Page 2 of Wait For Me

Maybe he?—

Cold beer sloshes on my bare arm.

I gasp in surprise, whirling around to see Mia looking sheepish.

“Sorry!” she exclaims.

Her arms are full of several shots and beer bottles, which I need to help her with before she drops them all. But by the time we get them all on the table and I turn back to the door, the man in the hat is gone.

Disappointment punches a dent in my chest.

“So?” Mia asks. “Any new prospects?”

Yes. One perfect prospect.

But I don’t say that. For some reason, I don’t want to tell her about the guy in the hat. “No one my type.”

It’s not a lie: that guy wasn’t my type. He looked nothing like the clean-cut, preppy Glens of the world.

But he didn’t look at me like those guys either.

“We’re not looking for someone to bring to the old folks’ home, Cora. It’s a casual kiss. That’s all.”

Mia’s right. And that guy was anything but casual. I reach for one of the shot glasses, trying to shove the vanishing stranger from my mind. “I’ll have you know I’ve never brought a boyfriend back to meet Shirley and Doreen,” I say before tossing it back.

Mia laughs, grabbing her own glass.

She wasn’t being euphemistic about the old folks’ home. I’ve volunteered at the Rivergreen Care Home almost every Saturday since I was twelve years old. I’m a collector of love stories, and seniors have better ones than the movies. Shirley and Doreen are my favorite people there. But I’d never had the nerve to bring a boyfriend to meet them. Probably because the two best friends would tell me exactly what they think about each of them.

Truth I don’t need to hear.

I straighten up, downing another shot. “But you’re right,” I say, wiping my mouth and probably smearing what’s left of my lipstick. “We’re not looking for my type.”

“Finally you’re getting it!” Mia tosses me a napkin. “Okay, round two. The final round, Cora.”

“Yes.” I’m tipsy enough now to open my horizons.

Mia scans the room, tapping her chin. “There!” She points to a drunk guy in a “BABES LOVE ME” T-shirt, currently shamelessly eyeballing some poor woman’s boobs.

I glare. Mia giggles.

“Fine. Him?” She points to a guy in a basketball jersey with smooth brown skin and a broad, toothy grin.

“Nope. He played soccer with Sam in junior high.”

“Wait, so anyone who had any interaction with your brother is out too?”

“Yes,” I say as if it’s obvious.

“Why?”

“Just no. I’d never hear the end of it.”

“Doesn’t Sam live in Mexico or something?”

“Nicaragua.” Sam had stayed in Central America after a tour in the Peace Corps. But we were close; we talked almost every week over video chat, and I couldn’t hide much from him. “He’d hear about it.” From me. “Somehow. And I’d never hear the end of it.”

Mia folds her arms. “What if Tristan Galloway walked in here?”

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