Great Big Beautiful Life(6)

I tell her my predicament, tacos versus fish and chips.

“Tacos,” she says decisively. “Always go with the tacos.”

“Perfect.” I set my menu down, and she whirls off through the door behind the bar. I look down at my drink and burst into laughter again. I’ve never been a big drinker, but I’d give this concoction a ten out of ten on presentation alone. I snap a picture and text it to Theo while I start nibbling on the first spear of fruit. You as a drink, he replies immediately. Have fun!

I will! I tell him, then set my phone down and give the restaurant another once-over. Other than me, there are two parties present at the moment: a family of five at the table under the front windows, and a guy nursing an ice water and eating a salad at the tiny booth back by the bathroom hallway.

He looks up from his water at that exact moment.

Nearly black hair, angular nose, a stern brow.

I whip back around to face the bar, nearly capsizing my stool in the process. I grab the edge of the counter to steady myself, heart racing. It probably isn’t even him. It’s probably my mind and the glow-in-the-dark ceiling playing tricks on me, forming Hayden Andersons out of random shadows.

I take another small sip of Captain’s Bowl to steel myself and then slowly, casually, throw a glance over my shoulder toward the booth.

He’s no longer looking this way. Instead he’s staring down at something in front of him, his brow tightly furrowed. Hunched over the tiny table like that, he gives the impression of a bear at a tea party, everything around him just a little too small and breakable.

Definitely him.

And seeing him now, a not-so-small part of me wants to run and hide. Which makes no sense.

He’s not a grizzly. He’s a guy who happens to want the same job as me. A guy who wrote a book I loved!

It’s ridiculous to treat him like some kind of enemy, just because we both want to write Margaret’s story. And it’s ridiculous to sit here and ignore him when we’re ten feet apart.

I should say hi.

Just one more sip of Captain’s Bowl for good luck, and then I hop down from my stool and cross the restaurant to stand in front of Hayden’s table.

He doesn’t look up. I give him a second to finish his page, but even after he taps to the next one, he doesn’t peel his eyes off his e-reader.

“Hi!” I chirp.

He flinches at the sound of my voice, then slowly, very slowly, drags his eyes up to mine from beneath a creased brow.

“We met earlier?” I remind him. “I’m Alice.”

“I remember,” he says, his voice a flat rumble.

“I actually already know who you are,” I say.

One of his dark eyebrows arches.

I slide into the booth, across from him, our knees bumping together. I’d always wondered why it seemed like enormously tall men tend to date adorably tiny women, and now I have my answer, apparently: A man as tall as Hayden Anderson can’t comfortably sit opposite anyone over five three. I’m about six inches into the red here.

I turn to perch sideways instead. He’s still staring at me with that brow arched, the visual equivalent of a question mark.

“Because of your book,” I explain. “Our Friend Len. I loved it. I mean, obviously. Everyone who read it loved it. After the Pulitzer, hearing that from a random woman in a bar probably feels a little anticlimactic, but still, I wanted you to know.”

His shoulders relax, just a bit. “Are you a friend or family?”

“What?” I say.

“Of Margaret’s,” he clarifies.

“Oh, neither.” I wave a hand. “I’m a writer too.”

His gaze dips down me again, sizing me up now that he has this new information. His irises are lighter than I thought. Still brown, but a pale shade of it.

“What sort of things do you write?” he asks.

“All sorts,” I say. “A lot of human interest, and pop culture stuff. I work at The Scratch.”

His face remains completely impassive. I try a different tack: “Have you ever been to Georgia?”

“First time,” he says.

“Really?” I say, surprised. “Where are you from?”

“New York,” he says.

“The city or the state?” I ask.

“City,” he replies.

“Born and raised?” I say.

“No,” he says.

“Then where’d you grow up?” I ask.

“Indiana,” he says.

“Did you like it?” I ask.

His brow sinks into a scowl, his wide mouth still keeping to an utterly straight line. “Why?”

I laugh. “What do you mean why?”

“Why would you want to know if I liked growing up in Indiana?” he says, face and voice perfectly matched in surliness.

I fight a smile. “Because I’m considering buying it.”

His eyes narrow, irises seeming to darken. “Buying what?”

“Indiana,” I say.

He stares.

I can’t fight it anymore. The amusement wins out, and another laugh escapes me. “I’m just trying to get to know you,” I explain.

He sets his forearms on the table, his posture very nearly a challenge. His head tilts to the left, and he says, quite possibly, the last thing I’m expecting: “This isn’t going to work.”