waiting for everyone to have their attention diverted. She was waiting for the right moment to leave. When Marian called up the first poet for the night, Nora found her opportunity.
And Will barely waited a minute before following her.
She hadn’t gone far.
He found her in the vestibule at the front of the building, where the small, silver mailboxes were dotted with glinting light from the too-low chandelier, where the wallpaper—he had to give it credit—looked more metallic than mustard at this time of night. She was looking out the front door, her back to him, her bare shoulders slightly slumped, and her flower crown off her head, held loosely at her side. But even in a posture that looked a little defeated, there was still something so vivid about her standing there—her dress summer green in this dull, old-fashioned vestibule, the flowers at her side an antidote to the musty smell.
“Hey,” he said softly, not wanting to startle her.
Her shoulders straightened immediately, one of her hands lifting, and he shifted his gaze to her reflection in the glass door, saw the dimmer, smaller version of her swipe gently beneath her eye.
He took a step forward.
But when she turned around to face him, she was all smiles again, raising her chin and swinging her flower crown softly by her side.
He hated it. He’d had enough of smiling for one night, and he didn’t want to think too hard about how, with Nora, not smiling would’ve somehow felt like a truce.
“Oh, hi!” she said, that same high, false note of cheer that’d been in her voice when he’d first shown up tonight. “I needed some air.”
Will stayed silent, watching as she realized what she’d said: a pause, a blink . . . a minute, nearly undetectable cringe.
“Uh, inside air, I meant.” She reached up, fidgeting again with that band holding her dress up. “Are you having fun?”
Once again, he didn’t answer, because he didn’t really know how. He kind of had been having fun, until he saw her up there, looking small and smiling and fragile.
She cleared her throat. “Okay, I can see you’re mad. But I didn’t tell Marian to call your number first, I promise.” She paused again, looking down. At some point, she’d slipped into a pair of sandals, and she shuffled her feet now, pulling the hem of her dress from beneath the sole of one. “That was a coincidence.”
“I don’t care about the number. I did fine up there.”
She swung her crown again, her lips pursing and pulling to the side, the dent in her cheek showing. “You were pretty good. Kind of a sad poem you got, though.”
Now he was the one shifting in his shoes. Jesus, he was really going to have to read that poem later. Still, this was the first thing she’d said to him that didn’t feel like it was part of the show, and it was easy enough to bluff this one, given what had made him come after her in the first place.
“Same for you, it seemed like.”
She met his eyes briefly, then lowered her gaze again. Another fake, brittle smile, a shaky laugh. “Who knew so many poems about summer were sad?”
“Nora.” He didn’t know why he said her name, especially like that. Like he was scolding her. Like he could see right through her.
She waved a hand. “It’s silly.”
“I doubt it.”
She raised her head and her eyes met his, and like a punch right to his hiccupping heart, he could see that they were shiny, wet with a new rush of tears.
“Nora,” he said again, but this time, it wasn’t a scold.
“I don’t—I don’t want to talk about this.” She put up a hand, and that’s when he realized he’d stepped forward again. “Especially with you.”
Ouch.
He stepped back, clearing his throat, embarrassed. How many ways did he need to be shown that this woman did not want him here? Well, he should be grateful. What a good reminder. He needed to turn around and walk down the cherub-surveilled hallway and get back to fucking work.
“No, wait,” she said, stopping him. “I’m sorry. I meant—um. Because of what you told me. About being an . . .” She trailed off, obviously uncomfortable saying the word he’d basically grenaded at her the other night. She switched the flower crown to her other hand, shaking loose some of its petals in the process. “It’s not the same . . . losing a grandmother, I mean.”