Page 28 of Lost Love on 6th Street

I let that sentence hang in the air. I’ve heard that sentence used often in reference to all sorts of gut feelings. Mostly love and romance. And though I’ve put up a mental wall between Luke and crush territory, I can’t ignore the warmth in my chest.

Luke looks over at me when I don’t respond. “You know?”

I can’t bear to meet his gaze. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“Austin’s the best city in the world,” Luke says.

“Maybe that’s why I’m liking it so much. I’m seeing it through your eyes.”

He leans his head back on the headrest of his seat. “And I’ve been told I have very nice eyes.”

More warmth burning through my ribs. His flirtations are getting bolder and more consistent. Unless that’s just the type of person he is. I’ve met people like that, where you think they’re flirting with you, but when you ask someone if they would agree, they tell you, “Oh, he’s just like that.”

Luke is the definition of “he’s just like that.”

I have decided not to take it personally. I will take the way he speaks to me at face value. And he should do the same. “Yes, well, I am enjoying looking through them so far.”

Luke’s smile falters and his teeth land on his lower lip.

I think I’ve taken him off-guard.

A moment later, Luke flicks on the radio and turns it up, drowning out any thoughts of what’s been said.

10

LUKE

“You weren’t kidding, Bobby,” I say, looking at the piles of boxes. I turn myself sideways, making myself as slight as possible to sneak through a gap between the boxes to follow the saxophonist. “This place is a labyrinth.”

Bobby laughs from somewhere in the attic. I know I’m walking in his general direction, but the way his voice bounces off the rafters makes it impossible to locate exactly where he is unless I have eyes on him. “You should have seen it this morning. Less of a labyrinth and more of a clinch.”

“Must be some amazing artifacts in here,” Eleanor muses, only a few feet ahead of me. She ducks under a beam which means I’m going to have to practically crouch under it.

“Artifacts? I’m not a dinosaur yet, am I?” Bobby scoffs.

She looks back at me with a pursed smile and wide eyes. She’s more relaxed than she’s been the whole time I’ve known her, which I guess is to be expected. The more time you spend with someone, it’s inevitable that you’ll get more comfortable with them. But I think it has something to do with the milieu of this meeting too. The cramped quarters, the threat or promise of hidden treasures. That’s Eleanor’s whole gambit. She does it all day in the basement of the Reeder Music Library. Her curiosity is probably propelling her forward.

Not to mention her newfound inspiration to stick around in Austin.

I had to veil my abject excitement in the car. She’s right that two weeks isn’t really enough to know if you’re in the right place. And two weeks isn’t enough to know you’ve met the right person either.

So why did my whole body get lighter at the thought of her remaining in my city?

Remaining close to me?

Eleanor and I finally reach Bobby at the back of the attic. He’s cleared out a little piece of space for himself back here: a roll top desk which is also filled to the brim with documents, pictures and the like, and a little wooden chair. We’re surrounded by fans plugged into a precariously ancient power strip, making the stuffy attic air moderately tenable. Thank god. When we first climbed up here, I thought I might suffocate by the time the night was over.

Bobby points to a stack of boxes. “These are the boxes with stuff from The Lone Star era.”

Four boxes for a short stint running a nightclub in the ‘90s? Yeesh.

“I think this one is photos and things,” he says, knocking on one of the middle boxes. “But—" He holds up an aged finger, long and strong from years tickling the keys of his saxophone. “I’ll do you one better.”

Bobby turns and begins to scrap through the papers on the desk.

Eleanor and I stand side by side, silent, exchanging a look now and then as he searches . . . and searches . . . and searches.

“Doggone it! I had it a couple hours a—ah! Found it!” He pulls up a big green book and holds it into the air. “This is the Rosetta Stone of my time at The Lone Star. My Book of Kells. My Leningrad Codex. You get it, right?”

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