Page 67 of Under the Weatherman
“Where are you off to so early?” he asked as I savored the perfectly crisp bacon.
“The library,” I said with a secret smile. “With Elizabeth.”
He nodded, frowning appreciatively. “Does that mean you’re over your grudge?”
Was I? “I’m trying to let it go.”
“You always did tend to shoot first, ask questions later.” He wrapped his hands around his coffee mug and leaned forward. “Some trouble is worth it, though.”
Spoken like a heedless fool in love.
As soon as I finished eating and dressing, I threw on a faded University of Virginia sweatshirt, grabbed my backpack, then walked the quarter mile or so toward our agreed-upon meeting place.
There was a bit of cloud cover, but I knew not to expect any precipitation this morning. By ten, it would be blue skies, though chilly, typical for November. The temperatures would drop steadily until this weekend when it might get near freezing, at least overnight. We might even see snow. Unlikely, but possible.
At the corner of Main Street, where there used to be a statue of Lewis and Clark, I waited for Elizabeth to catch up. A hotel had replaced the cool old bookstore. This entire stretch of road from the Downtown Mall to the university had been gentrified little by little. Some run-down buildings and vacant lots remained, but not much else. The tattoo place. The Baptist church.
When I turned to face the other direction, I spied Elizabeth hurrying through the crosswalk, carrying two paper coffee cups. She raised one in greeting as she raced to meet me, a little out of breath. “Sorry, I thought you might want some caffeine.” After handing me a cup, she reached into her pocket and produced some packets of sugar and creamer. “I didn’t know how you take it.”
I coughed a laugh at the innuendo. “Well, I’d like to say I’m pretty easy, but we both know that’s a lie.”
As I dumped in both the sugars and one of the creams, her face twisted in disgust. “You must love coffee ice cream.”
I tossed the trash into a nearby receptacle and replaced the lid. “In fact, it’s my favorite.”
“No way.” She shook her head. “You learn something new every day.”
“Well, what’s yours?”
“You seriously don’t know?” She sipped her coffee.
My mind drifted back to our fake date, sitting in the coffee shop late at night, just talking, so nice and familiar. Warm. “Chocolate mint, right?”
“That’s the one.”
“And how do you drink your coffee? I should probably know this about you.”
She held up her cup. “Steamed milk and nothing else. As God intended.”
“And on the seventh day, God created the espresso machine?”
She cracked a smile, and damn she looked so cute, I wanted to lean in and kiss her. “Alongside chenille throw blankets and chocolate croissants.”
“Cozy.”
“My middle name.”
It really was. There was something about her that reminded me of a ski lodge or a cabin at Christmastime. At work, she’d been dressed professionally, heels, skirts, hair twisted in a messy bun. In other words, sexy as sin. But dressed down in jeans and a soft sweater, she was the quintessential girl next door. Her aura exuded comfort, safety—trust. “Funny. What do you think mine is?”
“Your middle name?” She scrunched her mouth, eyes rolled heavenward. “Hmm. Disco ball.”
Her answer took me so off guard, I burst out laughing. “What? Why?”
“Cause you’re all sparkly on the outside.” She fanned her free hand like she was painting me a picture. “But prismatic. You have a lot of facets, Evan Disco Ball Spurlock.”
We started walking, me blowing on my own coffee before attempting to take a sip. “Did Chelsea make this?”
“Yup.”
