Page 37 of Take Two

“The purpose of those,” I say, pointing at them with open skepticism, “is convincing yourself you’re invisible.”

His mouth twitches. “I’ve made it this far without being recognized.”

“You’ve made it this far without being recognized because nobody is paying attention yet.” I point out. “That can change in an instant.” I snap my fingers for emphasis, watching his expression flicker.

“It works, at least for now,” he grumbles, and I find myself wondering if I’m not the first person to raise this point. There is something slightly resigned about the way he says it, like a man who knows the argument but has decided to lose it gracefully.

“Okay, Clark Kent.” I wink, and the corner of his mouth lifts as we weave further into the afternoon crowd.

Pike Place Market is busier than usual, it happens when the sun suddenly graces us all with its presence. Families move shoulder to shoulder between vendor stalls overflowing with flowers and fresh produce. Somebody walks past carrying a paper tray piled so impossibly high with fish and chips that I genuinely have no idea how they’re keeping hold of it. The smell follows them for several feet before dissolving into the constant layered mix of salt air, freshly ground coffee, fried food, and something oceanic underneath all of it.

A gull lands on a nearby railing and immediately begins eyeing an unsuspecting tourist’s lunch with what I can only describe as criminal intent.

Cyaire watches the bird for a moment, head tilting slightly. “That’s a bird with a plan.”

“Yep,” I reply, already watching the situation develop.

A second gull lands next to the first, positioning itself with obvious purpose.

“Does Seattle have organized gang activity among seagulls?” Cyaire asks, as a third bird appears from nowhere and joins the formation. The tourist has absolutely no idea what is coming.

“We don’t talk about it publicly,” I say, leaning in to whisper.

His laugh is relaxed and easy, right up until the moment the first bird launches itself directly at the tourist. The woman shrieks in genuine alarm, both arms going up instinctively, her food launching into the air in a spectacular arc. The gulls are on it before it even hits the ground, ascending in a chaotic flurry of wings while the woman stands completely still, staring at the space where her food used to be, appearing to be in a state of genuine shock.

Cyaire and I hurry past as her friends rush over to help her process the tragedy. The food is long gone. There is no recovering from that.

A few steps behind us, Cameron follows at an easy, unhurried pace with his hands tucked into the pockets of a dark jacket. To anyone passing by, he probably reads as another tourist enjoying a slow afternoon in the market. The difference is that tourists are not constantly reading sightlines, cataloguing exits, and tracking the movement of people around them. He does all three simultaneously and makes it look like nothing at all.

His eyes meet mine briefly as we pass the mayhem, and I look away immediately, nudging Cyaire forward with my hand resting briefly against his back.

Cameron looks amused. He knows exactly what he’s looking at. Unfortunately for me, he’s not wrong, and we both know it. Yes, I am touching him. Deal with it.

“How often do you come down here?” Cyaire asks as we pass a flower stand bursting with brilliant summer color. The vendor is arranging sunflowers into tall metal buckets while a couple nearby debates over whether they need one bouquet or three.

“Whenever I get the chance.” I step aside to let a young family squeeze past us before continuing toward the waterfront overlook. “When I first got traded here, I came almost every weekend. The market felt different from New York.”

Cyaire falls into step beside me, close enough that our shoulders nearly brush. “Different how?”

I lean against the railing overlooking Elliott Bay for a moment before answering. The water stretches out beneath a sky shifting toward gold as the afternoon deepens. Ferries move in steady lines across the open water in the distance, and sailboats drift closer to shore, their white sails catching the light.

“New York feels like it’s always trying to get somewhere,” I say finally. “Seattle already knows where it is.”

He considers that quietly, the breeze pushing at the loose edge of his hoodie while he looks out at the water.

“That’s actually a pretty good description,” he replies, something softer in his voice now. “Genuinely.”

I glance sideways at him. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He turns to meet my eyes. “You have a way with words, Jamie.”

My name, delivered like it belongs in his vocabulary. Something warm moves through my chest before I can stop it. I laugh and push away from the railing.

“Really?” I hear myself say again, which is embarrassing.

His eyebrows lift. “There it is. That thing you do.” His expression grows pleasantly suspicious as he narrows his eyes in my direction.

“You’re going to have to be more specific.” I shove my hands into my pockets in place of the far more inconvenient impulse to reach over and pull him closer.