Page 175 of Lovers Like Us
What I assume: it can’t be outright bad news. Or else he would’ve popped a blood vessel in the car. He’s been clinging to some fragment ofhope.
And I’m clinging onto something elseentirely.
I’ve spent the majority of the morning hawkeyed on hands and pockets. Making a mental account of every person we’ve crossed orencountered.
Shit, I see the headstone photo clearly in each passingsecond.
Died: April4th.
Today.
“Is this peak Farrow Keene hyper-vigilance?” Maximoff asks across from me, both of us seated in a vinyl booth towards the back. He slides me a plastic menu and lowers his voice. “You haven’t even checked me outtoday.”
My lips want to rise, and I fix my earpiece, radio volume high. “Wolf scout, who said I ever check youout?”
“Pretty sure I didn’t imagine you staring at my fucking assyesterday.”
I whistle. “Pretty sure you’ve fantasized about my ass before you even sawit.”
Maximoff blinks slowly. “And now my brain has short-circuited, thank you.” His sarcasm is thick, almost pulling my mouth upward. “And thanks for theassdigression.”
“You’re welcome.” I pick up the menu, but I don’t even skim the wordsyet.
I just canvas the bustling Philly diner: fifty paparazzi and twenty-something teens peer through the glass window, 3/5 of customers in booths and barstools crane their necks to watch the celebrity and his bodyguard, about 1/3 of those snap pictures and recordvideos.
Harmless.
“Order up!” a cook calls, and waitresses zip around tables, trays hoisted high. Bacon and maple syrup smells permeate. An atmosphere I typicallylove.
But today isn’t a typical day. The stalker is a Phillyresident.
Likelihood of them being close = too high forcomfort.
I focus back onMaximoff.
He jots a note on a napkin, but he shields the words with hishand.
I eye him a little bit more. His dark brown hair is windblown, his cheekbones sharp, shoulders squared, and his gray Winter Solider T-shirt hugs the ridges of hismuscles.
“Wanted me at the meeting with you?” I tease and motion to his shirtchoice.
Maximoff frowns, then glances at the shirt. “Jesus Christ.” He glares at the ceiling, then his forest-greens drop to mine. “It wasunintentional.”
“I think you meansubconscious.” I dump out the sugar packets and reorder them in thecontainer.
Very quietly, he contemplates, “Subconsciously I’m in love with you?” He pauses. “Sounds aboutright.”
“And consciously,” Iadd.
“No. Just subconscious.” His voice isfirm.
I roll my eyes, and my small smile falls flat. Because our waitress approaches. Maximoff hasn’t even ordered yet, but the tiny brunette carries a mug of hottea.
“Glad to see you back in town,” Ava says, usually the one who serves us when we’re at Lucky’s. She places the hot tea on a papercoaster.
“Thanks,” Maximoff says sincerely. “Happy to beback.”
I order a coffee, and we’re still deciding on food when she leaves. Maximoff hones in on my tattooed fingers that fiddle with the sugarpackets.
