Love Will (13 page)

“I’m confused by the signs,” I announce with a laugh.

“Open,” she confirms in a silvery voice. “Come in.”

“Thanks.” I stomp the snow from my jeans and shoes and wipe them on the mat as best as I can, but as I walk into her restaurant, the rubber soles squeak with every step. I know I’m tracking water everywhere.

“You must not be from around here,” she says.

“I’m not. What gave me away?”

“No boots. No proper coat. A hat that may get you beat up in this town.”

“Twins fan?”

“Fortunately, I don’t follow baseball, so you’re safe in here.”

“Oh, good,” I laugh. “I do
own
boots and a coat. I just didn’t pack them for this leg of my trip. I didn’t expect a snowstorm so early in the season.”

“Can I assume you’re from New York?”

“City and state,” I confirm.

“You’re a little way from home.”

“Yeah.” I sigh, taking a seat at the counter in front of her on an old-fashioned, cushioned barstool. “Do you have a menu?”

“I do, but I can’t guarantee I’ll have what you want. Food delivery has been spotty since the storm hit… but you can try me.”

“I need comfort food,” I say, looking over the laminated card. “Chicken pot pie?”

“Ummm…” She considers my order for a few seconds. “It’ll take about forty-five minutes, but I can make it happen. It may not be the best you’ve ever had, but it will be warm and tasty.”

“First of all, I’ve got time. I’m not going anywhere if you’ll let me hang around. And secondly, anything other than beef jerky, pizza and potato chips would be heaven to me right now.”

“Cool. I’ll be right back.” Her thick, wavy hair falls naturally beyond her shoulders and sways as she walks. My eyes traversing down her body, I take note of the perfect curves of her waistline and behind. The fitted shirt and tight jeans she wears accentuate them both. I wonder if the environment I’ve been trapped in for the past few days is skewing my judgment, or if she really is the ideal specimen of all women.

You just haven’t gotten laid in a really long time, Will. Cool it.

Not including my encounter with Lola, it’d been eleven weeks. I’ve never gone this long without sex.

Impressive. Good man. Now try to get some.

Shut up, Will.

To get my mind off her, I get up to look around the restaurant. Glancing at the menu, I put two and two together–is she Mrs. Livingston? Shit.
Seriously, Will. Cool it.

Besides all of the dining booths and tables, there are rows of shelves featuring a little bit of everything. Tchotchkes, jewelry, frames, small craft items, knitted stuffed animals, and lots of other novelty things. I study a few of the objects with judicious eyes. I’m a smart man, but I have no idea what the purpose of many of the items would be. I move on to a stack of books, reading the titles on the spines quickly. There’s only one I haven’t read before, so I pull it from the pile and start reading it from the first page, not even bothering to see what it’s about. It’ll pass the time, whatever it is.

“Here.” I jump at her voice, not expecting her to be back, but happy she is. She rips open a new package of wool socks and hands them to me. “Take off your shoes and socks and put these on. And come sit by the heater. The last thing you want is to be sick on your vacation.”

“Oh, that’s very nice. Thank you. I’ll pay for them.”

“Don’t worry about it. They’re on the house. You’re the first human I’ve seen in more than twenty-four hours, so I’ve got hospitality to spare,” she says, her full lips forming into a smile that reaches her big, dark brown eyes.

“Well, thanks.” I take a seat on an old upholstered couch by the heater and remove my socks and shoes, rolling up my wet jeans to get them out of the way. “I’m actually not here on vacation. I’m here for work. Our tour bus is packed in snow down the street in front of the venue we played the other night when the blizzard rolled in.”

“The Maubry?”

“Yeah.”

“I love that place,” she says, taking a seat next to me once I put on the socks.

“It was awesome,” I tell her, grinning with her. “Great acoustics. Nice layout. Generously stocked green room.”

“Are you… someone I should recognize?”

I laugh. “Me? No. I play for Damon–”

“Damon Littlefield?”

“Yeah… you’ve heard of him?”

“You’re kidding, right?” she asks.

“Listen, I’ve known him since I was sixteen. He’s not famous to me. I’m still astonished every night to see all the people screaming for him.”

“I bet you have your share of fans,” she says.

“I’m just there for the music,” I say bashfully, holding up my hands in surrender.

“Sure you are,” she counters playfully, but suspiciously. “What do you do in the band?”

“I’m the lead guitarist.”

“Of course you are.”

“Why do you say that?” I say with a chuckle.

“All the sexy ones are.”

“Oh, boy,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You must have me confused with a drummer.”
Just not ours.

She giggles back at me. “Did you want something to drink while you wait for your food? I actually have some ice cold beer… locally brewed.”

“Water’s good,” I tell her.

“A musician who declines a beer. Recovering?” she asks, walking to an industrial-sized fridge and getting out two bottles of water.

“No. Just prefer water. So, if you know Damon and you like the Maubry, did you see our show the other night?”

“No,” she says, lifting a perfectly sculpted brow, “I don’t know if you’re aware, but there was a blizzard blowing through.”

“No, I got that,” I tell her with a friendly glare, “loud and clear. But still, it was a sell-out crowd.”

“Sell-out minus one, because I didn’t use my ticket.”

“Such a shame. Best show we’ve played. We were
really
good.”

“That’s what they all say,” she argues.

“But I don’t lie. I speak the facts.”

“All musicians lie.”

“Well, I’m not a musician then.”

“You just said you play lead guitar.”

“It’s just a hobby.”

“You also just said you were here for work.”

“Okay, so it’s my secondary job. I’m actually an astrophysicist.” She bursts out laughing. “That’s funny to you?”

“You don’t appear to be… how do I say this politely?
Studious
enough… to be an astrophysicist,” she says, examining me out of the corners of her eyes. I remember that she called me sexy earlier, and smile inwardly.

“Damon wouldn’t let me in the band if I carried my pocket-protector with me. He has a certain image, you know?”

“You are
not
a physicist of any variety.”

I challenge her with a steady gaze. She shakes her head. Standing, I look around the store until I find some canned sodas, reminding me of one of the most basic experiments Jon ever showed me when I was just a kid. “Not a physicist, huh? Can I buy these?”

“Sure,” she says, going behind the register and ringing them up.

“Now, is there a sink we can use? Something large enough to drop these in?”

“They’re clean…”

“Work with me,” I plead.

“Follow me.” Still in the wool socks, I follow this ideal specimen into the kitchen area to a deep basin, clean dishes stacked next to it. I plug the drain and begin to fill it with water.

“So, what’s going to happen when we put these two cans in this water? We’ve got soda and diet soda.”

“They’ll sink,” she says without hesitation.

“All right, the pretty lady says they’ll sink.”

“In the sink,” she adds laughing.

I look at her, judging her for her weak joke. She smiles cutely anyway.

“First, some basic science. The density of water is one gram per cubic centimeter. Do you remember that from high school?” I ask her quickly.

“Absolutely not.” I didn’t expect her to. I don’t expect most people to.

“Well, shit. Because if you think all musicians lie, then how will I convince you to believe me on this?”

“Why would you lie about science?” she asks.

“Exactly!” I say. “So anyway, to continue our lesson. Let’s drop in the cans. You take that one,” I say, handing her the regular soda, “and I’ll take this one. On the count of three. One… two… three.”

We both let go of the cans, watching hers sink to the bottom while mine floats to the top.

“So you’re a magician, not a physicist.”

“No, there’s
science
behind this. A can will float in water if its density is less than one gram per cubic centimeter; it will sink if it’s more.”

“But they’re both sodas!” she nearly yells.

“Ah, but one has real sugar, and the other is artificial.
Those
have different densities.” She smiles at me as I pull the sodas from the water. “Now which one did you want?”

“The one with real sugar, please,” she says politely.

“Did I convince you that I’m a physicist?” I ask her as I take a sip of the diet soda. I
hate
diet soda.

“No,” she says, “you convinced me that you paid attention in class in high school… and that you possibly have a photographic memory.” I’m so used to easy women, not ones that challenge me. I like this woman.

“Great,” I mumble, teasing her. “Let’s take this up a notch. Give me a piece of paper, and I’ll blow your mind.” She sets down her drink and walks to the counter where we first met, grabbing a pen and a notepad before returning to the kitchen. “What’s your name?” I ask her, having to know her name;
needing
to know her.

“Shea.”

“
Shea
,” I repeat. “I like that. It’s barely a whisper.
Shea
. More like a gentle breeze.” Her bottom lip falls open slightly as she looks at me in wonderment. I take pleasure in looking back at her, and linger in this moment. I clear my throat before it gets weird. “So, Shea, let me tell you about these two, thin disks. One is still, and the other has an original velocity of one meter per second.”

“You
are
a liar! You said you were a New Yorker, and here you’re spouting about meters again like some Canadian or something!” I know she’s joking with me, and I
love
that she is.

“About two-point-two-three-seven miles-per-hour. Better?” She looks at me, her eyes wide. “The calculations are simpler in meters, that’s all.”

“Continue,” she says. “Meters are fine.”

“Thank you.” I take the pen and draw circles on the paper, my hands shaking slightly, explaining the physics problem I remember from college. It was the first one I had to assist with in my first year as a TA, so I know it like the back of my hand. “So after this disk strikes the other, we have to find out the post-collision velocities, and their directions as relative angles to the original velocity. Got it?” I ask her.

“I have no clue what you just said.”

“Maybe it takes a physicist to solve this. Let me help you,” I say smugly. I go on to expound upon the conservation of momentum and the law of mechanical energy conservation to her, writing out the equations quickly, not really bothering to teach her, but rather to show off; to prove to her that I am what I say I am.

When I’m finished, Shea stares down at the paper for a few quiet seconds.

“But musicians lie,” she whispers. I throw the pen down and start laughing. She bites her lip, smiling, then adds, “Maybe astrophysicists do, too. I’ve just never met one.”

“They don’t,” I tell her. “And you’ve met one now. I’m Will.”

I help myself to another bottled water while Shea finishes preparing my meal in the kitchen, adding it to the tab I’ve been keeping a mental note of since I walked in. Sitting back down at the counter, the book I’d been reading falls open to the last page I’d read. It’s a romance novel, which explains why I’m not familiar with it. It’s actually pretty well written. The author has a more extensive vocabulary than
cock
and
heaving bosoms
, so already it’s broken my stereotype. It’s still pretty dirty, though.

“Are you enjoying that?” she asks as she brings out two trays of food.

“Not my typical genre, but I’m learning a thing or two.” I look up at her and grin. “Is this one yours?”

“No,” she laughs. “I run a book exchange here. You can take a book as long as you leave a book. Oh, but before you get too excited, we only take fiction here. I don’t want your text books.”

“I’d never give up my texts. So you haven’t read this one?” I pick it up and study the cover art, admiring the six pack on the guy in the billowing shirt.