Chapter 9 Chase
Chase
It’s definitely a vibe.
But I’m not here for the vibe; I’m here for the girl.
I slide into an empty booth, eyeing the servers in retro-style aprons, searching for the one with purple streaks in her hair.
That’s when I spot Kenna.
She brightens when she sees me, gifting me with a flash of teeth. “Be right with you!” she calls out, balancing a tray of loaded fries and milkshakes, her voice nearly drowned out by the steady drone of conversation and clinking silverware.
When she approaches my table, she pulls a notepad and pen from her apron pocket. “Can I get you something to drink?” Her accent carries a distinct inflection, the kind you might hear along the Puerto Rican coast.
I set my plastic menu down. “Is Annie working today?”
She wrinkles her nose. “I’ll never get used to that. But yep, she’s in the kitchen. I’ll grab her. Did you want anything?”
“Coffee is good.”
“Coming right up.” She pops the P and saunters away, disappearing through the double doors.
What the hell am I doing?
Scratching at my overgrown hair, I slump back in the booth with a weary sigh.
Every week since the beginning of April, I’ve showed up at that café.
First out of curiosity, then out of habit, and now because something in me feels off-kilter when I don’t.
With every new week, a piece of me feels a little less lost and a little more connected to the outside world.
Somehow, our coffee meetups have rewired my brain, flooding me with this unexpected sense of drive. An undercurrent of possibility I can’t ignore.
I wouldn’t call it fate, but it feels like something. A cracked door, a thread to pull, a spark waiting for the inevitable matchstick to strike.
A moment later, Annie traipses out from the kitchen with Kenna tight on her heels. I straighten in my seat, watching as they both veer in my direction, Annie fluffing her hair and adjusting her apron as she plasters on a glowing smile and finds my eyes across the diner.
As she nears the table, I’m hit with the scent of sweet maple syrup.
A nametag sits crooked on her chest, a tiny mole dots the skin above her upper lip, and stray crumbs cling to her chest-length waves of kaleidoscopic hair.
But with those big, pale-blue eyes, long legs, paper-white skin, and watermelon lips, she’s about as pretty as they come.
I’d categorize her as stupidly pretty.
“Hey.”
She studies me with a hint of surprise, reaching into her pocket for a notepad. “What can I get for you?”
Kenna is ushered away to assist another customer, leaving me second-guessing why I came here as I mull over words. “I was thinking about your offer.”
She writes something down, then steals a glance over her shoulder that’s aimed at the kitchen. “Good choice. Highly recommend.”
“To hang out. Write some music together. If you still want to.”
“Mm-hmm.” More scribbling.
“Um.” I follow her gaze toward the kitchen, catching a man’s face peering through the window hole. He vanishes as quickly as he appears. “Listen, if it’s a bad time—”
“Not at all. Kenna said you wanted coffee?” She blinks down at me.
“I feel like we’re having two separate conversations here.”
She traps her bottom lip between her teeth before leaning in slightly, voice dropping just enough to make me stretch my ear. “We are.”
“Okay. Care to loop me in?”
“Order something.”
I peer down at the menu, not actually reading it. “Pancakes?”
“We do have the best.” She jots it down on the paper pad and caps the pen before leveling me with a softer look. “What are you doing at midnight?”
Midnight?
“Uh, sleeping?”
“Bummer.” She shrugs. “I’m kind of a night owl.”
“I can probably rearrange some things.”
“Great.”
I hesitate, but before I can ask her to elaborate, a busser calls out to her.
“Hey, Adams! Chef is looking for you.”
Adams. Must be her last name.
The kitchen doors pop open, and the man from the window hole walks out, wiping his hands on a dish towel. His gaze locks onto me, narrowing, his jaw tightening with something that feels dangerously close to hostility.
Annie takes a step back, tossing a playful wink in his direction. “Coffee and pancakes. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
She strolls away without a backward glance, leaving me wondering what the fuck just happened. But I get my answer soon enough.
The man with inky hair and volatile eyes snags her by the wrist before she can retreat through the double-swing doors.
He pulls her close, wrapping his arms around her waist in a smothering embrace.
A firm kiss is pressed to her hairline as he continues to watch me from across the room, a storm brewing underneath the surface.
A chill courses through me. Gnawing, nibbling. It hits me like a slap to the face.
He’s marking his territory.
She’s taken.
Of course she is.
Here I was thinking I had a goddamn chance with her. She invited me to hang out, alone. But wrapped up in his arms, she looks like she belongs there. Like she’s always belonged there.
Pathetic waves of disappointment run rampant through my blood.
Coffee is eventually set in front of me, followed by a plate of pancakes, oozing with syrup and melted butter.
Annie floats through the restaurant, from table to table, chatting with customers as if she’s known them for years.
“It’s The Same Old Song” by the Four Tops pours from the jukebox, pulling her into a series of silly dance moves with Kenna.
She rotates her hips, lets her hair take flight, throws her head back with a laugh.
It’s almost enough to yank me into her bubble of joy as I stab my fork into the sugary stack with nearly enough force to crack the plate.
The smile never leaves her face.
Winded, she skips over to me, refilling my coffee mug.
I don’t say anything. Don’t smile back.
A receipt is slapped beside my plate a half hour later, and she sees me off with a warm expression. “I’m glad you stopped by, Chase. Give Toaster a kiss for me.”
Annie dashes off, linking arms with Kenna as they scurry back into the kitchen, leaving me stewing in my fifty-billionth round of unfortunate luck.
The metaphorical piano crashes through the ceiling and lands on my head as I skim over the receipt. But I do a double take when I spot an arrow drawn in sparkly purple ink scrawled beside the dollar amount.
Flipping over the scrap of paper, I read the message she left behind.
23 Acorn Street
Midnight
Bring your guitar
I glance up, the doors still swinging on their hinges.
All the best mistakes have names.
Something tells me this one goes by the name of Annalise Adams.