Page 11 of Loaded

“You brought me a balloon? Do you think I’m five?” Oh, shoot. Does she?

Her smile’s tentative. “It’s an edible helium balloon. Our chef’s best friend invented the idea with him in cooking school, and the restaurant Alinea in Chicago and this one are the only two places that serve them, as far as I know.”

“Whoa, you’re saying I can eat that?” I lean closer. “But it’s floating.” It’s clear, shiny, and. . . “Is there helium in it?”

Now her smile widens. “There sure is. If Miss Collagen USA were here, you could serenade her in falsetto.”

“Who will I serenade without my date?” I fake a frown. “I’m all alone, no one to sing to. Don’t you feel sorry for me?”

“Not even a little bit.” She shrugs.

“Heartless.”

“I suppose.”

I poke it and suck in the helium immediately, hoping to keep her around a little longer. But when I start to talk, I surprise even myself. I sound like Peewee Herman. “Bea—is it short for Beatrice?”

She nods.

“You know, I don’t even know your last name. How can I serenade you without your last name?”

She’s laughing now. “No serenading, please. It’s frowned upon.”

I inhale the last bit of helium and sing, “Bea, Bea, Bea, Be-a-trice Ann,” to the old Beach Boys hit.

“The Beach Boys?” She waves me off. “How old are you?” But she’s laughing.

“I discovered as a kid that if we put on the Beach Boys, my dad would drive faster on road trips.”

“You’re kidding.”

I shake my head. “That one thing cut our trips down by like an hour, I swear.”

But just then, the table behind us starts waving. “Check?”

In a blink, she’s gone. I console myself by eating the sugary, sticky, almost taffy-like balloon, and mopping up the chocolate sauce with the sour-straw-esque string.

When Bea returns with the check, I’m ready. I throw my card down without even looking at it. Before she can dart away, I make my move. “So, Bea. You couldn’t eat with me tonight, and that bummed me out. I’d love to take you out—anywhere you want—and actually eat at the same time as you.”

Her brows draw together, and she ducks her headagain, but when she does look up, I can tell it’s not good news for me. “I’m sorry, but I think that’s a bad idea.”

The really terrible news hits when another waiter brings the card back. “Bea’s shift ended,” he says.

Only, I’m pretty sure she ran—from me.

Now I have to find out why and fix it. She’s good enough that I can’t let her get away a third time.

4

BEA

When I started high school, Seren insisted that I try a sport. “You’re the most talented pianist I’ve ever met,” she said. “But that’s all you do.” She crouched down so we were eye-to-eye, and when someone who’s five-foot-four has to crouch, you know you’re short. “I worry that you’re hiding in that music room.” She pressed a kiss to my forehead.

Then she bought me a pair of running shoes.

The irony was not lost on me—instead of hiding, I should run?

But hiding was easy; I hated running.

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