Living Out Loud (Austen, #3)(29)

Because she’s like a little sister, I told myself for the thousandth time, the steps of The Met in view. You only want to help her out because she’s young and innocent, and she asked you with that puppy-dog look on her face.

And because you want to kiss her, another voice in my head said.

Shut up, I shot back, hooking my back foot under the board, jumping with my front leg to shove the board around in a one-eighty. The wheels hit the ground with a punctuating clack that made me feel a little better.

When I looked up, I spotted Annie sitting on the steps with her big eyes sweeping across everything—the buildings stretching up around her, the people walking by, the fountain, the street, the cars, the hot-dog stands and back around in a circle again. It was warmer than it had been, and she’d traded in her peacoat for an Army-green military coat over a sweater the color of dusky sunshine. A sliver of her ankles showed, her jeans cuffed and worn, white sneakers turned into each other.

She caught sight of me and waved exuberantly, drawing a smile from me and quieting my nerves, though not before one final shock of warning zipped through me.

I jumped off the back of the board, popping it up with my back foot to grab it just under the trucks. Annie clapped as she walked to me, smiling.

“Man, that was cool. You just jumped off that thing and caught it in one motion. I would have been flat on my face,” she said with a laugh.

I smirked, feeling way more badass than I should for something as stupid as stopping. “With years of practice, you too can jump off a skateboard without getting road burn.” I pulled off my backpack and laid it down, pack up, to strap my board into the buckles. “I’m not late, am I?”

“No, I’m just early. I was so excited, I woke up at six in the morning like a crazy person.” She chuffed a laugh.

I hitched on my backpack. “You hungry?”

“Starved. I’ve been sitting here, smelling those hot dogs, for twenty minutes.”

“That’s some serious willpower.”

“What can I say? I’m determined. Plus, I couldn’t possibly eat one without you.”

“Good. I need a picture of your face the first time you eat a real dog. Come on,” I said, starting off in the direction of Phyllis’s stand. “Know what you want?”

She shook her head. “How do you like yours?”

“Chili and cheese, nice and simple.”

“Well, I have a lot of faith in your sandwich choices, so I think I’ll have what you’re having.”

I laughed as we approached the counter and ordered jumbo dogs from Phyllis herself, who incidentally had no idea who I was. And with dogs and a couple of water bottles in hand, we headed back to the steps.

Annie’s eyes were locked on the dog, her tongue slipping out to wet her lips as she sat down. “I’m salivating.”

“Wait, where’s your camera?” I asked, setting my dogs down before taking off my backpack.

“Oh! Here.” She rummaged around in her bag, extending the instant camera once she had it in hand.

“All right, open wide.”

Annie laughed, and I snapped a photo—it was too real of a moment not to.

She made a face. “I wasn’t ready.”

I shrugged. “That’s the danger of handing me the camera.” I slipped the photo into my back pocket and raised the camera again. “Go for it.”

And she did. I snapped it just as her eyes closed, her face softening with pleasure.

I set the camera next to her—she already had chili all over her hands—and took a seat next to her, reaching for my hot dogs, my mouth watering once it was in hand.

When I took a bite, a soft moan rumbled through me. “There is nothin’ like this in the whole world.”

“There really isn’t,” she agreed. “I had a hot dog at a baseball game once, but it had nothing on this. Like, this is what I imagined that would taste like, but it was just a cheap imitation.” She took another bite, humming her appreciation again.

“My brother and I used to come here all the time. We’d come to the park to skate and eat at Phyllis’s cart for lunch.”

“Huh. I didn’t realize she’d been here since the Clinton administration.”

“Hyuck, hyuck, baby. Laugh it up,” I teased. “Not my fault you weren’t even alive when Kurt Cobain was.”

She gave me a look. “And what were you? Seven?”

“Five,” I corrected.

She laughed. “And who got you into Nirvana at the ripe old age of five? Aren’t you the oldest?”

“My dad loves grunge. I knew all the words to Alice in Chains’ ‘Rooster’ by the time I was ten, and my younger brother, Tim, and I used to have air-guitar competitions. He preferred Soundgarden.”

“Please, tell me you got that on tape,” she said, still smiling.

“Our little sister, Sarah, was the camera girl.”

Annie laughed. “My older sister, Elle, would have been the camera girl in our family band. She’s…well, she’s shy and quiet, and she would much rather let me have the attention than to have it thrust on her. We’re polar opposites, which is why we’re so close, I think. She complements me, tempers me, and I complement her. My little sister, Meg, is a lot like me though, maybe even more gregarious. She would have taken home all the air-guitar medals.”