“You wouldn’t have,” I say. “Everything at Sheets is run by algorithms. Probably even the coffee machine. The most recent articles stay at the top, and after that, everything’s organized by popularity. My sourdough article wasn’t popular. Turns out people who read dating blogs aren’t interested in torrid romances with wild yeast.”
He lifts his brows. “You don’t strike me as someone who would be either.”
“I’d disagree with you, but I did throw him in the trash so I could come here.”
He’s smiling again, slightly, but he presses. “And if your boss did fire you, why are you still listed on the company website? Why is your work email still operational?”
I take a sip of tea before answering. “Because Constance isn’t the kind of person who likes admitting she’s wrong about someone. She went to bat for me a few months ago, so she was probably embarrassed she had to let me go.”
I feel a pang of remorse. Did I screw her over by leaving? No, she fired me. But I’m feeling weirdly emotional. Being here, in Asheville, has opened floodgates long since closed.
“Fine,” he says, accepting my explanation, “if you don’t work there anymore, why are you harassing me and my friends? Harry was a mess when he called me last night.”
Well, shit. I didn’t mean to upset him. I like Harry.
“I’m sorry for that.” If there were sugar packets here, I’d tear into one of them, just for something to do with my hands, but Dottie isn’t the type to create waste unnecessarily, and there’s a little sugar pot shaped like a black cat. So I settle for stirring my mug with gusto, watching those tea leaves go round and round as if spelling out my fate again and again.
Cal’s hand lands on mine, stopping my anxious stirring. It’s the first time he’s touched me since our handshake yesterday, and the heat and solidity of him zip through me, settling down low. It’s such a simple touch—gentle but sure—and yet it makes me want so much more.
Foolish girl.
I look up at him, and his eyes are slightly dilated. He pulls his hand away as if burned, and my hand feels strangely cold without it. Like I haven’t been sipping hot tea in the middle of summer. His eyes don’t leave me, though, and the intensity of his look—the questions and yearning I see there—makes me feel as if he’s undressed me for his perusal. That thought shudders through me, and I realize his gaze has changed.
He’s reminding me that I haven’t answered him. Here it is, the moment of truth. I could lie and say I’m writing a fluff piece as a last-ditch attempt to mend fences with Constance. Or I could tell him the truth, which he’ll learn soon enough anyway, and see how he takes it. And, God help me, I don’t want to lie to this man. There are plenty of other things I’d like to do to him, but not that.
“The real reason I left my job is—”
But I’m interrupted when our waitress rushes to our table with a teacup.
“This is for you,” she says, shoving it at Cal so forcefully the liquid sloshes over the brim and lands on his hand. His slight flinch says it all—it hurts like hell.
“I asked for iced tea,” he says, eyeing the steaming cup.
“This is much better,” she replies. “You can get iced tea anywhere. But we’re the only place in town that sells Immortal Nectar.”
He opens his mouth as if to say something, but nothing comes out.
Then, to his obvious shock, and my surprise and amusement, she lowers into the chair next to him.
It’s obvious Cal’s not sure what to do, and the look on his face is so disconcerted, I laugh out loud.
The waitress, Josie, laughs with me before sputtering out, “What are we laughing about?”
I can’t very well say you, so I just shrug.
“I’m going to do a crystal reading for you,” she announces, which explains why she’s joined us, at least.
Cal’s already shaking his head, but Josie scowls at him. “Dottie said you get it for free. You’re not one of those disrespectful out-of-towners, are you?”
“I’ve lived in western North Carolina my entire life,” he says. “Grew up in Barnardsville and moved to Asheville when I was nine. How about you?”
“I’ve been here for five years,” she says, “but my soul has always been in Asheville. That counts.”
“Hopefully, you didn’t have to pay double rent,” I say, throwing a grin at Cal.
“Oh, no,” Josie says, “voyages of the soul are free.”
“Just not crystal readings,” Cal says.
“Except for this one,” I add, giving him a look that dares him to walk away. I nod to his phone. Four minutes left. He stays put.
Josie starts sorting through the crystals in the vase, which are apparently less a substitute flower arrangement and more a tool.
Tsking, she sets aside a purple crystal, then picks up one with a slightly pink tint. It’s a complex mess of fissures and clearer bits, and I have to admit, I’m drawn to it.
“I’ll do you first,” she says to me. Holding the crystal up to her eye, she peers at me through it, as if it’s one half of a wonky pair of glasses.
“You look pink,” she says.
That can’t be her reading, can it? I mean, at least she didn’t tell me I was going to spontaneously combust or get a zit the size of Mount Everest.
“I see love and happiness in your future,” Josie says, her voice a touch surprised. “And old people. Lots of old people.” A frown creases her brow. “Are you one of those women who are into May-December romances?”
“Well, I haven’t written about one before,” I say with a wink at Cal. “Maybe it’s time to give it a try.” Because he knows, like I do, that if his pet theory were correct, I’d be pursuing a “date” with his father next. I mean, that alone should have told him he was being ridiculous.
“Can we move along?” Cal says. He’s clearly annoyed with me, but he doesn’t seem troubled by the whole crystal thing. After all, he’s just seen that it’s a crock.
Muttering to herself, Josie cycles through four crystals, holding them up one at a time, before settling on a large clear one. Clucking her tongue in satisfaction, she holds it up to her eye like she did with the last one, only she keeps inching closer to Cal, until she’s practically on top of him. He looks desperately uncomfortable, and I’m torn between being amused and feeling a little twinge of jealousy that I’m not the one practically in his lap. Those jeans are the perfect degree of rugged, nothing like the “mountain man” I went on a date with—a real date, unfortunately—six months ago, who turned out to be a late adopter of the lumberjack fashion trend. The closest he’d made it to a real mountain was Space Mountain.
Peering at Cal through the crystal, her face much too close, Josie says, “Your past haunts you. That thing you did…you can’t forget it, and you won’t until you forgive yourself.”
Cal actually reels back at that, his expression closing down completely, but it takes me a moment to notice because her words have bitten into me too.
My mind flashes back to the day before my parents’ accident. The rhododendron flowers brushed my cheeks as I watched something unthinkable. I’ve never liked the plant since, no matter how beautiful.