Summer of Supernovas (16 page)

I make a mad dash to the cover of the awning. The striped cotton dress sticks to my skin; my hair hangs damp and drooping. Balancing my bag, the goodies, and our coffees, I hook a free finger in the door handle, relieved to find it unlocked.

“Hello?” My voice echoes down the tunnel entry, rubber boots squeaking loudly. “Helloooo?” The magic of Absinthe has totally transformed. Without the music and fairies and mysterious green lights, it seems so…
ordinary.
“Is anyone he—”

“Wil?” Grant appears at the end of the hall, pencil tucked behind one ear and a stack of file folders in his arms. “What…what are you doing here?”

I trip over my own feet and nearly dump the coffees.

“Whoa!” He tosses the folders on a nearby table and rushes over. “Why don’t I handle the precious cargo, okay?”

Bewildered, I stare through my rain-splattered lenses. “The, uh, front door was unlocked. Isn’t…is Seth here?” The question edges on desperate. But I am desperate. I have to state my intentions and Grant was
not
part of the morning’s equation.

Thunder rumbles. That’s the universe belly-laughing at my expense.

“He was on the schedule, but—shocker—he overslept. Packed up and headed straight to Lannister.” He checks his watch. “He’s been on the road a couple of hours now. Probably about halfway there.”

I numbly follow Grant past the hodgepodge of chairs and couches, and over to the bar, where he sets the coffee carrier down. He holds out a towel he’s taken from behind the counter. “You look a little soggy. Did he say he’d meet you here or something?”

Great. I’m drenched
and
my mission is a giant fail. I set the pastry box on a stool and take the towel. “Thanks. No.” I frown, patting myself dry. “I was going to surprise him.”

“Oh. Then sorry to break it to you but your trip’s a bust—just me here.” Grant brushes the dust from his flannel shirt before pushing up a sleeve. Once again I find myself wanting to decode the musical tattoo. “So, what’s in the box, or is it for Seth’s eyes only?”

“The box?” I stare at the cube like geometry is the most intriguing thing on the planet. “Uh, cinnamon rolls. Gram had some extras from a batch she made this morning.”

“She’s better, then?”

“Yep. Fit as a fiddle, according to her.”

“That’s great.” Grant’s eyes continue to devour the package.

“Did you want one?”

He wipes his chin. “My drool give me away?”

I chuckle. The tension in my shoulders softens, because Grant has the uncanny ability to put me in a tranquil state of nervousness. “Only a little. Well, the drool, and the fact that you were undressing the pastry box with your eyes.”

“I skipped breakfast and surpassed starving about an hour ago. Seriously, I think my stomach has started eating itself.” He settles himself up on a barstool. But my galoshes remain hammered to the floor. Why can’t I move? “Wil, I won’t bite. Unless you morph into a cinnamon roll, then no guarantees.”

He takes one of the coffees. I envy his steady hand and repartee. It’s the sort of easiness that comes from not liking someone
that way.

And as Grant continues his effortless chatter, I begin to wonder if he’s developed amnesia in the last ten hours, or if somehow his attraction to me has withered and died overnight.

Which is for the best—a bullet dodged, actually. My Fifth House is complicated enough—what with the planet Uranus giving rise to sudden infatuations that tend to fizzle out as abruptly as they start.

Yeah. I bet that’s
all
this was, a silly little infatuation—because of what—a dance? A ride home? A stupid key?

“So, not to come off as a complete ingrate, but are these froufrou? I know Seth likes those macchiato mocha somethings.”

Get over yourself, Wil.
My mind continues reeling over its own idiocy.

I blow out a breath and scooch onto the stool beside him. “Nope. They’re black, but I grabbed cream and sugar just in case.”

After a hearty slug of coffee, Grant rests his arms on the counter, leaning closer as I open the pastry box. “Between you and me, I’m gonna feel no remorse over eating Seth’s cinnamon roll. None.” He grins when I pass him a fork wrapped in a napkin. “Is there anything you haven’t thought of, Carlisle?”

I catch his gaze and quickly look away.
Uh-huh. How to be alone with you and not think things that will make me feel guilty later.
But I can’t say that. Obviously.

I shake my head, dispersing the unwelcome thoughts. “Consider it payment for taxi services rendered.”

He sticks a fork in the warm roll and takes a bite. “Man, these are…holy…
unbelievable.
”

I break off a chunk and swirl it in a pool of icing. “Oh, I know. Some things are worth a four-figure caloric intake.”

He swallows, his eyes rolling back to a neutral position. “Please tell me you’re not actually counting. Because you don’t have to worry about any of that bullsh—”

“Mmm, mmm, definitely not.” I finish chewing. “And even if I were calorie-obsessed, I’d never be a twig. Which is fine.” I add, “I’d rather be happy. And this”—I point my fork at the ooey-gooey roll—“is pure deliciousness.”

Grant is sucking icing off the side of his thumb. I forget to blink or breathe or do any of those other supposedly involuntary actions.

He wipes his mouth on a napkin. And then says something I think I’ll remember for all of eternity. “Wil, you’re way better than twigs.”

The morning downpour lessens to a light pitter-patter. I’ve lingered at Absinthe too long. Hanging out with Grant has just been so fun that I’ve lost track of the time.

When I return from the restroom, I’m struck by an irresistible melody drifting from the back of the club. And there’s Grant plucking away at his guitar, long legs dangling over the side of the raised stage. A single light forms a diffused circle that cuts one side of his body, leaving the other in shadow.

His eyes lift from the guitar. Entering a room undetected in rubber boots is an impossible feat. It’s as bad as trying to sneak up on someone in snow pants.

“Um, sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just about to head out.” But the music continues to lure me with its vibrational pull. I find myself squeaking my way closer. “That’s my favorite Beatles song. You play it so well.”

“Yeah?” There’s a flash of his slightly crooked front teeth. My stomach flips like a coin. “ ‘Blackbird’ is the first
real
song I learned—not counting ‘Hot Cross Bells’ or ‘Jingle Buns.’ Er…” I giggle and he smiles. “You know what I mean. Anyway, I locked myself in my bedroom when I was twelve. Played it over and over until I could get through without messing up.” His hand hovers at the strings. “Do you play?”

“Guitar? No. I’m afraid my fingers aren’t that coordinated.”

“Another instrument?”

“In sixth grade I played a mean recorder. Got a solo part and everything.”

Grant snorts and scrubs a hand back and forth through his hair. “You’re aware that’s a half step above the tambourine.”

I place my hands on my hips. “All right, I’ll see you one recorder, and raise you two years of choir in junior high.” I drop my hands. “Which, now that I mention it, is the extent of my short-lived music career.”

“Well, voice we can work with.” He slaps a hand on the floor next to him. Dust motes dance like flecks of fine glitter beneath the spotlight. “Come on up.”

I eye the raised stage, trying to decide the best method for getting up without looking like one of those sea lions I once saw on Pier 39 in San Francisco. Thank God for the stairs I notice to my right.

Once I’ve settled down beside him, I smooth my dress over my legs. “Okay, maestro, now what?”

He resumes his strumming. “Now we sing. You know the lyrics to ‘Blackbird,’ don’t you?”

“Sing? As in…right now?”

“Unless you have a rule against singing on Saturdays?” Grant asks with an amused twist of his mouth.

“No, it’s just I might have a strong aptitude for sucking.” I push back one of my limp waves. “What if I make your ears bleed?”

“My ears won’t bleed. And you won’t suck,” he assures me.

But I’m not nearly as certain. My throat feels packed with wood shavings that absorb all moisture. “Can I…” I point to his water bottle, which he passes over. I take several generous gulps.

However, I reason if I can sing for the Crotch—Mrs. Crotchler, my evil junior high choir teacher—I can sing for Grant. Because no one could be more heinous than the Crotch.

He counts off, tapping the guitar—
thump, thump, thump.
The melody follows and the sureness of his fingers captivates me once more. The way they slide up and down the neck of the guitar and don’t get lost along the way. Mine would. My fingers would trip all over each other.

He nods his head, indicating the start of the duet.

And we sing. Grant’s voice is magnificent, like a boy version of the fabled sirens. I would totally splinter my boat against rocks just to follow that sound.

“Louder, Wil.”

Oh but I’d rather not. I’d rather close my eyes and let this quiet song and his smooth and gentle voice wash over me. The occasional squeak of the guitar strings lulls me, too. And so, because I want to capture it, I have to close my eyes, and hope the lyrics find their way past my lips.

Our voices overlap in pleasant harmony. Just as he made me seem a better dancer, I think he’s gone and done it again with his singing.

And when the song ends, I savor the last chord before opening my eyes.

Grant’s staring at me. He smirks. “Yeah, you suck.”

I shove his arm. “And
you
just talked yourself out of future cinnamon rolls, my friend.”

“I’m kidding!” He laughs. “That was great—no joke. You’ve got an awesome voice.”

“Thanks. Even if you’re only saying it to make me feel better.”

“I mean it, Wil.” He glances down at the guitar. “Hey, uh, I could teach you to play…if you want. Seems a shame to appreciate music the way you do and not play something.”

Did I say yes? I must’ve, because he pushes the guitar with unbridled enthusiasm into my lap. The instrument is warm against my stomach and thighs.

“Check you out, you’re a natural,” he says, beaming. “Okay, but you want to hold it like…” He springs to his feet, crouching behind me. His arms cage either side of me. “Here, like this. Bring your elbow down. Good. Now relax your grip.
Relax, Wil,
” he murmurs at my ear. His upper body brushes against my back as he arranges me in the right position.

Relax?
He’s lucky I haven’t splintered the poor guitar. I feel every place Grant is near, whether he touches me or not. I want to lean back and melt into him. And my heart doesn’t thump; it makes sonic booms. His voice is close at my ear as he guides my hands into position.

“Let your hands get used to the feel of the instrument. Don’t worry about how it sounds. Just play around with it. See how the tension varies in the strings?” Grant carries on with his impromptu lesson, gushing about sound holes and bridges and headstorks. Er,
headstocks.

Meanwhile, goose bumps have declared a Million Man March across my skin. And I’m freaked he’ll know. He’ll know
he’s
the reason—him and his damn Pisces allure! I need to strengthen my defenses. Ignore the way he smells. The way he speaks. Focus only on the acoustic guitar. See? I’m paying attention; I know what kind of guitar it is.

“Like this?” I ask. The instrument
plink-plonk
s with none of the audible beauty it had in Grant’s skilled hands.

“Yep, that’s it.” His words blister my shoulder. Does he
have
to do that? Be all…all blistery?!

I bristle, and zero in on the feel of the strings. How the thicker ones are rougher, and the thin ones slip more easily past my fingers. But…it’s not working. Not with Grant wrapped around me like night on a star. Just when I’m about to run like a screaming nut job off the stage, my cell rings.

There is a God in heaven! Thank you!

I release the breath I’ve held hostage. “I should get that,” I say, shoving the guitar to his lap and rocketing to my feet.

“Could be Seth,” Grant says with a hint of annoyance before turning away.

I retrieve my phone from my bag, near the stairs. “Nope, it’s Gram. Hello?”

Grant busies himself packing up the guitar.

“No. No, I can be there. Half hour.” My pause is immediately followed by my grandmother’s breathless run-on stream of hysteria. “Gram, calm down. We’ll get it done.
We will.
Okay, bye.”

“Everything all right?”

“Well, it’s not a health crisis, just a baking one. Sisters of Society put in a last-minute order for twelve dozen cupcakes for an event tomorrow. Gram’s been trying to slowly cut back on the workload, but the money’s good, so we can’t really refuse—”

“A hundred forty-four cupcakes, huh? We better get rolling.” He jumps down from the stage.

“We?”

“Sounds like a perfect time to call in one of your favors from the Cricket win, Songbird.” Grant holds out a callused hand.

I take it in mine, making the four-foot leap to the floor. “Um, that’s a pretty huge favor. I wasn’t aware you baked.” And Songbird? Is he giving me a nickname?