“Hobbies?”
“Yeah.”
“I used to read.”
“Used to?”
“Life got loud.”
I nod once. I know plenty about loud lives.
“What kind of books?”
“Mystery.”
My grin comes slow. “That right?”
“Do not make it weird.”
“Too late.”
“It was escape.”
“Ain’t judging.”
“You look like you are judging.”
She takes another sip of Firestarter. Still hates it. Still drinks it.
I point at the glass. “You like it?”
“No.”
“You keep drinking it.”
“I’m stubborn.”
“Yeah,” I say, eyes on hers. “I noticed.”
The booth gets too small.
The whole Fire Pit is loud around us. Glasses hitting wood. Bikers laughing. Cornbread running his mouth behind the bar. Somebody arguing near the jukebox like volume wins facts. But none of it cuts through the quiet that drops between me and Amelia.
She reaches for a fry the same time I do.
Our fingers brush.
She stills.
I still too.
Then I pull back first.
Not because I don’t want to touch her.
Because I do.
That is the damn problem.