The Anatomical Shape of a Heart(29)

“Those are gorgeous, aren’t they?” a soft voice said behind me.

I turned around to find a cute Chinese guy with tousled black hair and a labret piercing right below the center of his bottom lip. He pointed to the beads and then crossed his arms over his chest. “Yak bone from Nepal.”

“Oh, yeah. They’re pretty sweet.” Probably not the right thing to say about religious jewelry (sorry, philosophical jewelry, as Jack would say). And great—Mr. Yak Bone Expert was checking out my boobs. What was I thinking, wearing this top? Mom called it my Roman orgy shirt because it was white and the short sleeves split up to the shoulders while the rest of it was loose. But it was also pretty sheer, and if you looked closely, you could see my bra right through it; in the right light, you didn’t even have to look all that closely.

“The bone is inset with coral and the beads are supposed to promote good blood.…” He squinted at me for a second—my face, this time, not my boobs. “That is, circulation. Good blood circulation.”

“Rolling any kind of bead between your fingers would briefly improve circulation,” I pointed out.

He chuckled. “Probably Nepalese superstition, but it sounds nice.”

“Do they all have special qualities?” I asked, touching a black strand. Why was he staring at me so hard? Did I have something on my face? And was this guy just an overly friendly customer or someone who worked at the bookstore?

“Some. Those agates are supposed to repel negative energy, and this may sound like an odd question, but your name wouldn’t happen to be Beatrix, would it?”

Whoa. That was a mouthful of words. “Umm…”

“Hell.” He ducked his head and glanced around the store, but no one was nearby. “I mean, it’s you, right? The braids. I recognized you by your braids.”

My hand crept up the looping plaits I’d piled on the crown of my head.

“And you look like your portrait online.” He covered half his face with one hand. “Well, minus the gory muscles on one side.”

Of course. Duh. “You’re … Andy? Is that right? The guy who draws the comic with Jack?”

He grinned. “That’s me. Andy Wong.”

“No name tag,” I pointed out.

“Buddhists don’t wear name tags.”

“Uh—”

“That was a joke. I just left mine behind the counter.”

“Oh, that wacky Zen humor,” I said nervously.

“Your stuff is, like, whoosh.” His motioned over his head.

“Huh?”

“Your art. Out-of-this-world good. Very cool and retro with the gray-pencil vibe. Jack said you never do color.”

“Oh, thanks. And no—no color.”

He nodded his head several times, as if struggling for something else to talk about. “I didn’t expect you to be so wee. You’re like a tiny, gruesome pixie.” His eyes widened. He shook his hands and backtracked. “No, no. I mean your art is gruesome. Not you. Definitely not you.”

I pretended to smile, but what I was really thinking was:

Jack told him about me.

Jack told him about me, and he showed him my artwork.

Jack told him about me, showed him my artwork, and told him about my braids.

And perhaps because of all of those deep academic thoughts bouncing around in my brain, I interrupted Andy’s apologies and blurted out, “Is Jack here?”

“He’s—” Andy glanced behind me and smiled. My muscles froze, but it wasn’t Jack. Just a customer wanting to pay for some books. Andy excused himself and rang the man up while I craned my neck in every direction, seeking a safe place to settle my nervous gaze. When the customer finally left, I looked for Andy, but he was heading to a door in the corner.

“Hold on just a second,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

But he wasn’t. I waited forever. Okay, probably just five minutes, but it sure felt like forever, and it was long enough for another customer to walk up to the register. I shrugged at her like “Yeah, I don’t know where he is, either.” And just when I thought the lady might be upset enough to walk out (apparently Buddhism doesn’t automatically grant a person saintlike patience), the back door swung open and Andy walked into the store, breathless.

He wasn’t alone.

My heart springboarded into my throat.

Dressed in loose, old jeans, a black T-shirt, and a thin, ash-gray cardigan, Jack walked up to me and stopped, looking me over without saying anything. I knew he could probably see my bra through my shirt, too, but I was too busy studying him to care. I’d forgotten everything—how haunting his kohl-dark double eyelashes were, and the way his cheeks hollowed beneath his cheekbones. How his clothes smelled like name-brand fabric softener, not the cheap stuff my mom used.

“You cut your hair,” I said dumbly.

He ran his fingers through the pomp part of the pompadour, which was slightly less unruly. The sides and back had also been buzzed closer. “My mom said it was looking more old Elvis than young Johnny Cash, so I got a couple of inches whacked.”

“You look better than the last time I saw you. Rested, I mean.”

“That was a bad day. Things are better now.”

I nodded, waiting for more that never came. I finally said, “You endured.”