Page 22 of Night Shift

Vincent’s expression shifts. He sits upright, hunching his shoulders. It’s a move that, as a tall girl, I recognize well. He’s shrinking himself. Making himself smaller.

“I really did need help with the poem,” he says. Then, more softly, he admits, “But I wanted to see you again. Obviously.”

My heart is hammering. I really shouldn’t have had so much of the coffee he bought me.

“Obviously?”

Vincent sighs, exasperated. “You know why I’m here, Kendall.”

But I don’t. He watches me blink at him, open-mouthed and too stunned to speak, and leans over the table, close enough that I catch the scent of laundry detergent and warm, spiced cologne (a scent I didn’t realize I missed until right now).

“The real question,” he says, eyes narrowed, “is why are you here?”

Because I wanted to know. Because I had to know if what happened two weeks ago during my night shift was a fluke, or if I could feel that way again. And now I think I regret that curiosity, because seeing Vincent again has confirmed that something about him in particular makes me feel giddy and grounded all at the same time.

I’ve never felt this vulnerable before.

So, I say the safe thing: “Because you needed a tutor.”

The words come easily, even if they’re patently false, and they land like a belly flop in a swimming pool. Vincent leans back in his chair, his face suddenly blank. His dark eyes—so hauntingly pretty under those thick, feathery eyelashes—give nothing away. I watch him rub his palms on the front of his athletic shorts, my eyes catching on the muscular slope of his thighs, and realize I’ve fucked up harder than I previously believed possible.

“Great,” he says with a smile I don’t believe. “Glad we’ve cleared that up.”

No, wait.

My stomach twists. I feel like I’ve lost my grip on the English language. I don’t know which words to pluck out of the file cabinet inside my head to fix this. I wish I knew how to drop a scene break here and get us somewhere new and secluded and full of all the right narration and dialogue that will lead to Vincent’s mouth being on mine again.

“I mean—” I blurt, then wince. “I didn’t mean—”

Vincent shakes his head, and it’s very kind, but in a detached sort of way that stings. “Don’t worry about it. You said Venmo was good, right?”

I deflate like a popped balloon. I don’t want this to be just a transaction. But my heart is lodged in my throat, and Vincent is reaching for his pocket and pulling out his phone, and if he pays me for this, so help me, I’ll lose it. My hand flies out before I’m entirely aware of what I’m doing. It lands on Vincent’s wrist. The one without the brace. The feel of his bare skin against my fingertips sends a jolt up my arm. When he stills and looks me in the eyes, I feel it in two places: between my legs and in the hollow of my aching chest.

“Don’t,” I say with far too much emotion. I clear my throat and reel it in a little. “Don’t pay me. Please.”

Vincent stares at me like I’m speaking Latin.

I wish, in this moment, that I was more of a writer than a reader. I wish I knew how to steer a plot and how to make things happen the way I want them to. Reading is so much fun, but I’m tired of feeling like all the best parts of my life have been lived inside my own head.

I meet Vincent’s eyes and hope that he sees written on my face all the words I’m incapable of summoning.

I want you. I feel this too.

Please don’t listen to the shit I say when I’m scared.

And then, over his shoulder, I catch a blur of movement.

There’s a group of six extraordinarily tall boys—a few of them in matching white Clement Athletics T-shirts—filing through the door and into Starbucks. I recognize Jabari Henderson first. After that, it’s easy enough to identify the other basketball players with him. Most of them are starters. A couple of them are second string. All of them are incredibly large humans.

Jabari and I lock eyes. He turns away immediately, and it’s almost believable that we’re just two strangers in a Starbucks who accidentally looked at each other. But a moment later, he turns to say something to the guy beside him before tipping his head very discreetly in our direction. Whatever he said is then relayed to the rest of the group, and the six of them quickly shuffle over to a table on the other side of Starbucks, directly across from where Vincent and I are seated.

And as clueless as I feel right now, I’m quick enough to catch on to what’s happening.

We’re being watched.

Eleven

I don’t know how this could get any more mortifying, but the addition of a small crowd of basketball players to witness it all definitely doesn’t help.

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