“I’m not getting out of the car.”
And then we see him—the guy from yesterday, with the eyes like melted chocolate and the windblown brown hair. James Dean. He emerges from inside the video store holding a big square chalkboard and then props it up on the sidewalk. Crouching down in front of it, he pulls a piece of chalk out of his pocket and begins to write. I squint but can’t make out what it says.
“Okay, maybe I’ll get out of the car.”
Hannah turns to me with sparkling eyes. “Do you think he works there?”
“Unless he’s vandalizing the storefront.”
James Dean turns in our direction, and we both instinctively back away from the window. He rubs his hands together and blows into his fingerless gloves, little puffs of steam rising in the air. I can just barely see his shirt from here, black, SCORSESE written across the front in block letters. It’s amazing.
I pull down the passenger-side visor and study myself in the little mirror. My hair is falling out of its braid, and it looks a bit like I’ve just gone for a run. But maybe James Dean will think I’m athletic. Probably not.
“Do I look okay?”
“You are a beautiful unicorn princess,” Hannah says. “Now let’s go.” And before I have a chance to object, she jumps out of the car, yellow boots crunching into the snow. By the time I climb out after her, she’s already halfway across the parking lot, easily maneuvering over the slick patches of ice.
“Hannah, wait!” I call out, trying to catch up. The ground is slippery beneath my feet, and I’m trying to go as fast as I can while remaining upright. She’s almost at the sidewalk now, and turns once she’s hopped up onto the curb. James Dean turns too, and from this distance, I can see that his cheeks and the tip of his nose are flushed pink from the cold. It’s adorable.
And then my boot catches on a thin patch of ice and I slip, falling backward into a wet pile of slush. My elbow is throbbing when it hits, and I can already sense the bruise forming on my tailbone. I can feel the cold seeping through my pants—snow finding its way into places snow has no business being—but the heat spreading across my face is worse. This is not the kind of grand entrance I wanted to make. I lie back for a second, letting the embarrassment wash over me, avoiding the moment I’ll have to face James Dean. Maybe he didn’t see me fall. Maybe he turned back to the chalkboard at just the right moment, and I can still get up and scramble away and come back tomorrow shiny and new.
“Keely!” Hannah’s voice calls, high and sharp. I sit up, dizzy, turning in her direction, and then I see it—a bright red car is sliding right at me over the ice. The driver blasts on the horn and I scramble to my feet. As the car turns sharply, slush sprays in all directions, and I careen myself toward the sidewalk. I land hard on my hip, bruised but out of the way.
The car skids around me, finally coming to a stop. The driver rolls down his window, his face blotchy and purple.
“This is a parking lot, you dumb bitch! What are you doing? Making snow angels?”
“Hey!” says a deep male voice behind me. James Dean is waving a piece of chalk at the driver. “She fell. Give her a break!”
“I almost ran her over!”
“Exactly! Maybe you should slow down.”
“Whatever,” the driver huffs. “You’re lucky I’m not calling the cops.”
“Yeah? Let’s call them.” James Dean’s voice is firm and steady. “You almost killed this girl.”
“Go to hell!” The driver clucks his tongue and backs away, slush spraying out from under his tires. And then he’s gone. The calm of the parking lot falls over us, and we stand for a moment too long in silence. My heart is thudding like crazy and my mouth feels dry, adrenaline coursing through me.
“Are you okay?” James Dean puts a hand on my shoulder and I jump at the contact, still dazed.
“Keely, you almost died!” Hannah grabs on to my other arm. Her eyes are watery.
“I’m fine,” I try to say, but the words get caught. I clear my throat and try again. “I’m fine.”
“That started out pretty funny, but now I feel bad for laughing,” James Dean says with a slight grin, showing off a set of perfect dimples. “You should come inside. You want some tea? Coffee? Whiskey? We have it all.”
I let him steer me into the store. My thoughts are still fuzzy, whether from the shock or from the heat of his hand on my shoulder, I can’t tell. A little bell jingles over the door as he pushes it open. Walking by, I glance down at the chalkboard and see that it reads:
I SPEAK SIGN LANGUAGE
The store looks just like I remember, but maybe a little more bleak—the floor is made of peeling linoleum and illuminated by dim fluorescent lights. In front of us is a curved glass counter filled with pastries and bagels, and behind that the wall is lined with textbooks. The rest of the space is filled with DVD cases, covering the walls and piled onto rolling racks. Andrew and I used to love exploring those racks when we were kids. We’d pool our allowance together and ride our bikes here in the summer. Even though we could probably find whatever we wanted online if we tried, this place felt like more of an adventure. But then we grew up and stopped coming. Seems like we’re not the only ones. There are no customers or other employees around; we’re the only people inside.
“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.