Page 18 of Lost Love on 6th Street

I nearly spit the carbonated water out. It jabs up in the back of my throat, threatens to spill out my nose. I swallow the water down to the best of my ability, grabbing the edge of the table as I do so. The burn remains at the front of my face. “Uh, what?”

“Just checking that you don’t have some ulterior motive for helping me,” Eleanor says calmly.

Well, if my reaction was any indication, I’m probably not selling that I’m not exclusively enjoying her company for the history lesson. “Not a date. Not what I meant.”

“Okay. Good.”

Damn, okay, that settles that. She’s not feeling it. And that’s fine. To be expected honestly. She’s all smart girl and all she sees probably is pretty boy. I’m sure she’d do better with a professor or lawyer or something. I will eliminate this crush as expediently as I can. If I can. “We’re just going for research. Friends. You know. Like today.”

“Like today. Right. That’s why you paid for my meal,” she says. Is that a smirk on her lips?

“I am indiscriminate with my kindness, Eleanor,” I say. “But if you have such a problem with it, you can buy drinks Thursday.”

She tilts her head to the side. “Fine. It’s a deal.”

From the truck, a woman calls out, “Order 58!”

I scramble for the receipt in my pocket, already swinging my legs out from under the picnic table. I confirm the number and get to my feet, grabbing my hat and plopping it on as I go. Can’t risk a burn in the twenty-foot walk from the table to the truck.

When I get to the window, I show the lady my receipt. As she slides the tray toward me, she asks, “You want verde with that?”

“If you don’t mind,” I say with a small nod.

“Give me a second.” She steps out of sight, and I’m left alone with the tray.

I turn back toward the table to give Eleanor a look when she’s hopefully not looking. Just because nothing’s going to happen doesn’t mean I can’t look.

However, I should have known better. Because she’s not just looking at me, she’s got the lens of her camera trained on me. Who knows how many pictures she’s taken already?

I try to smile at the lens but find it impossible to make eye contact with it, dropping my head forward slightly and focusing on a stripe of white on the black asphalt.

When I return with the tray, Eleanor flips her camera around to show me the photo in the viewfinder. “I’m sorry,” she says sheepishly. “I couldn’t resist.”

Sure enough, she caught me right when I was looking back at her, the brim of my hat dipped down, eyes cutting through the space between us like daggers. My throat constricts a bit. To see myself through someone else’s eyes is strange. Not sure I like it. “Photographer’s gotta take her photos, right?” I say, then shove the tray between us.

Eleanor flips the camera back toward her and looks at the screen. A small smile creeps across her face.

My pulse begins to rise.

“I like it. Quintessential Austin. Maybe?” she says with a hopeful gleam in her eye.

I chuckle. “You’re getting it, Nor. Now come on. Eat while it’s hot.”

7

ELEANOR

When Luke parks, I’m not sure we’re in the right place. It’s a relatively quiet street. Mostly warehouses, or warehouses converted into luxury apartments. Not nearly as lively as 6th Street. Luke told me Franklin’s was a little out of the way, but this seems a little too out of the way.

“Uh. Are you sure we’re in the right place?” I ask, peering out the window.

Luke laughs. “I’ve been to Franklin’s a million times. You think I don’t know where it is?”

“It’s just so quiet,” I say.

He unbuckles his seatbelt, pushes his door open, and sticks one long leg outside. “It’s Austin’s music scene’s worst kept secret.”

I sit in the car a few moments longer and scan the street. “Seems like a pretty well-kept secret to me,” I mumble to myself.

---