The Best Laid Plans(17)

“Is it usually this empty?” Hannah asks.

“We do better in the morning when people want coffee,” James Dean says. “Now is kind of a slow time. Hardly anyone’s bought a DVD for like twenty years. Mostly collectors. Vintage types. Actually, there’s a regular who looks like a vampire. Blade. Not Twilight.” He steps up to a set of barstools by the counter and opens a little gate, taking his place behind the register. “I’m Dean.” He runs a hand absently through his mussed hair.

No way. I look over at Hannah and see her eyebrows rise and her mouth open. She begins to laugh and brings her arm up to fake a coughing fit. What are the chances?

“Your name is Dean?” I ask stupidly.

“Um, yeah,” he answers. “Why?”

“It’s nothing.”

Dean motions to the bar stools for me to sit. I look down at my wet clothes. My coat is actually dripping onto the floor, a puddle forming on the tiles beneath me.

“I’m kind of soggy,” I say. “I don’t think I should—”

“Please, these stools are a hundred years old, they’ve seen worse.”

“Actually, I should go,” Hannah says, turning to me. “Now that I know you’re okay. You’re okay?”

I nod.

“Great.”

“You just got here,” he protests. “Stay for a drink.”

She laughs. “This is supposed to be a job interview, actually. So I’m basically intruding. It’s not very professional.” She backs away, toward the door.

“Job interview?” he asks. “You want to work here?”

I shrug. “I saw your sign.”

“But you two have fun!” Hannah calls. “I’ll be in the car! Bye, Dean!” The little bell jingles as she pushes open the door, and then she’s gone. I clear my throat awkwardly and sit down on one of the bar stools. My wet pants feel cold on my legs. He begins rummaging through the cabinets under the sink and pulls out two glasses, setting them down on the counter. Then he pulls out a bottle of whiskey.

“So, what was your name again? Kelly?”

“Um, it’s Keely.” I pull at a loose thread on my coat, eager to have something to focus on besides my embarrassment and cold butt. Will I leave a wet mark on the stool when I stand up?

He unscrews the top of the bottle. “Would you like some whiskey, Keely?”

I glance behind me instinctively, like someone might be watching.

“I’m not allowed to have whiskey.”

“Not allowed?” He pours two glasses of amber liquid and then screws the cap back on. “Says who? If you’re not in control of your own body, who is?”

I feel a blush spread up my cheeks. “No, I mean, I’ve had whiskey before.”

I don’t know why I’m lying. I’ve definitely never tried whiskey. The only time I’ve even been tipsy is from drinking watermelon Breezers, which taste like Popsicles. Whiskey makes me think of Irish fishermen or old-timey cowboys—someone weathered and grizzled and clouded by pipe smoke, not someone like Dean with twinkling eyes and adorable dimples. The smell of the cup in front of me makes me slightly nauseated, but I lean toward him hesitantly.

“It’s just . . . I’m not allowed. I’m not twenty-one.” I bite my lip. “I’m still in high school.” My voice instinctively lowers, like I’m admitting something shameful.

“Cool. I’m twenty.” He shrugs. “But that’s just arbitrary, isn’t it? It’s your body. So why does someone else get to say what goes into it?” He picks up the glass nearest him and holds it up. “If you want to drink whiskey, drink whiskey. If you don’t, don’t. It’s as simple as that. So would you like some whiskey?”

He holds his gaze on mine, a smile in his eyes. I pick up the glass in front of me and clink it with his, then take a sip. He grins and takes a sip of his own.

It’s horrible—sharp and sweet at the same time, like old medicine. My throat is burning and my eyes begin to water, but I force myself to swallow. As I do, a warm feeling spreads across my chest.

“Better?” His face is cool and easy, like the whiskey hasn’t affected him in any way.

I cough a little. “I guess.”

“It should warm you up. I think I have a dry sweatshirt, actually, if you want to put that on. You look a little . . . damp.” He grabs a backpack, pulls a black EVmU sweatshirt out of it, and tosses it to me. Somehow, I catch it without spilling whiskey all over the counter.

“You go to EVmU?” I peel off my wet coat and pull the sweatshirt over my head. It’s soft and warm and smells like boy, in a good way. I have a flickering hope that maybe he’ll let me keep it, and I push the thought away before it can fully take root. I’m being ridiculous.

“I do,” he says. “Junior. Film theory.” He motions to the rows of movies behind him. “That’s why I work in this fine temple of the arts.”

I laugh, taking another hesitant sip of my whiskey. It still burns my throat, but a fluttery feeling is forming in my stomach.

“Seriously,” he says, grabbing a DVD off the nearest shelf. “This right here is a relic of the past.” He lays it down on the counter in front of me and taps its case with his index finger. “We’re in a museum of the obsolete. We’re about to fall away to time. Just by being here, you’re a part of history.”