Chapter 4 Yes, No, Maybe
YES, NO, MAYBE
ALICE
The walk to Mad Mug is short, but the brutal beginnings of summer heat cause sweat to bead on my forehead by the time I push into the café. A bell rings above me, and air-conditioning blasts my damp skin, sending relieved shivers down my spine.
It’s busy, though the crowd is deceiving; a line extends to the door, but there’s a few tables empty.
There’s one in particular, tucked in the corner where the two windows meet, that strikes my fancy.
I beeline for it, laying claim by dropping my books onto the tabletop, then grab my wallet and join the end of the line.
A restlessness overtakes me as I wait, as if all the forward motion in my flight from the library was the only thing keeping my mind occupied. Now that I’m stopped and still, a familiar spark of intrigue invades my brain. Compositions flash in the frames of gray as I blink.
Soft and messy strands of hair, an odd color that would be a challenge to mix. The gentle curve of glasses against a sharp cheek, a perfect juxtaposition. The constellations that could be drawn between freckles…
My fingers flip the thin wallet over and over; I pull my card out, then push it back in, repeating the action every time I get to step closer to the cashier. It does little to distract me from the sudden need skittering through me.
It’s a specific kind of twitch in my fingers, the relentless presence of a new muse making itself known.
“What can I get you?” the cashier asks as I step forward, my time in line lost to my thoughts.
“Some sanity and a sense of direction in life would be great, please,” I mutter, not missing a beat, and instantly regretting it. My face scrunches into a wince. “Sorry,” I add, attention flicking to the menu board. “I meant one of the chocolate croissants and an iced mocha.”
But the cashier only laughs, rich and full.
“That is the best thing I’ve heard all day,” she says.
Her voice is as smooth and luscious as her laugh, and I’m unsurprised the darkly feminine energy extends to her visage too.
A long swath of shiny black hair descends from her ponytail, but the raven locks are intertwined with two other colors—one platinum-blonde patch cutting through half her bangs, and one copper-red section where an undercut would be.
A glance down for a nametag leaves me without answers, the space where it should be pinned to her black tank top blank.
I re-focus my attention on the growing curve of her rose-tinted lips as she adds, “Unfortunately, I don’t have any sanity to spare.”
My cheeks heat with embarrassment; I’m in rare fucking form today. Though, it’s nice that she’s humoring me rather than casting me a weird look.
“Just the croissant and an iced mocha then,” I say, awkwardly tapping my wallet on my palm.
“You got it.” A wink of an amber iris punctuates her drawl as she types my order into her tablet. “For here?”
“Yep.”
“Perfect,” she purrs the word. “That’ll be seven even.”
My brows furrow at the screen where my card is poised to tap. Eyes flicking back to the chalkboard menu on the wall, I do the mental math.
“Um, I think you forgot to charge me for the croissant?” I ask.
“Nope, I’m giving it to you on the house,” she chirps.
“Oh,” I say, tapping my card to the reader. What’s up with this town and kind, uniquely beautiful strangers? “Thanks.”
“You’re cute.” She shrugs, as if it’s reason enough to comp someone part of their order.
My airway constricts as I blink my surprise. Her sharp black eyeliner becomes jagged with the crinkling edge of her amused eyes, then she hands me a metal stand with a number for my table.
“Your stuff will be right out,” she adds.
“Thanks,” I repeat, turning on my heel and escaping to my table.
For the second time today, I feel the pinpricks of someone’s gaze on my neck. They don’t leave me as I sit down, or when my coffee and pastry come—delivered by a different barista. Nor do they leave when I succumb to the restless nagging of my fingers, digging into my bag for my sketchbook.
It’s not there, and I silently accost myself. I have three different pens in this tote, but no paper. What kind of artist leaves the house without a sketchbook?
One who lost her spark.
The ominous words float from my brain, loop around my neck like a noose, and tighten. With an ego death impending, my attention snags on the napkin holder.
I rip a whole stack from the plastic box and click open my pen.
The ink-filled nib scratches across the brown napkin, catching on the coarse texture in a delicious way, until—of course—it doesn’t. I huff my frustration as the sheet rips under the pressure of my pen, the black ink having soaked the paper through to the point of frailty.
I ball it up and toss it into the pile of crumbled rejects, which sits a mess next to a smaller stack of proper sketches.
A pronounced Adam’s apple. The crisp cut of a shirt collar against a neck, fading into no head. A soft smile peaking below the stretch of an arm. The folds of a cashmere cardigan at an elbow.
They’re incomplete ideas, a whispered promise of more to come, and I’m frantically grasping at them.
There’s something right there that keeps slipping between my fingers—something about him.
The longer I scrawl his portrait onto napkins, the more insistent my pen becomes, a sense of déjà vu guiding my hand.
I’m lost to my fervor, chasing after the elusive and desperate to capture it.
“You’re going to run me out of napkins.”
My body jolts at the sudden intrusion in my space, and a woman’s amused, breathy laugh follows my surprise.
I pull my makeshift canvas close and place my pen across the top to block the drawing from view as the nameless cashier drops into the empty seat across from me.
She brandishes a goading smirk, jabbing a finger at the pile of discarded doodles.
“Whatcha drawing?” she asks.
I purse my lips, sucking the flesh of my cheeks between my teeth, and her gaze flicks over the action.
A spark of heat flashes in her eyes, orange flecks set in an unnaturally bright shade of yellow.
Late night campfires come to mind, the ones that blaze hot enough to melt the sneakers you insist on perching against the stone pit.
Embers of tension float in the air between us, singeing my skin like the pinpricks of eyes did earlier. Her eyes, I assume.
Her attention has the same intensity as Harley’s did, but hers is unwavering—unnerving—in the way that a cat’s is in the moment its pupils dilate, and you question whether it will pounce.
“Doodles,” I say with a shrug.
Her smirk grows into a charming grin as she leans forward, propping her elbow onto the table and resting her chin on her palm.
“You’re new,” she says.
“New?”
“In town.”
“That’s the second time someone’s asked me that today,” I mutter. She lifts a brow as if to ask me to explain, and for a reason beyond me, I do. Though I keep it short. “Dead grandma. I got the house.”
The woman’s dark brows knit together in confusion, then rise with sudden recognition, hiding behind her bangs. “Are you Lacie’s granddaughter?”
“Uh, yeah…” I say, stunned. “Did you know her?”
“It’s been a while, but she’s hard to forget.
And word spreads fast around here when houses suddenly have u-hauls in front of them.
I was wondering who moved in,” she says.
“She would come in every Wednesday morning. Sit right where you are for three hours people watching with those funky green glasses.”
She hums, deep in thought, eyes narrowing on some invisible thing outside the window.
“Three shots of espresso, in separate mugs, one for each hour she’d sit here,” she says, knocking her knuckles on the table.
“And she’d bring a bagel with lox cream cheese from Strathmore down the street.
I always told her we had bagels here too, but she’d shake her head and tell me they didn’t taste right.
” The woman huffs and rolls her eyes. “As if I don’t get my bagels delivered from Strathmore every morning.
They were the same damn egg-everythings. ”
Any tension my shoulders had gathered from the woman’s presence lessens at her fond ramble about my grandmother. Nana always was a bit particular. I think that’s why we got along when I was a kid; I hadn’t learned to hide all my little quirks yet, and she didn’t mind since she had some of her own.
A snort escapes me.
The woman leans back, adopting a posture that screams of smug success at having pulled a positive sound from me.
“Thank you for that,” I say, cautiously. “It’s nice to hear her talked about. I don’t have many people left who knew her.”
No one left, actually. Steph and Erica only met her at my wedding.
The woman nods, as if she understands. “Yeah, well, now I know the reason why I like you already. Lacie also had that air of mischief around her.”
“I may have a few marbles missing but I definitely don’t give off an air of mischief,” I say. “I’m very well-behaved.”
Her tongue pokes her cheek. “I’m sure you are, Trouble.”
The air shifts from a softening awkwardness to something I can’t quite name as I swallow the thickening spit in my mouth. My blood pumps faster, throbbing at the juncture of my neck. How is it that one word—one casually drawled nickname—can have such an effect?
“My name’s Alice,” I whisper the correction.
“Jessa,” she says, extending a hand my way. She’s not as pale white as me, her skin glowing with a subtle sun-kissed warmth, and her nails are painted with shiny black lacquer. “And I’m the owner of this fine establishment, if you were wondering.”
“Alice,” I mutter, shaking her hand.
“You said that already,” Jessa teases.
“And I said had a few screws loose, didn’t I?” I huff, stray nerves skittering along my skin as I slip my hand from hers. My pulse grows louder, beating at my wrists. I turn away, collecting my napkin sketches and carefully tucking them into one of my library books.
“Can I be forward with you?” Jessa asks.
I peer at her through my lashes, but don’t stop my tidying up. “Sure…”
“Do you want to go out sometime?”
My hands freeze, one gripping the rough canvas edge of my tote, and the other white-knuckled around a book on Monet.
“Like… a date?” I squeak out.
Jessa shrugs. “Your words not mine.”
My mouth parts, the starting stutters of a response snapping between my teeth.
The rings hanging down my chest, hidden beneath my shirt, begin to burn against my skin as I panic. Jessa must see my brain working double time to reply, because she leans forward with a soft laugh and outstretched palms.
“I’m sorry, I’m just a no-beating-around-the-bush type of person.
And I’m a habitual flirt. You can ignore it, or flirt back, I won’t complain either way.
” Her silky tenor wraps around me, oddly adept at settling my nerves.
“But I would be lying if I didn’t say I’d love another friend in town who isn’t retired or in college. And that I think you’re gorgeous.”
“How do you know I’m not retired? I could be a Benjamin Button,” I say, unable to hold back the quip, despite my body’s blaring alarm to abort mission.
It’s the same anxiety induced urge to flee as in the library, spurred on by the sudden realization that I’m experiencing an emotion that I haven’t in years.
Attraction. Or something akin to it.
I don’t notice people like that anymore. Yet somehow, it’s happened twice in one day, and I’m completely caught off guard by my body’s intense reaction. Harley intrigued my muse, and Jessa is making my heart race as if I’ve ran a marathon.
It’s not that I’m not tempted to say yes, but it’s all feeling like too much. I’ve always been attracted to women, but I never got around to dating them. Getting together with Ryan at seventeen meant that I never needed to date around at all. I was one of the lucky ones. One and done.
Except now…
“I’m pretty confident that reversed aging isn’t a kind of magic found in this world,” Jessa riffs on my joke. “You a realm-walker, Alice?”
“No,” I say, chewing on my lip as I finish putting away my sketches.
“So, what do you think?” Jessa asks.
It’s been years, I remind myself. It’s okay to say yes.
“Sure,” I say, bravely, and despite the sticky film of guilt that wraps around me. “I wouldn’t mind a beach-buddy? I haven’t been in a while.”
“Totally,” Jessa says, smiling brightly. “Give me your number. I’ll text you.”