Out of Nowhere(36)
“No problem,” I say. “I get it. Um, see you next week?”
Something flashes in Rafe’s eyes. Gone is the even-tempered guy who was here during the workshop and in his place is the intense one that the kids were talking about. Rafe steps up to me and slides one hand around the back of my neck, shaking me lightly.
“This has nothing to do with that,” he says.
I just shrug.
“I’m serious, Colin. I meant what I said. You let me know when you’re ready. Everything’s fine.”
Hunh. That’s not actually what he said.
“Why don’t you come with me?”
“What? Oh, nah.” Jesus, the last thing I want is to tag along because Rafe feels sorry for me. Of course he has shit to do and real friends.
“Look,” Rafe says, putting a little bit more pressure on my neck. “I’d like to spend time with you, but there’s somewhere I need to be. If you come with me, I get the best of both worlds. What do you say?”
It must be nice to have somewhere you need to be. Besides work, I mean. And I don’t really want to go sit at home the rest of the day, so I find myself nodding.
“Okay.”
He smiles and leans a little closer and says, “You don’t even know what you just signed on for,” his tone managing to make his words seem filthy.
Jesus. Rafe glances down at the front of my jeans and his smile turns predatory.
“Careful, Colin.” His hold on me turns to a caress, fingers stroking the nape of my neck. His eyes may be teasing, but the heat there is real. What would he do if I leaned up and kissed him? If I wrapped my arms around him? God, have I ever hugged a man before? When Mom died, Pop hugged me, I think. Luther did at the funeral, too. But not since then. A few girls have hugged me at bars. Flirtatious pressings together that I think were mostly about rubbing their tits against my chest. The idea of Rafe hugging me—shit, even the word sounds childish—pressing against me, holding me, our whole bodies in contact—makes my heart beat faster.
“What?” Rafe asks, studying my face. “What were you just thinking about?”
I drop my eyes to the ground. “What? Uh, nothing,” I say, and I pull away from him. “So, that Mischa is pretty chatty.”
Rafe nods and runs a hand through his hair, releasing the scent of something spicy.
“She just moved here from Georgia. She knew Mikal from some Facebook thing.”
“Does she play soccer?”
“I don’t know,” Rafe says, cocking his head. “Why?”
I shake my head. “No, I just—doesn’t she look like she should play soccer?”
Rafe smiles. “I guess I can see it.”
“Anyway.”
“Did you drive or train?”
“Drove.”
“You want to follow me or leave your car?”
“I’ll follow you. Where are we going?”
“West Philly. Books Through Bars packing session.”
“Uh. What?”
“You’ll see.”
Rafe winds through Saturday traffic: up past the art museum and over the river, then through University City into a neighborhood I haven’t been in. We park in a lot between a community garden with a huge mural on the wall, a bar with outdoor seating strung with lanterns, and a Vietnamese restaurant with its windows open wide enough for the smells to make my stomach growl.
“You need a snack?” Rafe teases. “There’s usually bagels and stuff inside.”
I shake my head. It’s only a working theory, but my stupid breathing thing seems to be better when I’m hungry.
“There’s only an hour and a half or so left,” Rafe’s saying. I nod, still not sure where we’re going. Outside the entrance, card tables are filled with haphazardly stacked books, with signs that say Free and Help yourself.
The second the door clangs shut behind us, several voices call out, “Rafe!”
He picks his way between long tables crowded with chairs on either side, at which people are busily writing, stacking books, and wrapping them in brown paper. Almost everyone seems to know him, half of them shaking his hand, hugging him, or patting him on the back. At least three seem to have urgent things to talk to him about, but the scratch of packing tape being torn and the ripping of paper grocery bags makes it hard to hear the conversations.
“Hey, bud,” says a man in shredded jeans, a worn T-shirt, and purple hiking boots. He claps a hand on Rafe’s shoulder. “Haven’t seen you for a few weeks. How’ve you been doing?” The guy says this like there’s a special meaning to it, and I feel my neck muscles tense up.
Rafe glances at me sheepishly but just says, “Not bad. Stuff at the YA’s been a little crazy lately.” The guy’s expression turns even more sympathetic and he pats Rafe on the arm. He’s probably in his midforties, but his expression is as sincere as a little kid’s.