Page 15 of When the Fake Snow Falls

Candace:

Lucky you.

I bite my bottom lip and ask what I’ve been wondering all day.

Candace:

Did you go back toSouthern Roast?

While he types his response, I stare at the screen with bated breath. I shouldn’t. His answer won’t change anything. I’d be an idiot to let this go further than it already has, but for some reason, I’mdyingto know.

Coffee Shop Guy:

I did. Her name is Layla, and we had a nice chat.

A moment passes with nothing, like he’s waiting to see what I’ll say, but if I know anything about this guy, it’s that there’s another text coming my way. Sure enough, a moment later, my phone buzzes.

Coffee Shop Guy:

But she has a boyfriend, so I didn’t get her number.

Is that the reason he’s still texting me? Am I a runner-up in this situation? I bristle at the thought. I should cut ties. I know I should. But I like talking to him. There’s something about him that still has me intrigued . . . even if it’s just as friends.

I used to joke with Miles and say I don’t need new friends. That if I date someone, and it doesn’t work out, there is no,we can still be friends.But I’ve never dated this guy, so I guess that rule doesn’t apply.

Candace:

Well, you can’t win them all.

I wait for those three dots to reappear, but they don’t. Even after I’ve thrown away my taco wrapper and cleaned up my station to prepare for the next client, there’s still nothing.

I stare at my last text and wonder if I should have said more. Maybe he wants sympathy? Maybe he was more disappointed than I realized, and I brushed it off as no big deal. I’venever been good at being overly sympathetic with people. Maybe he needed more, and I fell short.

I blink, snapping myself back to reality. Does it matter? Why would I care if this man I don’t know needed me to rub his back and tell him there are plenty of fish in the sea? Shaking my head, I toss my phone into the drawer and vow not to open it until I’m done with work.

seven

An occasional carpassing on the cobblestone street is the soundtrack to my walk home. I love my walks in the middle of the week. The heat breaks when the sun goes down, the streets are quiet, and the various displays of reindeer and Santa hats make it feel like home this time of year.

There’s something about living downtown and seeing the city while it sleeps. I used to come here when I was younger. In college, Miles would drag me out to all the bars, and I’d dance and drink the night away like my life depended on it. I loved the vibrant nightlife of the city, but I think I prefer getting to know the shop owners and becoming a regular at a local pub more.

My phone vibrates from deep within my bag. Miles is probably calling to ask what I want to do for dinner tonight. I hope he doesn’t want to go out. Today was long, and I’m ready for my couch and Chinese takeout that I can eat straight from the container.

When I finally fish my phone out of my bag, I blink down at the number calling.

It’s not Miles.

It’shim.

I stop, and with my heart hammering in my chest, I swipe to answer.

Slowly bringing my phone to my ear, like it might detonate at any moment, I say, “Hello?”

“What’s your name?” His voice is smooth, deep, and low. It’s the type of voice that has no business belonging to someone who’s just yourfriend.There’s no background noise, and I imagine him sitting in a fancy apartment somewhere with a whiskey on the rocks in his hand.

I blink. “What?”

He laughs, and even through the phone, the sound ricochets from one vertebra to another. “Your name?”

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