"My car just died." I winced. "A bad choice of words, considering where we just came from."
"What's wrong with it?"
"Too much to fix." I busily wiped the invisible crumbs on the shiny tabletop. "I don't mind the bus, though."
"Why?" he asked, his voice dropping, as if we were sharing secrets. I had a feeling we were.
"It gives me time to think."
"And what is it you like to think about?"
You. Pinpricks of guilt hit me like a dozen needles, but I swept them aside. I wasn't doing anything wrong. Actions were objectionable, whereas thoughts wandered carelessly of their own volition. "Just random things." I looked across the street, where my bus was pulling up. His gaze turned there too. We both watched it pull away without comment. The sky darkened to a dark, smoky color that gave the false illusion of night in the middle of the day.
"You have a bike, right?" It was a dumb question, considering I'd watched him and even moved his helmet.
He pointed to the window where the gleaming piece of machinery with polished chrome and black leather sat like a lone soldier amidst the rain.
"A bike comes with training wheels. I have a Harley. I'm waiting out the rain too. It's not a good idea to ride in a storm, much less a lightning storm."
"There is no lightning." My statement drowned with the harsh, raw crackle of a lightning strike. I gasped, but his expression never wavered as the brief flicker of brilliant blue-white light illuminated the chiseled planes of his face.
"I could smell it in the air."
Well, that explained the spark I felt earlier … static electricity. I averted my eyes, forcing myself not to stare at the tattoo that started at the right side of his neck and dipped below his sweatshirt. I tried my damnedest not to imagine the black ink as it slid down his body.
"What do you do, Price?"
Did he just call me by my last name? And why did it turn me on? Perhaps in some ways, it created a sense of familiarity between us-one that didn't exist.
"I'm a writer."
"Have you written anything I might know?"
"No."
He arched his eyebrow. "The next time someone asks you that question, you should reply, ‘not yet'."
"Not yet."
"That's better."
"Are you visiting your family while you're in town?" I wanted to steer the conversation away from my own failings.
"Yes." The copper coin rolled between his fingers faster. "I'll be here for a while."
"Do you have a lot of family here then?"
"I suppose. My mom, dad, a younger brother and sister."
"And they all live around here?"
"Yes and no." He took a deep breath and stared out of the window. We didn't speak for a while, the silence taking over.
"I visit them at the cemetery."
My mouth didn't just gape. It snapped open and shut several times.
"It makes me sound like a walking tragedy, doesn't it?" The comment would have been dark, if not for the lightness in his voice.
"I can't imagine it. How do you not raise a white flag?" I asked, my voice cracking in process.
"I do raise one, but it's a symbol of survival, not surrender."
"I'm so sorry, Evan. I don't know what else to say."
"That's plenty right there. It's been ten years."
"How?"
"A family vacation to Sri Lanka."
I searched my mind using the references he provided until I figured it out. "The tsunami?" I blurted.
He drummed the coin against the table, but it wasn't nerves. It actually sounded rhythmic, as if he was accompanying the piped music. "Correct."
"I didn't mean to pry."
"You didn't. It's funny, most people shut down and quietly try to get away from me, like death is a disease and I'm a carrier. Don't be afraid to ask. You can ask me anything."
"It happened around Christmas, didn't it?"
"The day after."
"And you survived."
"Only because I wasn't there. I was here."
The weight of those words was heavy. They carried with them a thick, palpable tension. I didn't ask the question, but he provided the answer anyway.
He slid lower in his chair, his long legs extended. "I was eighteen, in my freshman year of college. I didn't want to go. Plus, there was this girl." He shook head, his eyes darkening slightly as his grin weakened. "Always a girl. My weakness."
"Oh, Evan," I said, placing my hand on his, my lips quivering and my voice unable to conceal my sorrow.
"Shit, are you crying, Price?"
I shook my head as if he'd accept that response, despite the hot, salty tears rolling down my face.
"Don't cry about my stuff." He waited for me to get a hold of myself, handing me a napkin, which made me cry even harder.
"I can't even imagine what that would be like." I shivered with the briefest thought of losing just one of the people I loved. The tears came more forcefully then.
"It sucks, but you keep going. That's all you can do. What about you?"
"What about me?"
"Who do you visit?"
Just when I thought the tension was at its high point, my posture stiffened to painful levels. "I can't tell you."
He shook his head. "That's not fair."
"You don't understand. It's really pitiful."
His face grew serious. "Is it hard to talk about?"
"No, that's the problem."
"You owe me a sad story, Price. Let's cry about your stuff for a while. Spill it." He flipped the coin in the air. I caught it in my palm. The penny dug into my skin as I closed my fist around it.
"What's this for?"
"Payment for your thoughts."
"Only a penny?"
"Consider it a down payment."
I sighed in resignation. This was by far the most abnormal conversation of my life, yet it had a natural feeling about it-a comfort underneath the curiosity. "Lorraine Malter."
"Who is she?"
"A writer."
"Were you close to her? Was she like a mentor to you?"
"No and yes. I've never met her. She died five years before I was born. I've always admired her work, and I found out she was buried here. I come out whenever I get a rejection letter." I tilted my chin. "I sound pathetic."
"Not pathetic, but it does raise a red flag."
A moment ago I'd been a mess, but now I couldn't hide my smile. "Yeah, I carry a red flag for sure. You said you were in town for a while. Where are you going after this?"
"Not sure yet."
"You're some kind of a drifter then?"
"In a manner of speaking."
"How long have you been nomadic?"
"For the last ten years."
Oh. "Oh."
"I dropped out of college after it happened. I go where the next job or gig takes me."
I sucked in a deep breath. "You're a musician?"
"I strum a guitar and sing."
Guitar? Did he say guitar? "That sounds like a musician, Evan."
"A musician is someone who plans a career. I open for musicians or play backup. Sometimes I do other things. I was playing at this dive bar and doing roofing during the day in Miami."
"What kind of music do you play?"
"Whatever I like."
"You're not very specific."
"Why don't you find out for yourself? Have you ever been to The Lost Souls' Club?"
"Are you a member of that club, Evan?"
He roared with laughter. "I know this conversation turned deep, but it's not a metaphor. It's a bar."
My cheeks burned with embarrassment. "Oh, I see."
"It's new and close to here. Some friends of mine own it. I play there and bartend occasionally. Would you like to come out tonight?"
"This is the other side of town from me. I live in Edison Park."
"I can pick you up."
I mentally hit the pause button, which mimicked the sound of a screeching record. I'd never expected to have such a strange connection with a random stranger. "I'm sorry if I misled you. You seem like a great guy but I have a boyfriend."
"Of course you do," he said, his smile tightening. "No foul, no harm."
"Isn't it the opposite way?"
"Not today."
"The next bus will be here soon," I said, pointing to the window. The rain had died down to a tolerable drizzle. "I had a nice time talking with you." I gathered my dishes, my movements lacking both grace and speed.
"Best of luck, Billie, and I'm sorry if I misled you as well."