Leroy's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

Leroy wore the orange flannel the next morning. He walked to the bookshop with a book from his own shelf, an old repair manual for engines. If she asked why he came, he could say he wanted a trade. It was a thin excuse. But it was better than nothing. The bookshop sat low and wooden, its shelves crammed to the ceiling. A bell rang when he pushed the door. The warm smell of paper hit him. Near the counter, a round possum sat in a crate. It lifted its head and stared at him with sharp orange eyes. Its lip curled, as if it had already decided he was trouble. Leroy froze in the doorway. The possum kept judging. His hand tightened on the manual. He almost turned around. Then Rori came out from behind a shelf, arms full of books. Red curls fell across her face. She saw him and stopped. Her silver eyes went wide, then soft. "Oh," she said. "It's you." Leroy opened his mouth. Nothing came out. His face did the thing it always did, the hard flat look that scared people. Rori didn't back away. She set her books down and tilted her head. "I thought about you," she said. "After the diner. I wondered if I'd see you again." She glanced at the possum. "Don't mind him. He hates everyone." Leroy looked at the possum, then back at her. The joke loosened something in his chest. He held up the manual. His voice came out low and rough. "I brought this. To trade. Engines." Rori took it. She flipped a page and smiled. "You fix things." She said it like it mattered. "I can't fix anything. I just draw it." "I know," Leroy said. "You drew me." Her cheeks went pink. "I did." She set the manual on the counter and kept her hand on it. "You came by yourself. No brother this time." "He wanted to come." Leroy swallowed. "I told him no. I wanted you to meet me. Not him." Rori went quiet. The possum shifted in its crate. She looked at Leroy for a long moment, the way she had at the diner, past the face, into whatever sat behind it. "Good," she said. "I like meeting you." She tore a strip of paper from a notepad. She wrote on it and pressed it into his hand. Her fingers were warm. "I close at six on Thursdays," she said. "There's a diner I like. If you want." Leroy looked down. Her number. Her handwriting, small and round. He'd walked in with a thin excuse and no plan. He was walking out with this. "Thursday," he said. Rori grinned. The possum glared. Leroy stepped back into the cold, the paper folded tight in his fist. He hadn't frozen for good. And she'd asked him, not the other way around.