Page 23 of Night Shift

My hand is still wrapped around Vincent’s wrist, which is too big for me to touch my thumb to my middle finger. Belatedly, I realize how this must look, so I try to play it off like I’m brushing away an imaginary piece of lint that’s caught in the fine, downy-soft hair on his arm. This, unfortunately, means I end up stroking the back of his forearm in a way that is a hundred times more incriminating.

Vincent arches an eyebrow.

I press my hands together and sandwich them between my thighs. “You had some—never mind. Sorry. Continue.”

“I’m definitely paying you,” he insists, still watching me warily. “You earned your money, Holiday. You’re good at what you do. And I made you wait half an hour for me to come, so I’m paying you for an extra hour. Don’t fight me.”

I really hope his friends are out of earshot, because paired with my semierotic arm touching, everything that just came out of his mouth could be dramatically misinterpreted.

“I don’t care about the money. This was good practice for me.” Yes, that’ll definitely clear up what we’re talking about. “I love teaching poetry,” I add a little too loudly. “And free coffee. And this was—this was fun.”

Vincent laughs, more in disbelief than anything else.

“You know,” he says, “sometimes you’re harder to interpret than Shakespeare.”

“I fucking hate Shakespeare,” I admit.

Vincent smiles. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

The words wrap me up tight like a weighted blanket. For one pristine moment, there’s no professor three tables over shuffling through papers. There’s no girl at the counter asking the barista to please make sure they’re giving her oat milk, because her lactose intolerance will not forgive her for a transgression. There’s no group of basketball players cataloguing my every move so they can break it down later like postgame ESPN broadcasters. It’s just me, my pounding heart, and Vincent’s soft, easy smile.

A distant laugh shatters the illusion.

It’s Jabari. We lock eyes again. Not for the first time in my life, I feel like an animal in a zoo—or maybe the punch line of a joke that I haven’t even heard the setup to. It seems like Vincent’s teammates knew exactly where to find us, which leads me to wonder if Vincent told them to come here and watch . . . whatever this is.

To come watch him play with the girl who kissed him in the library, during her shift, while there were people in the building. To come see if she’ll do it again.

Jabari, biting back a grin, nudges the boy next to him with his elbow. That boy lifts his phone and not-so-surreptitiously angles it in our direction—and this is my breaking point, because now I know I’m not just overthinking things.

I’m definitely being laughed at.

Vincent’s eyes go wide as I lurch up out of my chair, bumping the table between us so that the legs make a high-pitched scraping noise on the tile floor. I yank down the rolled hems of my jean shorts, wipe my palms on the front of my shirt, and then bend down to collect all my things—books, backpack, first empty coffee cup, second (larger, mostly empty) coffee cup. Maybe if I hadn’t chugged so much cold brew, I wouldn’t be this shivery and anxious.

There’s a telltale stinging in my eyes. I fight it. I will not start crying in a Starbucks. That is a rock bottom I will not let myself hit.

“I should get going,” I say, the words coming out in a rush as I loop the straps of my backpack over my shoulders. “Seriously, though. We’re even. Thanks for the coffee.”

I make it two steps before Vincent catches my hand. He doesn’t have to pull on me. Just the feel of his skin—his fingertips against the back of my hand, his thumb pressing into my palm—is enough to make me stop. I’m anchored by his side, torn between my desperation to get the fuck out of here and the desire to stay and bask in the warmth of his attention. Because he’s looking up at me through those thick lashes, and the curve of his mouth is so pink and plush and—

“My birthday’s on Thursday,” Vincent says.

I blink, unsure what to do with this revelation. “Happy birthday?”

“We’re having a party at the house. You should come. You can bring your roommates.”

“I—we—Thursdays are—”

“Movie night,” Vincent finishes for me. “I know. But you’re invited, if you want to come.”

I hate that he remembers the things I mentioned in passing three Fridays ago. I hate that it sparks a silly, stubborn hope in me. Hope that he’s just as sentimental as I am. That maybe he can’t stop thinking about how I tasted and how I laughed and how it felt when we were pressed up against the bookshelves.

“I’m not going to make out with you in public again,” I blurt, fear overwhelming my better judgment.

Vincent rears back. There’s genuine hurt in the startled look he gives me.

“I wasn’t asking you to,” he says.

“Sorry,” I add, my voice breathless and watery. “I know that’s not what—obviously, you didn’t—I don’t know why I said that. It’s not your fault. I’m just—I’m out of my element. Not with the tutoring stuff but with the rest of it. The flirting. The innuendos. I’m not good at this game, and I don’t know the rules, and I don’t think I want to play.”

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