Reborn(56)

When I glanced up from the cell, the barista behind the counter was staring at me expectantly. “Oh, sorry,” I said. “Iced latte, please.”

Chloe and I scooted down the counter to wait for our drinks at the other end.

“So?” Chloe said after she dropped her phone back in her bag.

“So. I’m not sure what to think of that.”

“Should I hire a skywriter for you? Would that make the message clearer?” She sighed and shook her head as she tore the wrapping from a straw. “Evan likes you. And he’s jealous of Nick. And we all like a jealous man.” She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully and twirled the straw between her fingers. “I don’t know what it is about them. Oh wait, yes I do. It’s the jealousy. Jealousy gives you power. Everyone wants something. And jealousy makes them want it more.”

“You are depraved,” I said.

“Yes,” she answered simply.

Our drinks were thrust onto the counter. I grabbed mine and made my way to a table in the far corner, near the windows, and Chloe followed.

“So, speaking of Nick,” she said, and all my senses went on alert. Did she know about the kiss?

“What about him?”

“Are you with him?”

“No. It’s not like that.” Liar, I thought.

“Well, have you… you know?” Chloe asked with a waggling of her eyebrows.

My mouth dropped open. “Chloe!”

“What? I would. I would do it so hard.”

“Stop. Please.”

She shrugged. “So clearly you haven’t. But it’s only a matter of time, I’d say. He can’t keep his eyes off you. Next step, it’ll be the hands.”

My face flushed, as I recalled the feel of those hands on my body, his fingers buried in my hair. And just like I’d predicted, Chloe saw it.

She gasped. “You are hiding something.”

“No.” I looked out the window, wincing at the zealous tone of her voice.

“Have you at least kissed him?”

I didn’t say anything.

“You did! Well. Kissing is the foundation of sex, so I guess you’re off to a good start.”

I lowered my voice. “Can we not talk about this here?” I scanned the shop, feeling as though everyone was staring at me, listening in on the conversation about my sex life. Or what little there was of it.

But no one was looking. The two people closest to us had their headphones on.

“Let me tell you something about guys like Nick, though.” She folded her hands around her cup, and all traces of her earlier lightheartedness disappeared. “It’s okay to lust after them. It’s even okay to sleep with them. But a girl, in a situation like this, has to protect her heart with everything she has.

“If you just want to have a good time with someone so gorgeous it hurts the eyes, then Nick is your guy, but you do not, under any circumstances, give him your heart. A boy like that will break it in a million pieces and leave it on the side of the road for the scavengers to pick at.”

I let her warning settle in. In some ways, I believed she was right. Someone as handsome as Nick couldn’t possibly settle down. Not that I was looking to settle down with him, or anyone. But I was also convinced that there was more to Nick than what Chloe saw on the outside.

“But,” Chloe went on, “if it’s love you’re looking for, then Evan is the one. Evan is someone you can love.”

I took a sip of my latte and tried to think of anything other than boys. Two weeks ago, all I’d wanted was to catch Evan’s attention. Now I had two guys and no idea what to do with either one.

I glanced out the window again, watching everyone who passed by the coffee shop. A woman crossed Washington Street heading toward Merv’s, her back to me. She was tall and thin, shoulders board straight, feet moving quickly. She carried herself the way my mother had, as if she always had somewhere to be, somewhere important.

The woman had the same dark wavy hair as my mother, too.

When I was first rescued, I used to see my mother everywhere, in every female face. Once, when I was shopping with one of my foster families, I chased after a woman who I thought was my mom. I followed her out of the store and to her car, where I banged on her window screaming for my mom.

When the tinted window rolled down and I saw the woman’s face—fearful, and concerned about the hysterical girl at her door—I realized she didn’t look anything like my mother. I could see my own hysteria reflected back at me.

That was the first time I truly felt aware of my sanity, or rather the crumbling of it.

Since then, I’d learned that if I saw someone who looked like my mother, it was better to ignore it. If she returned, I’d surely hear about it before spotting her in a grocery store or crossing the street.