Staring straight ahead, she’s clenching her jaw and shaking her head every few minutes. It looks like she’s fighting between the urge to cry and the urge to scream.
As much as I want to ask her what happened between her and her mother, I hold back.
It’s none of my business.
The windshield wipers swatting the rain serve as the only sound between us.
When we arrive at the café—Petals & Notes—I have to circle the block five times. The lack of parking in New York is always a reminder why I’ll never take the bait and build my art gallery here.
“You don’t have to come in,” Emily says, finally speaking. “I’m sure you’d rather do something else than watch a bunch ofwriters read poems, so… maybe just drop me off and then come back in a few hours?”
“No.” I look over at her. “I want to see.”
“Okay.” She nods, staring straight ahead.
I spot a delivery truck pulling out of the alley and steer into his spot.
“They’ll tow your car if you park here,” Emily finally makes eye contact. “The sign says ‘for deliveries only.’”
“I’ve got that covered,” I say, stepping out. “Hold on.”
I walk to my trunk and pull out an “Art Delivery” sign I made years ago for situations like this. I snap it on the center of my hood before lifting an umbrella and opening Emily’s door.
When she steps out, she looks at my sign and laughs.
“How often does that come in handy?”
“You’d be surprised.” I smile at her. “I’ve yet to get a single ticket. Speaking of which, do I need to pay for anything when we go inside?”
“No, I have this for you.” She rummages in her purse and pulls out a lanyard that reads: Guest Who Loves Good Poetry.
“You really don’t have to come to this, Cole. There are a lot of weird writers, and some of the poems?—”
“Stop.” I press a finger against her lips. “Isn’t this the original event you invited me to when we first met?”
“Yeah…”
“Then why would you ask me to walk away now?”
She blushes in response and I press my hand against the small of her back as we walk down the alley. There’s a faintly lit sign reading: Pour out your soul…
Inside, tables draped in light blue and candle centerpieces surround an elevated stage.
The host immediately smiles at Emily and leads us to a booth in the back.
“May I interest either of you in a drink?” a server steps in front of us. “If so, I just need to see your IDs.”
“I’ll have a cranberry vodka,” Emily says, pulling out what is definitely a fake driver’s license. “Oh, and can you ask the bartender to crush sugar on the rim?”
“Absolutely.” He glances at her card without catching a thing. Then he reaches for mine. “And you, sir?”
“Whatever IPA beer you have on tap is fine.”
“Be right back.”
He walks away, and I stare at Emily—waiting for her eyes to meet mine.
“Where the hell did you get that driver’s license?”
