Chapter 17 #2
Warm yellow light fills the windows. Someone has dragged extra chairs between the shelves for the open mic. The orange cat from earlier sleeps beside a stack of mystery novels like it owns the building.
I’m early.
Twelve minutes.
I order coffee anyway.
Then change my mind and wait.
If she wants coffee, we’ll order together.
Seven arrives.
No Hannah.
Seven-oh-two.
Still nothing.
At seven-oh-four, I refuse to check my phone again.
At seven-oh-five, I check it.
No message.
Maybe she changed her mind.
She’s allowed.
That’s the whole point.
The thought still sucks.
The front bell jingles.
I look up.
Hannah steps inside.
Hair down.
Dark coat belted at her waist.
Jeans tucked into brown boots.
Tortoiseshell glasses.
No hiding beneath an oversized sweatshirt tonight.
She spots me.
Stops.
For half a second, neither of us moves.
Then her gaze travels over the sweater.
The jeans.
My empty hands.
A small smile appears.
“You look suspiciously normal.”
Relief hits so hard I nearly laugh.
I walk toward her.
“You’re late.”
“Five minutes.”
“I noticed.”
“That sounds unhealthy.”
“You came.”
“I said I would.”
She removes her coat.
Underneath is a soft green sweater that makes her eyes look darker behind the glasses.
My attention drops.
Comes back up.
Hannah catches it.
“Try to behave.”
“No promises.”
Her eyebrows rise.
I amend it.
“Fine. One promise.”
“What?”
I look toward the bookstore.
The mismatched chairs.
The coffee bar.
The shelves climbing toward the ceiling.
Then back at her.
“Tonight has nothing to do with basketball.”
Something in her face softens.
Not all the way.
Enough.
“Okay,” she says.
I hold out my hand.
Not touching.
Offering.
Hannah looks at it.
Then at me.
And places her fingers in mine.
“Okay.”
For the first time since I met her, I don’t feel like I’m chasing Hannah Goodwin.
She came to me.
* * *
Chapter 17
Kane
The first guy reads a poem about his ex-girlfriend’s sourdough starter.
I spend the first thirty seconds trying to figure out whether it’s a metaphor.
It isn’t.
Apparently, she took the starter when they broke up.
He misses it more than her.
Beside me, Hannah presses her lips together.
I lean closer.
“Is this normal?”
Her shoulders shake.
“Shh.”
“He just said she stole his fermented child.”
That does it.
A laugh bursts out of her.
She clamps one hand over her mouth while the guy onstage continues describing something called feeding day with the emotional gravity of a funeral.
People around us laugh too.
Not at him.
With him.
The whole place feels different from anywhere I usually spend a Friday night.
Bellwether Books is narrow enough that the audience spills between shelves. Folding chairs face a tiny platform tucked beside the coffee counter. String lights crisscross the old tin ceiling. Somebody has shoved handwritten STAFF PICKS cards beneath half the books in the room.
Nobody matches.
A girl in combat boots and a yellow sundress sits beside a guy wearing a tweed jacket with ripped jeans. Two graduate students share a muffin behind us. A woman with blue hair sketches performers in a notebook. An older man sits near the front with a tiny dog asleep inside his coat.
No one is dressed to be photographed.
No one has spent the evening scanning the door to see who matters.
And nobody seems particularly interested in me.
One guy recognized me when we came in.
He lifted his coffee.
“Nice game Tuesday.”
“Thanks.”
Then he went back to discussing a Russian novel with the woman beside him.
That was it.
No phone.
No picture.
No sudden interest in Hannah.
Nothing.
I could get used to this.
The sourdough poet bows dramatically.
Applause fills the room.
Hannah claps hard.
“You liked that?”
“It was funny.”
“He compared a jar of yeast to shared custody.”
“That was the best part.”
“I thought the best part was when he called Kevin a resilient little bastard.”
She turns toward me.
“Kevin is the starter.”
“I gathered that.”
“You asked whether it was a metaphor.”
“I had hope.”
Her smile widens.
I stop paying attention to the stage.
I’ve seen Hannah laugh before.
Quick bursts when I catch her off guard.
Dry little smiles when she thinks she won an argument.
This is different.
Her hair is down tonight, thick and dark against the green sweater she wore beneath her coat. Every time she laughs, she tips her face slightly downward like she still isn’t used to letting the sound escape without controlling it.
The next performer walks onto the platform.
Hannah glances toward me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m sitting.”
“You can do both.”
“I’m talented.”
Her cheeks turn faintly pink.
Interesting.
I stretch one arm along the back of her chair.
Not around her.
Close.
My fingertips rest a few inches from her shoulder.
Hannah notices.
Her eyes flick toward my arm.
Then back to the stage.
She doesn’t move away.
Better.
The next performer is a woman in her twenties carrying a battered acoustic guitar covered in stickers.
She sits on a stool.
“This is about my mother,” she says. “She died last year, and I found nineteen saved voicemails from her that I never deleted because I’m apparently incapable of managing my inbox like an adult.”
The room changes.
No one laughs.
The woman looks down at her guitar.
“I used pieces of them in the song.”
Hannah goes still beside me.
The first chords are simple.
Nothing flashy.
Then a woman’s recorded voice comes softly through the speaker.
Call me when you get home.
The singer answers it with music.
Another voicemail.
Don’t forget your coat.
A lyric about being twenty-three and still wanting someone to remind you that rain exists.
Another recording.
Love you, kiddo.
Hannah stops breathing for half a second.
I look at her.
Her eyes shine behind the tortoiseshell frames.
She blinks quickly.
Once.
Twice.
Then swipes one finger beneath her left eye.
She thinks I don’t notice.
I get up.
Her head turns.
“Where are you going?”
I point toward the coffee counter and keep moving.
There’s a stack of brown napkins beside the sugar.
I take several.
Then grab two more because apparently crying requires planning.
When I return, I don’t say anything.
I place them on her knee.
Hannah looks down.
Then up at me.
“I’m not crying.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
“My contact is irritated.”
“You’re wearing glasses.”
She presses her lips together.
I face the stage.
“Could be a very emotional astigmatism.”
She elbows me.
Softly.
One napkin disappears into her hand.
I pretend not to notice.
The singer reaches the final chorus.
Hannah watches every second.
I watch Hannah.
The way her mouth softens when something reaches her.
The way she presses the napkin beneath one lens.
The way she smiles through it when the singer’s mother leaves one final voicemail telling her to stop buying expensive coffee when she owns a coffee maker.
The room laughs gently.
Hannah does too.
Wet-eyed.
Beautiful.
Something settles inside my chest.
Not heat.
Not the sharp, restless pull that makes me want to kiss her.
This is slower.
Warmer.
Contentment.
I don’t remember the last time I sat somewhere without thinking about what came next.
Practice.
Film.
Draft boards.
Scouts.
Another game.
Another opportunity I could lose if I stopped paying attention for five minutes.
Right now, I don’t care what happens tomorrow.
Hannah is beside me.
She’s happy.
I’m here to see it.
That is enough.
Her head turns.
She catches me looking again.
This time, I don’t glance away.
Her cheeks darken.
“The performer is over there.”
“I know.”
“You’ve missed half the song.”
“I heard enough.”
“Then why are you looking at me?”
I consider giving her something smart.
Don’t.
“Because I like looking at you.”
Her lips part.
There.
No defensive answer ready.
A strand of hair has fallen across her cheek.
I lift my hand slowly enough that she can stop me.
She doesn’t.
I brush it back with my fingers.
Her skin is warm.
My knuckles graze the curve beneath her cheekbone before I tuck the strand behind her ear.
Hannah’s breath catches.
Mine almost does too.
I leave my hand there for one beat.
Then return it to the back of her chair.
She faces the stage again.
The corner of her mouth lifts.
I definitely miss the rest of the song.
Two hours later, people begin folding chairs.
The orange cat has moved onto the platform and appears offended that humans occupied it all evening.
Hannah bought three books.
She insisted on paying.
I managed to buy her coffee without triggering an international incident, so I’m calling the night successful.
I take her coat from the back of the chair and hold it open.
She looks at me.
“What?”
“Put your coat on.”
“I know how coats work.”
“Then this should go smoothly.”
She slides her arms through.
I settle it over her shoulders.
Hannah glances back.
“You’ve opened every door tonight.”
“My parents raised me correctly.”
“You also pulled out my chair.”
“It was blocking you.”
“And carried my books.”
“You bought three.”
“They aren’t heavy.”
“I know.”
That stops her.
The same thing she said to me when I carried her equipment bag.
I can do it.
I know.
There’s a difference.
Her expression softens.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Outside, the street is quiet.
Cool air moves between the buildings.
I open the passenger door of my truck.
Hannah stops beside it.
“There it is again.”
“What?”
“The door thing.”
“You want me to shut it?”
“No.”
She climbs inside.
I close it.
By the time I circle the truck, she’s smiling to herself.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re terrible at nothing.”
“I’m observing.”
“That usually ends badly for me.”
She buckles her seat belt.
“Where are we going?”
That is an excellent question.
I start the engine.
I’d planned dinner after the open mic.
Then we split a grilled cheese and some kind of rosemary flatbread Bellwether served between performers.
A bar feels wrong.
A party feels worse.
Taking her back to Briar ends the night too early.
I pull away from the curb.
Hannah notices we’re heading away from campus.
“Should I be concerned?”
“Probably.”
“Kane.”
“I’m thinking.”
“You’re driving while thinking. Historically dangerous combination.”