Bar Crawl(5)

CJ reached above my head and took down a book. While I could typically navigate around the library blindfolded, with him around I suddenly had no idea which section I was in. I kept my focus on the tiny numbers printed on little white stickers to guide my movements.

He spoke again when he returned the book to its place. “You’re dressed the same as you were the last time I saw you.”

I scrunched my eyebrows and eyed him up and down. “So are you,” I said, motioning to his worn, but not tattered, jeans and a t-shirt, snug in the shoulders with a faded design. A shamrock maybe. “What’s your point?”

CJ crossed one arm over his abdomen and rested his other elbow on it, scratching his freshly shaven chin. His face never held more than a days worth of scruff. “I don’t know that I have a point, other than pointing it out. I thought you were a teacher.”

“I am.” I scrunched my eyebrows and faced him. “How did you know that?”

He sighed comically. “You’re really going to make me work for this, aren’t you?”

I stopped what I was doing and rested a hand on my hip. “I’m trying to keep it short to get you out of here faster, just in case, you know, the ceiling crashes down around you.”

CJ covered a rough snicker with an exaggerated cough. “This isn’t a church.”

Picking up a book of Emily Dickinson’s earliest poetry, I held the yellowing paper to my nose and took a deep breath, grinning on my exhale. “It’s my church. How’d you find me here, anyway?” In the whirlwind of his towering presence and impossibly good smell, I’d glossed over important details. Like how the hell he knew I’d be here.

“Middle school English teacher from Albany, New York. Graduated from UMass, completed your graduate work during your first two years teaching…”

CJ rambled off facts about my professional life as he ran his hands over my blessed sacraments, stopping at Frost, plucking it from its spot. He paused his factoid spiel long enough to flip to the middle of the book, as if he’d been looking for that page all along. His lips moved, but no words came out, then, suddenly, he closed the book and put it back exactly where he’d gotten it from. A satisfied smirk perched on his lips.

I was growing more flustered by the minute, running out of snarky material to repel him with. “I’ve never given you my last name. How’d you know how to look me up?”

CJ waved his hand in the air. “The internet is idiot proof, Frankie. Hyannis isn’t that big, and, luckily for me, you work for a public school. I’m not interested in all that stuff, though.”

“Oh,” I snipped. “You’re not interested in what I do for a living?”

His smirk turned into a full smile. “Now I am. I just wanted to make sure you were passionate about it. Defensiveness is a good sign.”

“What if I wasn’t?” I questioned.

He leaned in closer, and I could feel his breath on my neck. “I’d find something you were passionate about.”

Swallowing hard, I fought the words on my tongue. I wanted to spit back the things I knew about him. CJ Kane, drummed his way up and down the Cape and across most of New England since he’d been able to work a pair of sticks into something magical. I guessed we were roughly the same age, but from what I could find, he hadn’t gone to college for music, if he even went at all. Really, that was all I knew about him. I couldn’t say for sure if he had a paying job other than the gigs at local bars. Frankly, there was more information on the internet about his wildly successful cousin, Regan. Regan was a professional musician, a violinist—one with a contract with Grounded Sound Entertainment. He’d been raised in Cape Cod, as well, but had professional music training which he was clearly using to his advantage.

I thought maybe it was best to not mention his cousin, though. In case it was a sore spot. I didn’t want him to think I cared, though, because I didn’t know what he would do with such information. I wasn’t his type, and I was fairly certain he wasn’t mine, though I didn’t really know what mine was.

With a deep breath, I thought back to the last time I saw him at that Finnegan’s place. “I figured you spent most Saturday mornings exhausted from your Friday night activities.” I paused and raised my eyebrows slightly.

“I work out.” He grinned in an almost instigating sort of way.

“I’m working,” was the only thing I could manage to say.

“Okay,” he conceded. “Meet me for lunch sometime. Next week?”

I rolled my eyes. “Sure. Next week. Now, apparently, you know where to find me.”

What did I just agree to?

Without another word, he turned on his heels and walked awkwardly through the long row of shelves, nearly having to turn sideways as they were quite narrow and he was anything but. Once he was out of sight, I lowered my head and exhaled loudly, wondering how a relative stranger I’d seen only a handful of times over the past year could weasel his way into my most private thoughts.

Three hours later I was through with my shift and ready to head for home. I had a long afternoon of grading essays ahead of me and was looking forward to dialing up my ‘90s internet station, drinking some Diet Dr. Pepper, and getting to it.

As I opened the back door of the library, I was greeted with gorgeous sunlight. And the sight of CJ resting against the hood of his car, arms crossed and facing the door.