Page 5 of Fault Lines
“I’m never on this side of the city,” I admitted, “but that beautiful typewriter in the window sucked me in.”
“Oh, that! She’s a beauty, isn’t she? Been around since…” He tapped his chin, peering toward the ceiling, “1925, maybe. Give or take a year.”
“So it’s a bookshop and an antique shop?” I asked.
“That’s right, but we’ve got the best coffee in the city, too,” he said, holding up his own cup. “A book with no coffee is like wine without cheese.”
I smiled, even if I didn’t agree. I never liked cheese much, and people always seemed to add cheese to every metaphor.
“Are you the manager?” I asked, still curious.
He came out from behind the counter and offered his hand. “Richard Porter. I own the place. Glad you stopped by.”
His shake was warm and sturdy. “Olivia,” I said, “It’s nice to meet you.”
“So, Olivia, what kind of java do you prefer?”
I shrugged. “Americano, if I’m being honest.”
He seemed to approve. “A true classic. I’ll whip one up for you. Go ahead, look around.”
“Thanks,” I said, a little surprised but oddly pleased. He disappeared behind the counter, and I wandered the aisles, soaking up the sleepy-morning light and tracing the dust motes as they spun in sunbeams. The aroma of fresh coffee filled the whole room.
When I returned, there was a tall, black coffee steaming on the counter. I wrapped both hands around it, letting the warmth chase the chill out of my skin. First sip: bold and bitter, like I liked it sometimes when I needed a real pick me up.
He rang up my books, but waved away the extra for coffee. “Welcome gift,” he insisted. “Everyone deserves a lucky morning.”
His kindness clung to me all the way out the door, my books safe in my bag and the cup warming my palm. For the first time in weeks, I felt almost hopeful. The city outside seemed friendlier, everything touched with gold.
Chapter Three
I fit the last pin into my hair, the strands twisted up tight, and gave my reflection a long, critical look. Cam always said I looked beautiful with my hair up, and if there was any night I wanted to look my best for him, it was tonight. I’d picked out a cute little summer dress with tiny straps barely wide enough to stay on my shoulders, and a pair of strappy heels that made my calves pop just so. The restaurant I’d chosen wasn’t anything fancy—a little local joint with cozy booths and dim lights, just relaxed enough that I wouldn’t have to worry about knocking over a water glass or Cam rolling his eyes at the menu. Then, to top it off, I’d snagged tickets to an action movie I didn’t even like, just because I knew Cam would. Romance was more my thing, but maybe if I showed some flexibility, something would shift between us. Maybe if I let him lead a little, he’d start wanting to spend time with me again, and it wouldn’t always feel like I was dragging him out with promises of candlelight and white tablecloths.
Second hoop earring slipped in, check. I grabbed my phone off the vanity, then padded to the living room and perched on the edge of the couch, checking the clock every time I blinked. We didn’t need a reservation; it was that sort of place, the kind you actually just walked into. But the movie had a set start time, so I’d told Cam we needed to leave by five. He’d gone to work earlier that morning—a quick errand, he’d said—and I hadn’theard a word from him since. Now it was pushing 4:30, and I could feel that sick nervous flutter in my stomach.
Are you on your way? I texted him.
Time ticked by, minute hand rolling over and over before my screen finally lit up, 4:40.
Sorry, got caught up. I’m coming now.
Except he didn’t just come. It was a full thirty minutes before I heard the door open and Cam walked in, tossing his briefcase onto the nearest chair and yanking at his tie like it was choking him.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, not even glancing in my direction. “Things were crazy at the office.”
“If we don’t leave now, we’ll miss the movie,” I said, shooting to my feet.
He pulled out his phone, checked something, and started shrugging off his jacket. “Can I just go like this?” He didn’t wait for an answer, already rolling up his sleeves, the crisp dress shirt and slacks from work the same as what he’d left in that morning.
I tried not to let the disappointment show. “Of course,” I said, grabbing my purse and trailing him to the car.
The ride was silent. Cam drove like he was already halfway somewhere else, jaw set, eyes squinting into traffic, his famous frown creased deep across his brow. I fidgeted in my seat, wanting to ask what was wrong, but even I knew better by now. If he wanted to talk, he’d talk. If not, there was nothing I could do but wait it out.
He didn’t touch me on the way into the restaurant. Gone was the hand on my lower back, the fingers brushing my palm. I walked beside a stranger, a man-shaped shadow. The hostess was blonde and polished, her smile stretching wide and eager for my husband, never even flicking my way. That wasn’t new; Cam had always drawn the eyes. But tonight, instead of ignoring it, he smiled right back. Not the small, sheepish one he sometimesgave when he caught me watching, but a wide, confident grin, like flirting with a complete stranger was the easiest, most natural thing in the world.
I wanted to throw something at him. I wanted to ask him why it was so hard to look at me that way, but so easy to turn it on for someone he’d just met. I followed behind the two of them, feeling like a ghost at my own date night.
He slid into the booth across from me and snapped his napkin open, settling it into his lap. The hostess gave him one more blinding smile before she left.
