Page 9 of Gatsby's Starlet
The pause stretched just long enough to build anticipation before her reply came through.
Evie:212 Tanner Road. Also, if the coffee tastes like regret, I reserve the right to complain.
A quiet laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it.
Me:It tastes like 1959. You’ll survive.
Evie:That sounds threatening.
I stared at the screen longer than I should have, thumb hovering like I might add something else just to keep her there a little longer, but I didn’t, because I didn’t want to push it, didn’t want to wreck something before it even had the chance to take shape.
I slid the phone back into my pocket and looked out across the lot, bikes angled in uneven rows, oil stains dark in the pavement, the neon bolt buzzing over the door, everything exactly the same as it had been an hour ago.
Nothing had changed. And something had.
I’d met women before, plenty of them, the kind who saw the patch before they ever saw me, who leaned in and offered a good time, who liked the image more than the man that came with it.
Evie didn’t do any of that.
She walked past me and went straight to the wall.
She saw Coon in the center without needing the whole damn speech about loyalty and blood and the way some men matter long after they’re gone; she noticed the towel in my hand and the way I fold it when I’m thinking; she argued about pancake density like it was a serious point of principle and asked about the jukebox like its honesty decided whether the whole place was worth stepping into.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, something in my chest shifted and settled, not explosive, not loud, not the kind of spark that burns hot and fast, but heavy, like weight finding its place and deciding to stay.
Love?
I don’t do love.
Things in my world burn quick and burn out just as fast, and that’s always been easier—no waiting, no wondering, no dealing with what comes after.
This didn’t feel like that.
It felt slower. Heavier. Like something that didn’t go up in flames, but stayed.
And that got under my skin worse than any fast burn ever could, because fast you can walk away from. Slow… slow means you’re still there when it settles.
But for the first time since I can remember, I wasn’t thinking about how it would end. I was standing there in the dark lot, thinking about how careful I’d have to be not to screw it up before it even had a chance to start.
That sat heavier than I liked.
CHAPTER FOUR
I WOKE UPbefore my alarm.
Which was irritating, because if I was going to be nervous, I would have preferred the illusion of rest first.
The house was still quiet, morning light barely slipping through the lace curtains I’d found at an estate sale three years ago and refused to replace even though one panel had a tear near the hem that I kept meaning to mend. The air carried that soft early-spring coolness that made Charleston feel almost gentle before the humidity settled in for the day.
I lay there for a minute, staring at the ceiling fan turning slow and constant above me, trying to decide whether what I was feeling was excitement or impending doom, probably both, because it was just breakfast, and I knew that, kept telling myself that, except it didn’t feel likejustanything.
I rolled onto my side and looked toward the small bookshelf near my bed, the spines arranged by height instead of genre because symmetry soothed me more than theme, and let myselfsit with it honestly, without dressing it up into something safer or easier to ignore.
I wanted to see him again, and that was the part that felt dangerous, not obligation, not pressure, not something expected or inevitable, but want, plain and simple, and somehow that made it harder to push away.
I got up before I could overthink it into paralysis and padded barefoot across the worn hardwood floors, the boards creaking softly in places I’d memorized well enough to step around at night without thinking. The house wasn’t large, one bedroom, a narrow galley kitchen, a living room that doubled as a workspace when I needed to repair a chair or refinish a side table, but it was mine, and every corner of it held something I had chosen deliberately.
A mint-green rotary phone sat on the small entry table, fully functional because I’d rewired it myself just to prove I could. A mid-century record player rested against the far wall beside a crate of vinyl sorted by mood rather than artist. The couch was reupholstered in warm mustard fabric that most people called “bold” in a tone that meant “concerning.”
