Look Again

The script reappears on the screen. “You like it?”

She doesn’t answer; she just waves me away again. I catch her hand and kiss her knuckles. “Thank you,” I whisper close to her ear. Then I walk away fast.

I just kissed Joey Harker. Well, part of her. The back of her hand might not have been my first choice, but it was better than nothing.

Leaving the quad, I walk into the library. There’s a little coffee counter in there where I can get Joey a drink. But she wants me to stay away long enough to let her finish reading.

How long will it take her to read? Does she really expect me to stay away for forty minutes? Because there is no way.

I order a coffee and a lemonade and take my number. The barista is a kid in my beginning choir, one of the work-study scholarship kids. He’s earnest in a sincere way, and when I pay, I leave him a hefty tip.

I sit at a window in the library where I can see Joey, her blonde hair glowing in the afternoon sunlight, leaning into my laptop. I can almost feel her presence, like the document is an extension of me. So, in a way, she is leaning into me. I put my finger to my mouth where I kissed her hand.

It’s getting hot in this library.

I stand up, no space between the window and me now. If she looks around and sees me here, she will definitely get the wrong idea. I know I’m giving off stalker vibes.

Just two more minutes.

I watch her reading my words, see her tuck a bit of hair behind her ear, watch the way she rolls her neck and shifts in her seat. She is devouring the script. That must mean she likes it. She wouldn’t keep reading this far if she wasn’t into it.

Three more minutes. Or maybe five.

When I see her sit back and stretch her arms above her head, I figure she must be done. I walk quickly out the library doors and back to the picnic table. I definitely do not run. When I get close, I slow my steps and circle the table, setting both the coffee and the lemonade in front of her.

Taking a step back, I wait for her to look up at me.

She closes the laptop cover slowly, and I realize I’m holding my breath. Her eyes scan the cups, and she picks up one, takes a sip, puts it down, picks up the other, drinks from it, too.

Finally, she looks up at me.

“What do you think?” I ask.

“I think these are both the same temperature,” she says, pointing to the coffee and the lemonade.

“You told me to get lost for a while,” I said, as if that explained temperature differentials. As if I cared about the heat or coldness of the drinks.

She picks up the coffee and hands it to me.

“It’s good.”

“It was made by a very sincere sophomore.”

She shakes her head. “Not the coffee.” She slides the computer across the table, takes a sip of the lemonade, and finally raises her eyes to mine.

I can’t look away. She is golden in the sunlight, her expression more open than I’ve ever seen it. And she likes my script.

I feel my face widening with a smile, one that grows bigger by the second. “It is? I mean, it is, isn’t it?” I sit across from her and release a huge breath. It feels like I’m letting go of a heavy load.

I start speed-talking and pick up my computer and cradle it to my chest. I’m so relieved. “I thought it was. I was pretty sure. I am pretty sure, I mean. It’s good. It’s really good and maybe even great. It’s going to be great.”

I look back into Joey’s face and see that she has completely closed down. The open look she just gave me is replaced by some kind of shutter. Her smile is gone. Her eyes are hooded, barely darting toward mine. She stands up, looks like she wants to say something, and shakes her head as if she’s talked herself out of it.

Before I can process the change, she turns and walks away. For a tiny woman, she takes fast strides.

“Joey?” I call after her. “Wait. What’s wrong?”

She stops. “The script is good. Your arrogance is not.” And she turns and walks away again.