Chapter 17
Seventeen
KANE
I make it halfway across campus before I realize I screwed up.
Not by leaving.
Leaving was the right call.
Hannah asked me to let her decide, and for once in my life, I managed to keep my hands in my pockets and do exactly that.
The problem is everything that came before.
Library.
Film room.
Her games.
My games.
Basketball has been threaded through nearly every second we’ve spent together.
Even the first time I kissed her happened after I followed her to practice like a lunatic and discovered she could fix something in my game.
No wonder she doesn’t trust me.
I stop beneath a streetlamp.
Cold air cuts through my jacket. The athlete quad is still another ten-minute walk, but I turn around anyway.
Not toward Briar.
I’m not that stupid.
Toward the old campus.
There has to be something over here people do that doesn’t involve a scoreboard.
I pass a pizza place.
Too easy.
A bar.
Absolutely not.
Some restaurant with white tablecloths and entrées listed without prices.
That looks like I’m trying too hard.
Then I see the sandwich board.
It sits on the sidewalk beneath a striped awning.
BELLWETHER BOOKS & COFFEE
FRIDAY NIGHT OPEN MIC
Poetry. Music. Stories. Comedy.
Coffee until midnight.
Used books upstairs.
I stare at it.
Used books.
Coffee.
People voluntarily reading poetry in public.
This place was designed in a laboratory to attract Hannah Goodwin.
I take a picture of the sign.
Then stand there for another thirty seconds because sending it now feels too fast.
I walked away from her eight minutes ago.
She’ll think I planned this.
I didn’t.
Which somehow makes it worse.
My phone is already in my hand.
I open our messages.
Her last text is from earlier.
Hannah: Fifty-eight minutes means fifty-eight minutes.
Mine beneath it:
Me: Your tyranny has been documented.
No response.
I type.
Me: Friday night.
Delete.
Too commanding.
Me: Are you free Friday?
Delete.
Sounds like I’m asking her to review film.
I stare through the bookstore window.
A guy with purple hair is shelving paperbacks while an orange cat sleeps on a chair beneath a handwritten sign that says NOT FOR SALE.
Perfect.
I type again.
Me: I want to take you on a date Friday.
This time I send it before I can edit myself into an idiot.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Disappear.
Return.
Hannah: A date.
Me: Yes.
Hannah: Define date.
I smile.
Me: Two people who are attracted to each other intentionally spending time together.
Nothing.
Then:
Hannah: You appear overly confident about one portion of that definition.
Me: You asked why I wasn’t kissing you.
Hannah: I was conducting a policy review.
Me: Your policy seemed frustrated.
Hannah: Where?
I send the picture.
The typing bubble appears.
Stops.
Appears again.
Hannah: Is that a bookstore?
Me: Used bookstore.
Hannah: There is a difference.
Me: I’m learning.
Hannah: And an open mic?
Me: Apparently strangers read feelings into microphones.
Hannah: You’ll hate it.
Me: Probably.
Hannah: Then why would you go?
I look through the glass again.
The cat has stretched across two chairs now.
Someone carries a stack of books toward the register.
No basketball on a television.
No athletes.
No people waiting to ask about my draft position.
Nothing here belongs to my world.
That’s the point.
Me: Because you might like it.
The bubble disappears.
For longer this time.
I shove my free hand into my pocket.
Students move around me. Bikes pass. Somebody laughs across the street.
Still nothing.
Then my screen lights.
Hannah: Is there basketball involved?
I knew that was coming.
Me: No.
Hannah: Film?
Me: No.
Hannah: Teammates?
Me: Not invited.
Hannah: Player guest section?
Me: I would rather eat one of your broken pencils.
A laughing emoji appears.
Actual laughing.
Not the sarcastic face she usually sends when she wants me to know I’m irritating her.
Progress.
Hannah: Are you going to ask me to look at your left-side drive halfway through coffee?
Me: No basketball.
Hannah: What if you see a television playing a game?
Me: I’ll avert my eyes.
Hannah: That may cause physical distress.
Me: I’ll suffer quietly.
Another pause.
Then:
Hannah: Why?
One word.
I know what she means.
Why this?
Why now?
Why her if she isn’t helping me play?
I lean against the brick wall outside Bellwether.
This deserves something better than flirting.
Me: Because I know what you see when I ask you for film.
Nothing.
I keep going.
Me: I know you’re waiting for the part where I decide your value is what you can do for me.
My thumb hovers.
Me: So Friday I don’t want anything from you except your company.
Three dots.
Gone.
Back.
Gone again.
I let her take as long as she wants.
That’s apparently another new skill I’m developing.
Finally:
Hannah: That was suspiciously mature.
Me: Don’t tell Eli.
Hannah: I’m considering having it independently verified.
Me: Friday. Seven?
Another long pause.
Hannah: Seven.
My grin breaks loose.
Me: That means yes.
Hannah: Do not ruin this already.
Me: See you Friday, Bookworm.
Hannah: Proper date and you’re still calling me that?
I look through the bookstore window.
Used books.
Coffee.
Cat.
Terrible poetry.
Maybe one more thing needs fixing.
Me: See you Friday, Hannah.
No answer comes.
I’m still smiling when I start walking home.
* * *
Eli knows within fifteen minutes.
I don’t tell him.
That would require voluntarily sharing information, and I have standards.
He’s sitting on our couch with Noah when I walk into the suite.
Both look up.
Eli narrows his eyes.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That face.”
I toss my keys onto the counter.
“What face?”
Noah looks away from the game on television.
“You look happy.”
“I’m frequently happy.”
“No,” Eli says. “You’re frequently pleased with yourself. Different condition.”
I open the refrigerator.
“Do we have anything edible?”
Eli slowly lowers his laptop.
“You asked her out.”
I stop with the refrigerator door open.
“No idea what you’re talking about.”
“You asked Bookworm out.”
Noah sits forward.
“He did?”
Eli points at me like he cracked a criminal investigation.
“I knew it.”
“You know nothing.”
“Where are you taking her?”
“None of your business.”
“Basketball game?”
“No.”
Both of them go quiet.
I take out a bottle of water.
Eli blinks.
“No basketball?”
“No.”
“Restaurant?”
“Partially.”
“Party?”
“No.”
“Your place?”
I give him a look.
His eyebrows shoot up.
“Oh, wow. Haverhill is courting.”
“Stop saying that.”
Noah grins. “Flowers?”
“No.”
“Good,” Eli says. “Too much this early.”
I twist off the bottle cap.
“I wasn’t asking.”
“What are you wearing?”
“I own clothes.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“I’m leaving.”
“You live here.”
I walk toward my room.
Eli calls after me.
“Wear something that says emotionally available but still draftable.”
I shut the door.
“Not helpful.”
“It was free.”
I lock it before he decides to continue.
Then I look at my closet.
Black shirts.
White shirts.
Stanford shirts.
Team-issued quarter-zips.
Three suits.
Two jackets.
Nothing says used-bookstore poetry without also saying I may be summoned to a Nike commercial at any moment.
This is ridiculous.
It’s a date.
I’ve been on dates.
Plenty.
Except most of them weren’t really dates.
Parties that became hookups.
Team dinners where someone brought someone.
Restaurants with women I already knew would come home with me.
Stella and I never got far enough to call anything a date.
Krista would have laughed if I suggested listening to amateur poetry without alcohol involved.
Friday with Hannah feels different before it even happens.
Because I want her to like it.
Not me.
It.
The night.
The place.
The fact that I listened when she said she needed something separate from basketball.
My phone buzzes.
Hannah.
Hannah: I have conditions.
I sit on the edge of the bed.
Me: Naturally.
Hannah: No filming me.
Me: Agreed.
Hannah: No posting.
Me: Agreed.
Hannah: If someone recognizes you, I’m not being introduced as Mystery Girl, Tortoiseshell, Basketball Genius, Bookworm, Footnote, or any other nickname created by you or the internet.
I smile.
Me: Hannah.
Hannah: Hannah.
Me: Anything else?
The typing bubble appears.
Hannah: Don’t make me regret saying yes.
That one wipes the smile away.
Not because I’m offended.
Because I understand what she’s giving me.
A chance.
Not trust.
Not yet.
Something smaller.
More fragile.
I type carefully.
Me: I won’t.
I almost add a joke.
Don’t.
For once, let the sentence stand.
A minute passes.
Then:
Hannah: Also I’m buying my own books.
There she is.
Me: Absolutely not.
Hannah: Kane.
Me: Fine. You can buy your own books.
Hannah: Thank you.
Me: I’m buying the coffee.
Hannah: Negotiable.
Me: Date law.
Hannah: You invented that.
Me: Still law.
She sends the middle-finger emoji.
I lie back across the bed.
Friday is four days away.
Four.
That feels excessive.
By Friday afternoon, I have changed shirts three times.
This is humiliating.
The final choice is dark jeans, boots, and a charcoal sweater that doesn’t have Stanford printed anywhere across it.
No team jacket.
No backward cap.
No visible evidence that basketball has ever occurred.
Eli watches me walk through the living room.
His eyebrows rise.
“You look like you own a vineyard.”
“I’m going to a bookstore.”
“Even worse.”
Noah glances over.
“Where’s the chain?”
“I’m not wearing a chain.”
“The watch?”
I look at my wrist.
Take it off.
Eli starts laughing.
“Oh, you are gone.”
“I’m trying not to look like an athlete.”
“You’re six-three.”
“Useful observation.”
“With shoulders that barely fit through doors.”
“I’ll shrink before seven.”
He gets up and straightens the collar of my sweater.
I slap his hand away.
“Touch me again and lose it.”
“There he is. I was worried romance had changed you.”
I grab my keys.
Noah calls from the couch.
“Have fun.”
Eli adds, “Ask before kissing the librarian.”
I stop at the door.
Look back.
He lifts both hands.
“Growth. I’m supporting growth.”
I leave before I commit a felony.
Bellwether glows at the end of the block when I arrive.