She nodded. “This one’s the biggest one. But there’s other things we do here and there.”
“Is that right?”
Nora looked up and narrowed her eyes at him. This was probably the tone of voice he used on kids in the emergency room who said they had no idea how that raisin or penny or LEGO piece got stuck up their nose. Fine, if he wanted a whole accounting, she’d give it to him. He could make that doubtful doctor face at her all he wanted.
“Well, every other Sunday there’s—”
“Dr. Sterling!” Mrs. Salas called across the yard, hoisting the basket she was holding in a sort of party-prop wave. She adjusted and shuffled over with it hooked over her forearm, a cup of Benny’s beer in her other hand. Mrs. Salas knew how to party, even if it only took one cup of not-strong beer to make it happen.
“I saved you a crown!” she said to Will, once she got close.
“Let me tell you about the discount Nora and I got on these. They were actually from a—”
“A store that we order from every month!” Nora interjected quickly. She gave Mrs. Salas a warning, reminding look before glancing up at Will. “Sort of a thanks for your business discount. You know how it is.”
“Sure,” he said, but Nora could tell he meant that he definitely didn’t know how it was. He looked away from Nora, smiled down at Mrs. Salas, who now stared at Will like she was drunk-watching General Hospital. “That’s all right, Mrs. Salas. I probably don’t need a crown.”
She laughed and patted his arm, the basket hooked over her wrist swinging between them.
“Now, don’t worry! The one I put aside for you is very masculine! If you’re worried about that sort of thing! Most men are. Nora, hold my beer.”
Nora followed the order, bit her lip to hide her smile. If Will thought the poetry reading was intense, she couldn’t wait until Will got a load of Mr. Salas’s robotics club meeting. Unfortunately that was only every three months, though Nora would definitely be making a request for him to schedule something sooner.
“I’m not so worried about it,” Will said, still smiling his obnoxious, not-bothered-about-gender-norms smile down at her.
“Mrs. Salas,” Nora prompted, to get her out of her apparent trance.
She blinked. “Sure, yes! Here it is. More of a laurel wreath, this one.” Will gave a sidelong glance to Nora, then dutifully bent his knees and tipped his head down toward Mrs. Salas so she could settle the crown on his head. Nora very much objected to how his thick mass of hair gently curled around the edges of the leaves. Honestly she also objected to Mrs. Salas getting to touch it, but she shoved that thought away as quickly as she could.
When he stood again, Mrs. Salas set a hand against her chest. “You look like an Olympian! Nora, doesn’t he look like an Olympian?”
“Corrine!” Mr. Salas called, from over by the grill, and Mrs. Salas rolled her eyes. “He never knows how to put things on a plate, I swear. Anyway, I’ll see you soon, Dr. Sterling!”
She swanned off, and Will reached up to straighten his laurel wreath.
“I don’t look like an Olympian,” he muttered.
Nora snorted. “You look like you won the gold medal in being uncomfortable.”
“I don’t really have the time for this.”
“Suit yourself, though good luck getting past Marian.” She directed her gaze over to where Marian stood near the microphone, then tapped a finger on her chin, trying to look thoughtful. “I guess maybe you could open your back door, listen from your balcony. That’s what Donny always did.”
Will turned his head toward her, his crown going crooked, his jaw setting firmly.
Got him, she thought.
“I can stay out here for a while,” he ground out.
“Oh, great! Now, since you’ve got your crown and everything, you’ll need one of these.” She picked up one of the rolled pieces of paper from the table and held it out to him, and for a too-long second, he stared down at it. Nora felt it—a little pulse of energy in her hand, like it was anticipating getting close to his.
This is the most you story, she heard Deepa saying.
But when he finally reached out, he did so carefully. He made sure he didn’t touch her at all.
“What’s this?” he asked, and she tried to ignore the pang of disappointment she felt.
“That’s your poem. I’ll try to get Marian to call you up