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Chapter FOUR

"My parents are rich," he says. "Not me."

"Mine are poor and so am I." I smile ruefully at him. "Believe me, it's different."

He pauses at the door of the coffee shop. "The basic issues are the same. Love, hope, disappointment, disaster."

I can see he believes this, and I don't know why I'm persisting, but I do. "Except that when you have a disaster you probably aren't facing eviction in a month. Someone will send you money."

"It's a bit more complicated than that."

His eyes again have that bright heat, evidence of pain buried somewhere in them. What happened to him? And really, why is he working as a cook in a restaurant if he really is a rich boy?

"Sorry," I say again. "I'm being pretty hostile, and you've been nothing but nice."

He gives a faint nod, and beneath the tiny gesture I can see that this is ongoing and deep, a pain that wrenches him. It makes me curious, and somehow we are one step closer before I know it, just talking with our eyes. His thumb moves on my upper arm. "How about that coffee, huh?"

"Sure." As we step inside, I say, "Isn't this against the rules, to go down the street for coffee when you work at a place that serves coffee?"

He grins. "Don't tell my boss."

There are approximately 900 billion coffee shops in this town, not including Starbucks, so I laugh. The Musical Spoon has set itself apart, selling special beers and all that tea in special pots, and bringing in the bands. This is just an ordinary coffee shop with little tables lined up along the window and a barista who gives us cups to fill up from vacuum thermoses. I stir in sugar and cream. He drinks his black, which is startling. "Isn't it bitter like that?"

"Yeah, but that's why I like it. I went to Italy when I was in high school, and they drink espresso. I learned to like it."

Mine suddenly seems unsophisticated, but I take a sip. It's heartening, easing my dark mood. "Have you traveled a lot?"

He shrugs. "Some. My parents like it. They took us around."

"Like where?"

He gazes at me steadily. "I don't want more class distinctions coming up."

I half-grin. "Class distinctions? Fancy." Teasing, which I hope he gets. Then I think maybe fancy sounds poor white trash and look down at my cup.

A silence falls. I finally look up and he smiles. His fingers loosen, relax around his cup. Is he nervous with me?

Mostly, guys talk to me, taking up the slack of my shyness, but he's been so good to me so far that I muster up my courage to make conversation. "Your boss asked me if I've traveled, and I told him I came here from New Zealand when I was little girl, but that was it. I'd love to go places, though."

"Like where?"

I glance up at the menu board, thinking, but the main thing that comes to me is that wavery memory I have of turquoise ocean and mountains rising into a blue sky. "I'd really like to go see my dad again, see if New Zealand really looks like it does in my imagination."

He nods. "I'd like to see the Outback in Australia. And the Terra Cotta Soldiers in China."

"China kinda freaks me out. Like, it's so gigantic and there are so many people, and-I don't know. What if you end up eating weird meat?"

He laughs. "That's travel, right? You take your chances."

"Don't you think some places are easier to visit than others?"

"Oh, yeah. Absolutely."

I sip my coffee. "Back to the original question, where have you been?"

He lowers his eyes, and I see that his lashes are long and thick and black. When he bends his head, the angles of his face are so elegant you could draw them with five lines. "We went somewhere every year. Europe, South America."

I kick him lightly under the table. "C'mon, deets, deets. Which countries?"

He raises his head and leans forward, catching the tip of my index finger between his thumb and forefinger. He holds it almost too firmly, but I don't pull away. His eyes are blazing bright aqua and green, the colors swirling together like a hypnotist's ring. He says, "Spain, England, Iceland, France-although I don't really remember it because I was young. Romania, Sweden. Then Patagonia and Brazil. I wanted to go to Peru but was voted down because it was dangerous right then."

His voice makes me think of a slow dance, easy and seductive. I blink. He blinks back. I realize that I've been watching his mouth, seeing the way his lips move as he shapes words, glimpsing his tongue and teeth. It sends a shiver down my spine, which finally wakes me up.

I sit up straight. Glance at my phone. It's nearly five. "I guess I need to go pretty soon."

"See, it scared you off, the list."

I meet his eyes, and it feels like I'm taking a very adult step when I say aloud, "It wasn't the list."

He smiles very faintly. "I know."

***

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