode the musical tattoo. “So, what’s in the box, or is it for Seth’s eyes only?”
“The box?” I stare at the cube like geometry is the most intriguing thing on the planet. “Uh, cinnamon rolls. Gram had some extras from a batch she made this morning.”
“She’s better, then?”
“Yep. Fit as a fiddle, according to her.”
“That’s great.” Grant’s eyes continue to devour the package.
“Did you want one?”
He wipes his chin. “My drool give me away?”
I chuckle. The tension in my shoulders softens, because Grant has the uncanny ability to put me in a tranquil state of nervousness. “Only a little. Well, the drool, and the fact that you were undressing the pastry box with your eyes.”
“I skipped breakfast and surpassed starving about an hour ago. Seriously, I think my stomach has started eating itself.” He settles himself up on a barstool. But my galoshes remain hammered to the floor. Why can’t I move? “Wil, I won’t bite. Unless you morph into a cinnamon roll, then no guarantees.”
He takes one of the coffees. I envy his steady hand and repartee. It’s the sort of easiness that comes from not liking someone that way.
And as Grant continues his effortless chatter, I begin to wonder if he’s developed amnesia in the last ten hours, or if somehow his attraction to me has withered and died overnight.
Which is for the best—a bullet dodged, actually. My Fifth House is complicated enough—what with the planet Uranus giving rise to sudden infatuations that tend to fizzle out as abruptly as they start.
Yeah. I bet that’s all this was, a silly little infatuation—because of what—a dance? A ride home? A stupid key?
“So, not to come off as a complete ingrate, but are these froufrou? I know Seth likes those macchiato mocha somethings.”
Get over yourself, Wil. My mind continues reeling over its own idiocy.
I blow out a breath and scooch onto the stool beside him. “Nope. They’re black, but I grabbed cream and sugar just in case.”
After a hearty slug of coffee, Grant rests his arms on the counter, leaning closer as I open the pastry box. “Between you and me, I’m gonna feel no remorse over eating Seth’s cinnamon roll. None.” He grins when I pass him a fork wrapped in a napkin. “Is there anything you haven’t thought of, Carlisle?”
I catch his gaze and quickly look away. Uh-huh. How to be alone with you and not think things that will make me feel guilty later. But I can’t say that. Obviously.
I shake my head, dispersing the unwelcome thoughts. “Consider it payment for taxi services rendered.”
He sticks a fork in the warm roll and takes a bite. “Man, these are…holy…unbelievable.”
I break off a chunk and swirl it in a pool of icing. “Oh, I know. Some things are worth a four-figure caloric intake.”
He swallows, his eyes rolling back to a neutral position. “Please tell me you’re not actually counting. Because you don’t have to worry about any of that bullsh—”
“Mmm, mmm, definitely not.” I finish chewing. “And even if I were calorie-obsessed, I’d never be a twig. Which is fine.” I add, “I’d rather be happy. And this”—I point my fork at the ooey-gooey roll—“is pure deliciousness.”
Grant is sucking icing off the side of his thumb. I forget to blink or breathe or do any of those other supposedly involuntary actions.
He wipes his mouth on a napkin. And then says something I think I’ll remember for all of eternity. “Wil, you’re way better than twigs.”
The morning downpour lessens to a light pitter-patter. I’ve lingered at Absinthe too long. Hanging out with Grant has just been so fun that I’ve lost track of the time.
When I return from the restroom, I’m struck by an irresistible melody drifting from the back of the club. And there’s Grant plucking away at his guitar, long legs dangling over the side of the raised stage. A single light forms a diffused circle that cuts one side of his body, leaving the other in shadow.
His eyes lift from the guitar. Entering a room undetected in rubber boots is an impossible feat. It’s as bad as trying to sneak up on someone in snow pants.
“Um, sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just about to head out.” But the music continues to lure me with its vibrational pull. I find myself squeaking my way closer. “That’s my favorite Beatles song. You play it so well.”
“Yeah?” There’s a flash of his slightly crooked front teeth. My stomach flips like a coin. “ ‘Blackbird’ is the first real song I learned—not counting ‘Hot Cross Bells’ or ‘Jingle Buns.’ Er…” I giggle and he smiles. “You know what I mean. Anyway, I locked myself in my bedroom when I was twelve. Played it over and over until I could get through without messing up.” His hand hovers at the strings. “Do you play?”
“Guitar? No. I’m afraid my fingers aren’t that coordinated.”
“Another instrument?”
“In sixth grade I played a mean recorder. Got a solo part and everything.”
Grant snorts and scrubs a hand back and forth through his hair. “You’re aware that’s a half step above the tambourine.”
I place my hands on my hips. “All right, I’ll see you one recorder, and raise you two years of choir in junior high.” I drop my hands. “Which, now that I mention it, is the extent of my short-lived music career.”
