Bliss and the Art of Forever - Alison Kent Page 0,43
down.
The shape of the candy made her think of a pod, or a bean. No, a cherry. A coffee cherry. It was the size of the other artisan chocolates on display in Bliss. She knew the shell was chocolate, even though the color was more a Radical Red with a Mulberry shimmer, and brushstrokes of Jazzberry Jam. That made her laugh. Who but a kindergarten teacher would think in Crayola crayon colors?
Coffee. They’d talked about coffee at the park just yesterday. But nowhere in any of their conversations had he hinted at the sort of interest in her she would think necessary for this. Unless she’d missed it, which, sad to say, was not all that unlikely. Yes, she’d been moved by the way he’d looked at her, and more than once, but she’d never been good with signals; even when Artie had been the one broadcasting them, she’d never picked them up.
If that’s what was happening with Callum . . . swallowing the nerves tickling the base of her throat, she bit into the candy, savoring the comfortable pleasure of warm coffee, like the first sip of her morning latte, though this one came with the added indulgence of chocolate.
That had her smiling, as she licked her fingers clean. Had her, too, determined to pay better attention, to watch for signs and clues. Not now as much as in the future. The timing was all wrong for her and Callum, but it would be nice to get to know him better, to climb out of her rut with the help of a man who appreciated good coffee, whose taste in artwork mirrored hers, and who found meaning in well-chosen words.
Hoping the Second Baptist Church donations center would still be open, Brooklyn headed there after school on Wednesday—finally—with the boxes she’d hauled to her car late Tuesday night before collapsing exhausted into bed. Who knew culling twelve years’ worth of clothes from her closet and drawers would end up taking her three days?
She’d started going through her things on Sunday morning. Usually she went to church with Jean, but after Saturday night spent at Bliss with Callum, she’d failed to set her alarm; when Jean called at nine, she’d only just emptied the last of the milk into her espresso machine’s foamer and was still half asleep.
She’d begged off; she didn’t have time to get ready, and she truly wasn’t feeling up to par, though that she blamed on her state of mind, not her body. Having Callum show her his Tennyson quote, leaving her to guess at the rest of his tattooed sayings, had her musing over how fitting they were, how personal.
Though really, she knew next to nothing about how he’d lived when he’d belonged to the club. What she knew about such groups came from the media, from books and movies; who hadn’t heard of Easy Rider? Or the Hells Angels? Even Sons of Anarchy?
Strangely, she couldn’t picture him in any of those situations, but she only knew him as Adrianne’s father, who, on Monday, had crawled around the children’s section of Cat Tales to help her pick out her limit of books. Who’d allowed her to have one scoop of ice cream, not the ten she’d asked for, not the three she’d countered with, just the one.
Who’d carried wet wipes to clean his daughter’s hands, then let her get as messy as she’d wanted, swinging and sliding and climbing, until she turned from a mild-mannered six-year-old into an unholy terror and had to be carried cuddled against his neck all the way to their truck. Monday had been an extraordinary day, and so much better than normal.
But that line of thinking only served to remind Brooklyn of the rut she’d fallen into. It also served to distract her from finishing the clothes-sorting chore when she’d arrived home Monday night; she’d taken until last night to get it done. Not that it had gone any faster; she’d been thinking about Callum’s gift of candy the entire time.
Now it was Wednesday, one day shy of a week since she’d met him, and he’d been constantly on her mind. The only other time she’d known this level of infatuation had been with Artie, and she could not let herself believe this was the same. Love was the last thing she was looking for, the last thing she had time for. Later. When she was herself again. She just wasn’t ready. Not yet.