myself toward the sidewalk. I land hard on my hip, bruised but out of the way.
The car skids around me, finally coming to a stop. The driver rolls down his window, his face blotchy and purple.
“This is a parking lot, you dumb bitch! What are you doing? Making snow angels?”
“Hey!” says a deep male voice behind me. James Dean is waving a piece of chalk at the driver. “She fell. Give her a break!”
“I almost ran her over!”
“Exactly! Maybe you should slow down.”
“Whatever,” the driver huffs. “You’re lucky I’m not calling the cops.”
“Yeah? Let’s call them.” James Dean’s voice is firm and steady. “You almost killed this girl.”
“Go to hell!” The driver clucks his tongue and backs away, slush spraying out from under his tires. And then he’s gone. The calm of the parking lot falls over us, and we stand for a moment too long in silence. My heart is thudding like crazy and my mouth feels dry, adrenaline coursing through me.
“Are you okay?” James Dean puts a hand on my shoulder and I jump at the contact, still dazed.
“Keely, you almost died!” Hannah grabs on to my other arm. Her eyes are watery.
“I’m fine,” I try to say, but the words get caught. I clear my throat and try again. “I’m fine.”
“That started out pretty funny, but now I feel bad for laughing,” James Dean says with a slight grin, showing off a set of perfect dimples. “You should come inside. You want some tea? Coffee? Whiskey? We have it all.”
I let him steer me into the store. My thoughts are still fuzzy, whether from the shock or from the heat of his hand on my shoulder, I can’t tell. A little bell jingles over the door as he pushes it open. Walking by, I glance down at the chalkboard and see that it reads:
I SPEAK SIGN LANGUAGE
The store looks just like I remember, but maybe a little more bleak—the floor is made of peeling linoleum and illuminated by dim fluorescent lights. In front of us is a curved glass counter filled with pastries and bagels, and behind that the wall is lined with textbooks. The rest of the space is filled with DVD cases, covering the walls and piled onto rolling racks. Andrew and I used to love exploring those racks when we were kids. We’d pool our allowance together and ride our bikes here in the summer. Even though we could probably find whatever we wanted online if we tried, this place felt like more of an adventure. But then we grew up and stopped coming. Seems like we’re not the only ones. There are no customers or other employees around; we’re the only people inside.
“Is it usually this empty?” Hannah asks.
“We do better in the morning when people want coffee,” James Dean says. “Now is kind of a slow time. Hardly anyone’s bought a DVD for like twenty years. Mostly collectors. Vintage types. Actually, there’s a regular who looks like a vampire. Blade. Not Twilight.” He steps up to a set of barstools by the counter and opens a little gate, taking his place behind the register. “I’m Dean.” He runs a hand absently through his mussed hair.
No way. I look over at Hannah and see her eyebrows rise and her mouth open. She begins to laugh and brings her arm up to fake a coughing fit. What are the chances?
“Your name is Dean?” I ask stupidly.
“Um, yeah,” he answers. “Why?”
“It’s nothing.”
Dean motions to the bar stools for me to sit. I look down at my wet clothes. My coat is actually dripping onto the floor, a puddle forming on the tiles beneath me.
“I’m kind of soggy,” I say. “I don’t think I should—”
“Please, these stools are a hundred years old, they’ve seen worse.”
“Actually, I should go,” Hannah says, turning to me. “Now that I know you’re okay. You’re okay?”
I nod.
“Great.”
“You just got here,” he protests. “Stay for a drink.”
She laughs. “This is supposed to be a job interview, actually. So