Page 62 of The Courting of Bristol Keats
When he turned, she flew a bird at his back.
Later that evening, when Tyghan arrived at the grove, Bristol greeted him with one word. “Ass.”
He grinned, unfazed. “But a high and mighty one?”
God, she hated his smile. It was a curse. She rubbed her sore thighs and worked to stay angry. “You are so full of yourself.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “On the training grounds, where I have to be. But not here. If I were, I’d make you do laps right now.”
“In this?” she said, lifting the chiffon of her dress. Her eyes narrowed. “I’d like to see you try.”
The grin again, like he was considering it. “I’m sorry I was tough on you today, but on the training grounds my words are never challenged—”
“But—”
“Never. Not because I’m an ass, which I’ll admit to. The truth is, sometimes I’d like to call it a day as much as any of you. Maybe more. But the battleground is no place for second thoughts or second opinions. Hard, split-second decisions must be made, and I or my officers are the only ones who make them. No one else. Orders must be followed swiftly, or we’re all in trouble. We’re in a fight for our lives, and time isn’t on our side. The daily drills, who do you think it’s all for? The officers?Me?”
She restrained an eye roll. His sarcasm was not necessary. She didn’t need to be reminded how much practice they all needed. And she especially hated that his logic was sound. A hard day was not justification for mutiny. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to admit it. “Let’s talk about something else, all right?”
“Fine.” He studied her, that maddening confident air in the tilt of his head and piercing gaze that made her traitorous stomach turn to warm jelly. “There is something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
“Yes?”
“What’s a laundromat?”
She raised a skeptical brow. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No. You’ve made me curious.”
“You’ve never read about laundromats in one of yourmodern works?”
“I guess not. Is it like a washhouse?”
She scoffed at the notion of a mere washhouse and motioned to the bench. He was so annoying, and difficult, and—she swallowed. And undeniably . . . a lot of other things she mused on in the middle of the night. She silently swore at herself.Don’t go there, Bristol.
He sat down beside her, and she leaned back, thinking, her palms resting on the cool marble. He remained quiet, patiently watching her as she mused.
When she spoke, she didn’t hold back. She loved laundromats, and she sold their magic to him like she was a seasoned vendor at a fair, waxing poetic. “A laundromat’s . . . a wondrous place of new beginnings. A place where miles and miles of roads, wrong turns, and mishaps disappear like magic. And not just your own wrong turns, but everyone’s. Laundromats are full of people who are hoping for clean slates. And they get them for a reasonable price. The air inside is warm and velvety and hums with the promise that all will be well. When I was a child, I used to love the jingle of our coin can when my mother shook through it for the proper change. I loved the sound of sneakers, zippers, and buttons banging in dryers. I loved the swish of the washer as it twirled with soapy bubbles and my favorite jeans. Those sounds made everything new again.”
He looked at her strangely for a moment, like her cheese wasn’t sitting quite level on her cracker. Maybe she had oversold it a bit.
“That’s what you like about them, that they offer fresh starts?”
“Yes,” she answered. “There’s a lot of value there for just a few quarters. Hard to beat. And on a cold rainy day, nothing smells better, except for maybe a coffee shop.”
“Those smell good too?”
“The best ones do. Like I told you, you’ve been visiting the wrong places.” She told him about her favorites: a tiny seaside bistro in San Diego; a mountain café just outside Denver; and of course, Déjà Brew, the coffee bar where her sister worked. She described their muffins and cinnamon cakes, the bins filled with dark roasted beans from all over the world, the sweet, steaming milk. Sometimes as she spoke, he studied her so intently, she wasn’t sure he was listening to what she said at all. The smoldering behind her ribs would make her forget what she was going to say next, but he always managed to fill the clumsy silence with a new question.
“With all the towns you lived in, did you have a favorite?”
“Probably when I was young, but I learned not to get attached. We never stayed anywhere for long.”
“But did you everwantto stay?”
A surprising stab twisted in Bristol’s chest.Maybe. Yes.But she shook off the pain as she had learned to do. “Staying was never an option. I took in the pretty sights, the pretty people, the pretty things, like they were paintings in a museum. Look, but don’t touch. Take the memory with you, and that’s all.”
“Was that enough?”
