until they are soft enough to stick.
“Ready?” I ask.
Tom nods. Stepping to the wall, we pick our spots. I take my gum out and hold it up. Tom does the same.
“One, two, three!” I press my pink wad of gum into the wall between two green ones. Tom’s gum lands in the middle of a patch of white globs.
“Awesome,” he says, giving me a smile. “And can I just say, Maggie no-middle-name Bower, it’s not every girl who would show a guy her disgusting, chewed-up bubble gum on a first date.”
I stare at Tom, processing the word “date.” This can’t be a date. There’s the Nash factor, of course. And obviously there’s the reality that I’m, well, I’m me. I look at Tom to see if it was a joke, but he’s fiddling with his phone.
“Time to document the moment.” Tom poses us in front of our additions to the wall, leaning his cheek in so it touches mine. The camera clicks, and Tom checks to make sure the photo worked. “Perfect,” he says.
I lead Tom out onto First Avenue. First is where the seedy side of downtown sort of butts up against the scenic side of downtown, where the homeless and the tourists overlap. As soon as we hit the sidewalk, I can feel Tom tense up.
“Maggie, maybe we should go back the other way.”
“No, it’s all right. I always come here when I’m in town.”
“Hey. It’s the cookie lady!” I hear after a few steps up First. A guy approaches, and Tom hesitates. The guy has clearly been on the street awhile, but I pull out a couple of wrapped cookies and hand them over. “What kind?” he asks.
“Peanut butter chocolate chip,” I say.
“Ooh, girl, I think I’m in love!”
I smile and we move on. I hand out cookies all along the block. Word spreads fast, and by the time we’re back at the market, I’m out of baked goods.
Tom hasn’t said a word the whole time, and I wonder just how much I freaked him out. We start down the stairs to the car before he speaks.
“You realize you’ve sent me right back to pondering the riddle-mystery-enigma thing?” he says.
I smile like an enigma should: mysteriously, without saying a word.
“How long have you been Saint Maggie of the Cookies?”
“I like to bake.”
“Maggie, it’s one thing to give your stuff away to suburban high school kids. But this . . . You really made some people happy today. And one of them is me.” He stops and turns to face me. He’s on a lower step, so our heads are almost level and I am looking right into those grassy eyes. “Thank you, Saint Maggie.”
I hold his gaze as long as I can, but it’s too much. I dig for my keys. “We’re going to get a ticket,” I say. “And the Troll is waiting.”
Chapter 13
We walk through Fremont, making our way to the Troll, a huge cement sculpture emerging from underneath a bridge. Tom climbs all over it, scaling the head, resting between the giant troll hands. He makes me take a ridiculous number of pictures of him in various poses.
I text one of them to Nash. He doesn’t respond.
By the time we get back on the freeway heading north, we are both exhausted but happy. The traffic lightens up a couple miles out of the city.
“Favorite part of the day?” I ask.
Tom rubs his chin, then starts ticking off things on his fingers. “The zoo, lunch, geoducks, gum wall, cookies, and the Troll.”
“In that order?”
“No, those are my favorites.”
“But that’s everything,” I say.
“Yep.”
I check my phone again to see if Nash has answered yet.
“Do you think he’s mad?” Tom asks.
“Probably.”
“You and Nash seem really different. I mean, from each other.”
“That’s true.”
“So can I ask?”
“How come we’re friends?”
“Yeah.”
“We just are.” Drops of rain start to freckle the windshield, so I turn the wipers on. “The way my dad tells it, when we were little, Nash and I were on the monkey bars at the same time, coming at each other from opposite ends. When we met in the middle, Nash stared me
“Ready?” I ask.
Tom nods. Stepping to the wall, we pick our spots. I take my gum out and hold it up. Tom does the same.
“One, two, three!” I press my pink wad of gum into the wall between two green ones. Tom’s gum lands in the middle of a patch of white globs.
“Awesome,” he says, giving me a smile. “And can I just say, Maggie no-middle-name Bower, it’s not every girl who would show a guy her disgusting, chewed-up bubble gum on a first date.”
I stare at Tom, processing the word “date.” This can’t be a date. There’s the Nash factor, of course. And obviously there’s the reality that I’m, well, I’m me. I look at Tom to see if it was a joke, but he’s fiddling with his phone.
“Time to document the moment.” Tom poses us in front of our additions to the wall, leaning his cheek in so it touches mine. The camera clicks, and Tom checks to make sure the photo worked. “Perfect,” he says.
I lead Tom out onto First Avenue. First is where the seedy side of downtown sort of butts up against the scenic side of downtown, where the homeless and the tourists overlap. As soon as we hit the sidewalk, I can feel Tom tense up.
“Maggie, maybe we should go back the other way.”
“No, it’s all right. I always come here when I’m in town.”
“Hey. It’s the cookie lady!” I hear after a few steps up First. A guy approaches, and Tom hesitates. The guy has clearly been on the street awhile, but I pull out a couple of wrapped cookies and hand them over. “What kind?” he asks.
“Peanut butter chocolate chip,” I say.
“Ooh, girl, I think I’m in love!”
I smile and we move on. I hand out cookies all along the block. Word spreads fast, and by the time we’re back at the market, I’m out of baked goods.
Tom hasn’t said a word the whole time, and I wonder just how much I freaked him out. We start down the stairs to the car before he speaks.
“You realize you’ve sent me right back to pondering the riddle-mystery-enigma thing?” he says.
I smile like an enigma should: mysteriously, without saying a word.
“How long have you been Saint Maggie of the Cookies?”
“I like to bake.”
“Maggie, it’s one thing to give your stuff away to suburban high school kids. But this . . . You really made some people happy today. And one of them is me.” He stops and turns to face me. He’s on a lower step, so our heads are almost level and I am looking right into those grassy eyes. “Thank you, Saint Maggie.”
I hold his gaze as long as I can, but it’s too much. I dig for my keys. “We’re going to get a ticket,” I say. “And the Troll is waiting.”
Chapter 13
We walk through Fremont, making our way to the Troll, a huge cement sculpture emerging from underneath a bridge. Tom climbs all over it, scaling the head, resting between the giant troll hands. He makes me take a ridiculous number of pictures of him in various poses.
I text one of them to Nash. He doesn’t respond.
By the time we get back on the freeway heading north, we are both exhausted but happy. The traffic lightens up a couple miles out of the city.
“Favorite part of the day?” I ask.
Tom rubs his chin, then starts ticking off things on his fingers. “The zoo, lunch, geoducks, gum wall, cookies, and the Troll.”
“In that order?”
“No, those are my favorites.”
“But that’s everything,” I say.
“Yep.”
I check my phone again to see if Nash has answered yet.
“Do you think he’s mad?” Tom asks.
“Probably.”
“You and Nash seem really different. I mean, from each other.”
“That’s true.”
“So can I ask?”
“How come we’re friends?”
“Yeah.”
“We just are.” Drops of rain start to freckle the windshield, so I turn the wipers on. “The way my dad tells it, when we were little, Nash and I were on the monkey bars at the same time, coming at each other from opposite ends. When we met in the middle, Nash stared me
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