Sticking her nose in the air, she shrugs. “I told you I wasn’t out to get you.” Maybe she really was telling the truth in the elevator about not intentionally trying to sabotage me. Could I have been wrong about her this whole time?
“I just want your job. And I’ll earn it fair and square,” she adds with a sniff. Ah. There she is. “Anyways…” She hesitates, chewing her bottom lip. “How did you get involved with”—she motions around us—“all of this anyway. Was it your boyfriend’s idea?”
“No, we’re not together anymore.”
“You’re not?”
“We broke up about a month ago.” I have no idea why I’m telling her about my love life, except a certain camaraderie has blossomed between us in the last ten minutes, and I kind of like it. It’s nice not to be constantly at odds with Mercedes, and to trade favors even.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she says softly.
“It’s okay. He wants to give it another try, but I’m still deciding whether I want to.”
“No, don’t,” she snaps.
I jolt. “Why?”
“Because… when is it ever a good idea to give an ex another chance to break your heart? If you broke up, it was probably for a good reason. You should follow your instincts.”
I’m about to correct her assumption that he broke my heart, which he didn’t, when Andréa stops short. We’ve arrived at the Zelma’s Taphouse tent. Behind the long set of tables, I spot Marcus pouring beers from a tapped keg. Brie’s beside him, handing over food orders to waiting customers. They don’t see me, which is just as well. The way they move in tandem, shifting and sidestepping one another, is as seamless as a dance. Since Brie’s freak-out last month, things between her and Marcus have been better than ever. And for the first time in a long time, I really, really think they might stay that way.
“Should one of us grab a table?” Andréa asks us.
“I can, sure,” I reply.
“Great! What do you want for lunch? We’ll get it for you.”
I scan the menu board and blurt out the first thing I read. “A chicken sandwich, thanks.”
“And to drink?”
“Whatever’s on tap. A pale ale if they have it.”
She grins. “You got it.”
I give Andréa my tickets with another heartfelt thanks, and meander through the rapidly filling metal picnic tables clustered at the mouth of the tent. I steer away from where Glenn and five other summer associates and attorneys are sitting, toward a table in the far corner… near the Blooms & Baubles booth.
Perry’s tent is set up directly next to Zelma’s, and it sports a six-foot-tall, vertical Blooms & Baubles sign in brilliant purple and green. I can’t see Perry from where I’m standing, but several potted perennials and bins of bouquets peek out from the tent’s white flaps.
Stepping over one of the picnic table’s benches, I yank my phone out of my back pocket and sit with a huff. I glance at Frank, Andréa, and Mercedes who are already moving up in line, then back to the Blooms & Baubles tent.
Maybe I could duck in for a second to see how Perry’s doing…
No. Too risky. I’ve already had more than one close call being outed as a festival volunteer; I don’t need another. And I certainly wouldn’t earn any points if I left the table only to have it snatched up by someone else.
Jiggling my foot, I swipe open my phone. I attempt to distract myself with Instagram, but I barely see the images as I scroll. Clicking off my phone, I tap it against my palm, my eyes sliding to the Blooms & Baubles tent again.
Maybe I should text Perry…
He still hasn’t said anything about the mural. Granted, we’ve only exchanged pleasantries between frantic bouts of festival setup, but still… I wonder what he thinks about it. We also haven’t addressed our almost-kiss the other night or what that might mean for me and him… or for me and Devin and our future, or possible lack thereof.
Unexpectedly, the hair on my arms stands up. A green shirt and head of copper-brown hair flickers in the corner of my vision.
I look up to find Perry standing at the entrance to the Blooms & Baubles tent, talking to a customer, and my mouth goes dry. His smile is as carefree as ever, his posture relaxed as he chats. When the customer finally leaves, he turns and our eyes lock. Even with twentysome feet and the odd person weaving between us, I feel the scorching intensity of his gaze down to my toes. It’s as though we’re the only two people in the world.