The Secrets of Attraction (32 page)

“How can you say that?”

“Hard to admit, but . . . I didn't want a family. I wanted to live overseas, fly jets in Europe, be unattached. I'd like to think if I'd known, I would have done right by the both of you, but I can't be sure of that answer.”

“But don't you . . . You love her, right? That's what she said to me, that you loved each other.” I felt my birthday wish slipping through my fingers.

Head dropping back, he looked straight up to the sky. A beat passed before he answered. “I'd always sort of hoped if I ended up with anyone, it would be her. And you. Maybe somehow, I knew all along. Remember that time in San Francisco? When we had dinner at the Italian place that served you wine and your mother took it away and I let you sneak a sip?”

He remembered that too?

“Yes.”

“When I paid the check the owner told me I had a beautiful wife and daughter. You both had already gone outside. I was about to correct him, but I couldn't. I just thanked him and we left, and it felt nice. I'm thinking maybe that's why I want to go back, to be in the place where I felt the best about it.”

“That was a great trip.”

“I'm going to treat this job as a trial—maybe I'll hate flying tourists around and pointing out the sights. Maybe I'll love it. It's a huge change, but I'm ready for, something on my own terms. I can keep my feet on the ground, stay in one place for a while.”

“But, if you want to stay in one place, why can't it be here?”

He shifted, leaning back against the hood. “I think this is a lot to take in—becoming an instant family, something maybe we need to a little time and space to get used to. I'm not saying it's going to be perfect, or that you won't get angry about it all over again, but we know the truth now. And that's all that really matters, isn't it?”

“I guess.”

“C'mon, I promised your mother I'd make her penne and vodka sauce tonight. We can keep our dinner a secret.”

I laughed. “Sure.”

Back at the house, while Paul whipped up a meal for my mother, I pored over my work again, thinking about what he said—that we needed a little time and space to get used to the idea of us, as a family. I wasn't sure if I believed it—that space was the answer—but what choice did I have? I guessed it was a start.

There was a quote I remembered from my essay on Frank Lloyd Wright:
Space is the breath of art.
I thought I understood it—the space thing—that it could be light or dark, positive or negative—it was part of a work, though, essential. Maybe space would help us shed a little light on what was important to us, too.

Paul poked his head into the dining room. “You sure you don't want any of this?”

“No, I'm good. Are you guys eating in here? Give me a minute to put this away.”

“We can eat in the kitchen when your mom gets home. Hey, how's the application for Pratt coming along? Did you send it in yet?”

“I'm rethinking Pratt for the summer.”

He leaned against the doorway, and folded his arms. “Rethinking?”

“Yeah, I'm not sure I want to be there yet, I think I'd like a little more experience first. I'm going to try for that scholarship to the Design Institute, like I planned. I mean, that's okay, right? I appreciate your offer . . . the money . . . but . . . could I put that toward—”

“It's there for when you need it, Mads. Whatever you want to do, you have my support.”

“Thanks.”

I continued packing up my work. The sketch of Jesse was on the end of the table, I picked it up to put it away, taking a moment to look it over. My heart warmed. Had I let enough space come between us? Why was I so afraid of opening up to him? Was it really easier to push him away? All at once I wanted to see him, to apologize for being so weird. I slipped the sketch into my portfolio and ran upstairs to grab Jesse's jacket.

“Paul, I'm headed out for a while, I've got my phone,” I said, thundering down the stairs. I didn't wait to hear his reply.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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MUGSHOT WAS SLOW ON WEDNESDAY NIGHTS
. There was a study group in the one corner commandeering the crushed-velvet chairs, and a couple sitting close to the window, holding hands, in their own world. I was alone and kept looking at the clock. There was less than an hour to go and I could shut down. I'd already cleaned a few of the pitchers, and restocked the paper products. I didn't mind not being busy because it gave me more time to focus on my song.

I stood at the counter, bent over my notebook, frustrated at the scribbles on the pad. I'd been trying to figure out a way to describe her eyes in the song, but yeah, that wasn't happening. And it was too cheesy. Madison would not like cheesy and this was for her, even though I couldn't tell her that. Learned my lesson at the Whiskey. But she'd know. Although at this point I wasn't sure if she was going to the battle. I wasn't sure where we stood at all.

A shadow passed across the counter and I looked up. I'd been so involved in the song that I hadn't noticed someone come in.

“Hannah.” I glanced behind her, at the door, waiting for Duncan to appear, but there was no one. She smiled.

“Hey, Jess,” she said. Her hair was in a braid to the side, her volleyball warm-up jacket zipped to her chin.

“What's up?”

She leaned on the counter, looking into the bakery case. There was next to nothing left—mostly crumbs. Her eyes found my notebook and darted across the page. I put my hand over it, pulled it away and tucked it below the register.

“Hmm, new song?”

“What are you, a spy for the enemy?” I kidded.

“Pfft, as if,” she said. “Are you working on something new, though?”

“Maybe,” I offered. “Where's Duncan?”

“Where do you think? Where he's been for the past three months—rehearsing.”

“Decided to sit this one out?”

“I can only take so much,” she said, “and Lot Twenty-Three smells like feet.”

I laughed. “Are you sure that's not just Kenny's band you're smelling—
oh!
”

“That was bad.”

“Yes, but it had to be said. What can I get you?”

“I'm in the mood for one of your peppermint mochas.”

“Sure.” I grabbed a to-go cup and attempted to do the Tanner flip-thing that he'd perfected.

“That's to stay,” she said.

The cup fell just out of my grasp and bounced onto the floor.

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, thought I could sit with you till closing. Do you think . . . maybe you could give me a ride home?”

“Er, sure, why not?”

“Great,” she said, smiling. “Hey, I like your hair. What made you do that?”

“A friend suggested it,” I said, as she took a seat at the table I used to consider her “usual.” I got to work on her mocha.

When we were together, Hannah closed with me a lot. She'd sit with a book or work behind the counter with me, pouring coffee or filling baked-goods orders. The last time she'd helped me we stayed a half hour after closing and messed around in Grace's office. It was a memory I'd put out of my mind until this moment. She kept looking at me. I concentrated on the drink. Maybe she just wanted to be friends. Could I do that?

I didn't get that jangled-nerve feeling—the one that felt like every moment I looked at her, it physically hurt. It helped that Duncan wasn't with her, but even thinking of him, or the two of them together, didn't jab me the same way it did. I brought her drink to her table.

“Aren't you going to sit down?”

“Working.”

She looked around. “Oh, yeah, you're swamped. C'mon. Sit a minute.”

She pushed out the chair across from her with her foot. My notebook called to me, the song beckoned. I sat down.

“Now I know you must be doing some recon for the enemy.”

“No, but if you want to ask me anything I can tell you.” She wiggled her eyebrows and took a sip of her mocha. “Perfect, as always.”

“Are they doing the original song?”

“Yes, but it's not as good as they want it to be. Kenny's sort of a . . .”

“. . . tyrant,” I finished.

“Yeah, that. They've been practicing every day. If I tell you something, you have to swear to keep your mouth shut,” she said.

“Who would I say anything to?”

“I mean it, Jess. Just swear on the VW, or your Fender or something.”

“I swear on the Beetle, what gives?”

“They were there at Whiskey Business and got totally psyched out by Yellow Number Five. Duncan couldn't believe how great the guy you replaced him with played.”

“Really,” I said, trying not to show her how good that made me feel. “I didn't see them.”

“They didn't stay long, but they stayed long enough. Guess it's going really well with the new guy. Duncan misses you and Tanner; he doesn't get along so great with Kenny.”

Considering the past few times Hannah and I spoke, she was trying to subtly wheedle the song from me, I suddenly had the feeling that she wasn't there for a friendly visit—she wanted something. Or wanted something for Duncan.

“Look, the band broke up, and Grayson is a good fit, so if you're here to see if Duncan can get back in—”

“I'm not here for Duncan, Jesse.”

“Then what are you here for?” I asked, getting up.

“I'm here for you.”

The words made me pause; a jolt crackled through me when she looked my way . . . her eyes friendly, warm . . . familiar.

“Don't say that,” I said. One of the guys from the study group came up for a refill. I walked to the counter to help him, letting her words and her eyes do their number on me.

“We'll only be about another twenty minutes,” the guy said.

“No worries,” I said, filling his cup with the last of our house blend.

When I turned back, Hannah was sipping her drink, as if she hadn't just dropped a bomb of epic proportions. Maybe her being with Duncan didn't bother me, but I still felt
something
for her. It didn't suck to hear she was there for me.

We had a history. A mostly nice one. One that I'd counted on until HannahDunk screwed me, or I screwed them, or however it all went down. I was done analyzing. I was done, period. I was still in that zone, though: the no-longer-boyfriend, but-not-ready-to-be-friends zone. I wasn't sure we could ever be friends, maybe friend
ly
, like bumping into each other on the street or in the Stop N' Shop one random night years from now, like in a country song or something.

The couple at the window left, and Hannah shot up to clean off their table. I grabbed the counter mop and followed her.

“Hannah, you don't—”

“I want to, Jesse, come on, you can get out of here quicker,” she said, handing me the dollar the couple had left as a tip and grabbing their mugs. I wiped down the table as she took the cups into the back. When I turned around she had the box of raw sugar packets and began restocking the self-service stand.

“This is what you're really here for, restocking,” I said. She always said it cleared her mind to refill the self-service stand, like putting each thing in its place gave her a sense of order and calm. It was one of the jobs I hated the most, so I never minded. She tossed a raw sugar packet my way and grinned.

I reached below and handed her the box of stirrers.

“I guess, while you're at it,” I said, handing them to her.

“You're right, I like doing this,” she said. She looked at my wrist. “You're not wearing your infinity bracelet . . . band . . . anymore.”

“Why would I be?”

She lifted up her forearm and pulled back her sleeve. The infinity symbol glinted in the light. My stomach dropped..

“I noticed you were wearing yours the last time I came in.”

“Does Duncan know you're here?”

“I'm not sure Duncan even knows when I'm in the room,” she said, patting down the sugar packets into their compartment.

Whoa.
I wasn't about to touch that.

I turned away, heading into the back room to set up the dishwasher. Whether she was doing this to mess with my head or not, I wasn't sure. It wasn't like her to flirt
just because.
My feelings for her flared up again—not as strong, but still there, it was uncontrollable and I hated it. Maybe she wasn't doing it purposely but I refused to let it get to me.

I thought about Madison. How different it felt to be with her. Everything was up in the air, and unexpected, and I wasn't ready to let that go. Even if I had no idea where I stood with her.

By the time I returned out front, the study group in the corner was finally calling it quits. The guy who'd come over for the coffee brought some of the cups to the counter for me, and shoved a five into the tip jar.