I watch her through the glass door, this stranger who has challenged me since stepping up to my car, her red braids spilling over her shoulders. She strides to the counter, letting her coat fall loose as she orders. I notice the exposed ivory skin of her neck, and wonder if it sports the same freckles that fall across her nose and cheeks.
I shift in my seat, forcing my thoughts from her possibly freckled, possibly not freckled neck. Grandma Reed. My third-grade teacher. My niece quizzing me on her thorough knowledge of Harry Potter. Exhale. Good. Crisis averted. For safe measure, I close my eyes, but my mind starts to recreate her image.
Tap. Tap.
I jump to find her standing outside my window. I try to open it, forgetting I turned the car off, forgetting pretty much everything except what this girl is doing to me in the space of several minutes.
My hand fumbles with the key until the car is in accessory mode, the window finally obeying.
She reads the side of the to-go cup, confirming my order.
“Double cappuccino,” she says with confidence, handing the drink to me.
“Thanks,” I say, transfixed by her eyes, more hazel now than green. Fucking hell.
“I got you this, too.” She raises her other hand, a plastic bag full of ice dangling from her fist. “Alternate temperatures. After about ten minutes of this, switch to a warm compress.”
She hands me the bag.
“Are you pre-med or something?” I ask.
Her head shakes in response. “I’ve got…friends in the medical field. They’ve taught me some tricks of the trade.”
“Where’s your drink?” I ask.
Pippi looks over her shoulder into the shop and waves before turning back to me. “Inside.”
“Oh.” I nod. “Do I at least get your name before I leave?”
She shakes her head and then motions at my face. “You’ve got stuff to deal with, Fancy Pants,” she says, backing away.
“It’s Griffin.” I groan, defeated, the rejection both new and familiar, and I’m compelled to keep her at my window for as long as possible. “Will I see you again, Pippi?” I ask, and she smiles, her gaze knowing.
“Probably not,” she teases, and something in my gut sinks. Then she reaches into her bag and retrieves the camera, snapping my picture once again without warning. “But I’ll remember you, Fancy—”
“Griffin,” I interrupt her.
“Griffin,” she says, but the smile fades, and I hear a tinge of regret in her voice.
“Wait,” I call, her back to me now as she makes her way to the door. She doesn’t turn, though, but walks into the shop, blending into the Saturday morning crowd.
I’ll remember you, too.
Chapter Two
Maggie
I duck inside the coffeehouse, weaving my way to the back room. My shift started ten minutes ago, so I don’t bother to punch in. Instead I toss my shit onto the table, find a Sharpie in my bag, and fill in the white space underneath the photo.
Griffin/Fancy Pants
“How ya doing, Mags? And who’s your ride?” There it is, the smooth, familiar voice of comfort.
I spin and thrust the photo at him.
“Who messed up his pretty face? Wait, is he for me?” Miles asks, and I snatch the picture back. “And it’s not even my birthday.”
I groan. “So it’s still boys this week? I can’t keep up because you asked the same thing when I showed you my lab partner’s picture at the beginning of the semester.”
“Uh-oh.” Miles grimaces. “Addison. Uh. How is she?”
I backhand him on the arm with Griffin’s Polaroid. “She’s been a shitty lab partner since you stopped calling her back. That’s how she is.”
Miles bats his thick black lashes apologetically, and I kiss him on the cheek.
“Sweetie,” I say, “I love you, but stay off my home turf, okay? After all I missed last year and being forced to take a part-time schedule this year, I can’t afford to fuck up, which means you have to stop fucking my lab partners.”
He winces, but doesn’t argue.
“That means damaged J. Crew is off-limits, huh?”
I give my throat a dramatic clearing. “What about Andrew?” I ask.
Miles sighs. “We’re just having fun. Doesn’t mean I can’t look at pretty things.”
I roll my eyes.
“Oh, by the way, your gran called. She said she tried your cell, but you didn’t answer. You know better than to make that sweet woman worry.” He reaches into my coat pocket and finds my name tag, then waves it in front of the time clock. “It won’t lock you out until quarter after, remember?”
I groan. “Actually, Miles, no. I don’t remember.”
“Mags…” His voice softens.
“Don’t,” I say.
I pull my cell from my bag, and there it is, the missed call and voicemail notification from Gram. Shit. I never miss her scheduled check-ins.
“My phone and I haven’t been getting along this morning.” I smile, my attempt at levity. “I must not have heard it while I was chasing a bus down the street or trying my hand at hitchhiking. I’ll call her back in a minute.”