Page 55 of Lost Love on 6th Street

Luckily, the concrete patio is only peppered with people. There’s the group of smokers in the corner and a couple whispering sweet nothings to one another, leaned up against a fence post. At the back of the patio, out from under the portcullis, is a fire pit surrounded by a few curved benches, all empty.

Eleanor and I share a fide-side bench. It’s big enough to leave a gap between us, but the curve in the bench makes it impossible not to be angled toward one another. Fine for my purposes, but for Eleanor’s, I’m not so sure.

We’re silent for a bit. I’m not sure where to start or what to do. I remove my hat and lean my elbows on my knees, waiting for inspiration to strike.

“Thank you,” Eleanor says in a soft voice.

I shake my head. “No, you shouldn’t thank me. I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“Of course, I could have,” I say, looking into the fire. The flames waver, dancing together. A perfect image to encapsulate how I’m feeling inside. Chaotic burning threatening to incinerate me. “You’re a beautiful woman and if guys see you alone at a bar—”

“Are you about to say, ‘boys will be boys?’ Because I’m not—"

I sit up with a scoff. “Of course not. That’s not what I mean at all, I’m trying to . . .” The words are trapped inside me. My heart has so many things it would like to say, and I can’t manage to string a couple of words together to get them to come out right. “You’re a catch. That’s all.”

Eleanor smiles sadly. “You are too. Obviously.” She grips the edge of the bench. “I mean, I see how women talk to you.”

I frown. So, she’s been watching? She notices? Is she jealous like I am?

“I mean, just at the bar you were like—”

“No, come on,” I say, laughing at the ludicrousness of the situation.

Eleanor balks. “What do you mean ‘come on?’ You were talking to that woman and then the bartender—”

“I work with them, Eleanor. Cressida is a bartender I’ve known for years and—”

“You had your arm around the other woman,” she says coldly.

So, she is jealous. “And Jen runs a venue on 6th. With her wife.”

Eleanor is quiet before she lets out a singular, “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh,” I huff. I dig the toe of my boot into the gravel circle surrounding the fire pit. “What’s it matter to you anyway?” I don’t ask it meanly. It’s just a question. A question I would love an answer to.

Still quiet. I lift my eyes to look at her. Break my heart. I fucking want you to. Put me out of my misery like Old Yeller.

A strange smile appears on her face. “I can’t tell if you’re an idiot or a gentleman or both.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Eleanor purses her lips, rubbing them together.

“Nor . . .” I slide a little closer. “Please tell me.”

“I’m starting to think it’s Option C,” she murmurs, then shakes her head. With a deep inhale, she finally says it. “This is more than friends, right? What’s happening between us?”

The elation inside me is so great I’m mute.

“I’m not good at this kind of thing. I don’t like guessing because I don’t want to be wrong, so just tell me so I don’t—”

“Yeah,” I say, though it’s barely a word, more a breath. “Yeah, it’s more than that.”

Eleanor’s eyes twinkle.

“You think I would have gone to a radio station at midnight for someone who was just my friend?” I ask.

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