Page 28 of Searching for Nova

I did. I just didn’t think I should. Easton is my past, and I’m trying to get away from my past. I’m trying to forget that my mom died and my dad didn’t want me. Unfortunately, I’m living with a man who looks just like my dad, only older. But one day, hopefully soon, I’ll have my own life, one with no reminders of my past.

When we get to the restaurant, I recognize it from the commercials. I’ve never been here, but I’ve always wanted to go. It looks like a castle made of gray stone and there’s a drawbridge you walk over to get to the entrance.

“We used to love this place when we were kids,” Easton says, taking my hand as we cross the bridge. I almost pull my hand from his, but then don’t, because I like the feel of it. His hand is big and warm, and familiar. As kids, we always held hands. Even if we were just lying in the grass, staring up at the sky, we’d hold hands. It was a friend thing, not a boyfriend-girlfriend thing, although now it’s feeling more boyfriend-like than friend-like. I’m sure that’s not what Easton intended. He has a girlfriend. I’m sure he’s just doing it out of habit. Holding hands used to be so normal for us we didn’t even think about it.

“Table for two,” Easton says, sounding very adult and sophisticated as he walks up to the hostess stand.

“Right this way,” the hostess says. She takes us to a booth instead of a table. It’s really tiny, barely big enough for two people. It’s in a half-circle shape and faces the wall of candy Easton talked about. “Is this okay?” the hostess asks, smiling at Easton and me like we’re on a date.

“It’s great,” Easton says. “Thanks!”

She leaves and Easton waits for me to get in the booth.

“These are really small,” I say as Easton sits next to me. The booth is so small our legs are touching. Our arms would be too if I hadn’t crossed them over my chest.

“Do you want me to get us a table?” Easton asks.

“No, this is fine. I like looking at the candy.” I gaze up at it, admiring all the bright colors. I’ve never seen that much candy. It’s all neatly arranged in clear bins that slide into slots built into the wall. They go all the way up to the ceiling and there’s a ladder for the employees to use to reach the upper bins.

“The higher the candy, the more expensive it is,” Easton says. He points to the top bins. “Those are probably $30 a pound.”

“They really charge that much for candy?”

“It’s fancy imported stuff. I’ve never had it. Paris has. She got a sundae and topped it with some kind of handmade Belgian chocolates that came from the top row.”

I look at Easton. “How much did you have to pay for it?”

“I didn’t. She got it when she was out with her parents. Her sister got one too.”

“I’m good with whatever’s on the bottom row.” I look back at the wall of candy. “How much are those?”

Easton leans over and talks quietly in my ear. “Stop worrying about what it costs. I’m paying for it and I want you to get what you want.”

He leans back, sitting up straight as he picks up his menu. I’m too worked up to pick up mine. The feel of Easton’s warm breath in my ear, his arm pressed against mine, sparked a flurry of tingles through my core and then lower, to places that surprised even me. I’m not supposed to be getting turned on by Easton, my childhood friend, the kid who used to throw sand at me when I took his toy truck.

I attempt to scoot over, away from Easton, but almost fall to the floor. I grab the table, catching myself.

“You okay?” Easton asks, holding my arm as I scoot back in the booth.

“Yeah. These booths are just really small.”

“They’re for couples,” he says, as if that should make sense. It doesn’t. I’m completely confused. We’re friends, not a couple. We should not be at a couple’s table.

“But we’re not…” I decide not to finish that statement. I look back at the wall of candy, pretending to study it.

Easton’s arm goes around me, pulling me into his side as he laughs. “Relax. I’m just joking. I mean, yes, these booths are meant for couples, but I wasn’t implying that was us. I was going to tell the hostess to take us somewhere else, but these are the only tables that face the wall of candy and I thought you might like that.”

“I do,” I say, relaxing a little, although having Easton’s arm around me has those tingles going again. Or maybe it’s more from the feel of his thick, muscular leg pressed against mine. The whole right side of his body is pressed against mine and I’m loving it more than I want to admit. He’s big and warm and all muscle. I feel safe in his arms, and I never feel safe. It’s probably just because of the memories we share, two little kids feeling alone and scared after being dropped off at the foster home but knowing we’d be okay because we had each other. At least, until one of us left.

Easton takes his arm back and moves over just enough so that we’re not touching. He relaxes back in the booth and I feel his leg touching mine.

“Sorry,” he says, pulling it back.

“It’s okay. You’re tall. Your legs don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“It’s really bad on an airplane. My knees are always pressed up against the seat in front of me.”

I turn to him. “When did you go on an airplane?”

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