Living Out Loud (Austen, #3)(14)

Annie unwrapped it with enthusiasm, her tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip and eyes bugging when she saw the massive deep-fried sandwich covered in powdered sugar.

“Oh my God, that looks incredible,” she said, reaching for her bag with her eyes still on the sandwich.

I angled closer and lowered my voice. “Wait until you taste it.”

Her eyes met mine for a split second of amusement before shifting to her hands, which held a pink Polaroid camera. She turned the sandwich forty-five degrees and took a picture, the flash blinding. A little undeveloped photo slowly ejected from the slot in the top.

I watched her, smirking.

When she met my eyes again, she looked a little sheepish. “Sorry, I know it’s weird. My dad gave me this old camera when I was little, and I was obsessed with taking pictures of everything. And it just kinda…stuck. I have about a million tiny photo albums; I especially like to document my firsts.”

“I like it. I feel like I forget everything. Here,” I said, extending my hand. “Let me take one of you eating it.”

She brightened, handing it over before turning back to her sandwich. She picked up the gigantic thing and turned it in her hands, opening her mouth but closing it again with a discouraged look on her face. “How in the world am I supposed to eat this?” she asked.

“One bite at a time.” I held up the camera.

She laughed before taking a deep breath, opening her mouth comically wide. And by God, she took the best bite she could, which was something to be proud of. I snapped just as she got it in her mouth, and when she set it down, a little half-moon was missing from the sandwich. Her mouth bulged, and powdered sugar dusted the tip of her nose and chin, but she didn’t seem to notice or care, not even when I snapped another photo.

Her lids fluttered closed. “Oh my God,” she whispered reverently around the bite. “How have I lived my whole life without this?”

A chuckle rumbled through me. “I honestly don’t know.”

“Mmm.” She swallowed and took another magnificent bite. “Mmm,” she hummed again with enthusiasm. “Dish ish sho good.”

“You’ve got a little something right here.” I wiggled my finger at my nose.

Annie set her sandwich down and picked up a napkin, swiping at her nose. “Did I get it?”

“Almost. Here.” I grabbed my own napkin, and with delicate care that sprang from somewhere deep in my chest, I brushed it against the tip of her nose, then her chin. “There you go.”

She laughed. “This sandwich might be too big for my face.”

I unwrapped my sub, too amused to be appropriate or healthy.

“I have a confession to make. I’m totally not supposed to eat any of this. I’m destined for a life of chicken and broccoli, but I sneak every chance I get. Don’t tell my mom.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

“I have this thing about trying things I’ve never done before,” she said. “Back home was…I don’t know. Safe and quiet and small. My world was small, but now I’m here, and here is just so big. I want to take advantage of that, you know?”

“I do,” was all I said before I picked up half of mine and took a bite, echoing her moan with my much deeper one. “Goddamn, that’s good.”

“Wanna split?” she asked hopefully.

“Absolutely.”

She dropped her half on the paper and dusted off her hands, swapping our halves. “It’s not as weird as I thought. The sweet and salty. Like, it still freaks me out if I think about it, so I’m just not gonna think about it.”

“Does it make your world feel a little edgier? Jelly on meat. Next stop, street drugs.”

That earned me a laugh that made me feel far too proud of myself.

“I wonder why they call it a Monte Cristo,” she said, looking at the layers of ham and Gruyére and jam exposed by her bite.

“Because it tastes like revenge.”

She let out a single Ha! “Sweet, sweet revenge. And to answer your question, yes, I really do feel like a bonafide risk-taker. Not that they didn’t have Monte Cristos in Boerne.”

My brow quirked. “Bernie? Like…Bernie Sanders?” It was the only Bernie I could think of on the fly.

“No, B-o-e-r-n-e. It’s named after a German poet. Six square miles of Texas Hill Country just outside San Antonio, population eleven thousand.”

I blinked at her. “I think there are eleven thousand people within ten blocks of here.”

“I know.” She smiled and took another bite that would have been rude if she wasn’t so goddamn cute.

“I can’t even imagine living somewhere so small. You’ve gotta feel claustrophobic here with all these people. Do you miss it?”

Her face fell just a touch as she swallowed. “Not really. I feel like maybe I should, or maybe it’s just too soon to miss it. I’ve only been here a week after all.”

“Why’d you move to New York?” I asked innocently, but judging by her reaction, it wasn’t a question that had an easy answer.

She stilled, almost shrinking before my eyes as she resituated her sandwich, eyes on her hands. “My father died.”

I lowered my sandwich, stunned. “I’m sorry,” I said softly, knowing intimately how poorly those words explained the core of my feelings while conversely encompassing everything I could possibly say or feel.