Page 22 of Forever & Always You
The second I get back to Durham, I’m going to be more demanding with my property manager, and maybe I’ll even look into breaking my lease and finding some place a little nicer. Though in order to dothat, I need more money. So I need a job. Maybe I’ll look into being a barista in a coffee shop, because that’s slightly more upscale than working in a dive bar, but essentially the same skills, right? And I do really need to speak with the returns office at Duke .?.?. But I have no idea how soon I’ll be able to resume classes, so I may have a few more dire months ahead of me until things start to look up.
I know Austin was drunk last night when he offered, but crashing at his place would seriously help me out. It’s too late now, though, because I’m already on the road and I don’t even have his number. Which also makes me wonder how we’re supposed to try this friends thing when we’re going to be two hours apart, and he’s running a successful business while I’m fighting with my property manager and learning how to make latte art.
As I’m approaching a set of lights at some crossroads, I squint through my sunglasses and hunch forward over my wheel to try and get a better look, because surely not. I whip off my sunglasses—no fucking way.
“Damn, Universe,” I say out loud. “You work fast.”
I pull up to the line, lights red above me, and stare over at the dark green Porsche 911 holding its intimidating stance in the lane next to me. The windows are tinted, but after a moment of me gaping over in disbelief, the passenger window lowers.
Austin lifts his sunglasses and smirks.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I say, rolling down my own window.
“You trying to race?” he teases, gesturing to the road ahead.
“Oh, absolutely.” I pump my gas pedal a few times, revving my engine, only for some concerning black smoke to fire out ofmy exhaust pipe. “Actually, rain check?”
Austin laughs, stealing a glance at the lights. Still red. “You heading home?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Plumbing fixed yet?”
“Still no.”
Austin sighs, dropping his sunglasses back over his eyes. “Then can I ask why the hell you’re going back to that apartment?”
A car horn blares aggressively behind us. The lights are green and we’re holding up traffic.
“Ah, shit,” I mumble, shooting Austin an apologetic frown as I step on the gas and jolt forward. Some nutcase rides my ass hard—two seconds late moving from the lights and suddenly you have enemies.
Austin is quick to pull alongside me, matching my speed.
“Pull over!” he yells.
“Okay!”
There’s a coffee shop on the side of the road up ahead, so I pull into the parking lot and wave my middle finger at the crazy dude who was kissing my bumper as he continues down the street. Austin follows me, parking in the spot next to me.
“Now that we’re here,” he says with a smile, “how about some coffee?”
“Hmm.”
“What’s with the skeptical look?”
“Because I agreed to go for drinks with you, only for you to take great pleasure in embarrassing me,” I explain, “so forgive me, Austin, for doubting your intentions.”
“We called a truce, didn’t we? Now c’mon. Get out of the car, Gabby.”
At least he’s not calling me Gabrielle anymore.
We roll the windows up and step out of our cars, awkwardlymeeting between them. After last night, I’m more confused than I was before. Are we still fighting? Are we friends again? Or do I have to admit that we’re stuck somewhere in the middle, muddling through a mixture of emotions with no clear definition on where we stand with each other? Because maybe the fighting thing was easier.
“You look like a decaf Americano kind of man,” I tell him, looking him up and down with an air of dramatic judgment.
“Close,” Austin says. “Decaf espresso.”
“Gross.”
