Page 17 - GRANADA
P. 17

 cafe thrown in. Luz waits until the woman hangs up to ask: “How do you like it?”
“It’s perfect,” the woman says. “Just like my son makes it at home.”
A flash of white lightning streaks by and the woman is covered in lanky limbs and frantic French. Chatter fills the booth, and Luz chokes on their happiness, chokes on the familiar smell of dust and gratitude from a boy who used to give her a reason to want to leave the house. She knew she recognized the woman from somewhere. Maybe later that night, she would have excused the woman’s dimple as childhood nostalgia or a wonky memory.
But she can’t do that when the blur of a boy turns around and locks eyes with her. Lightsabers and snake bites flood her bloodstream in an instant. He’s taller and wider but his hair is the same vanilla ice cream and his eyes remember the girl who stayed by his side in the dirt.
“Luz,” he says, all statement as if he was expecting her.
"What are you doing here?” she says quietly.
“My mom and I moved back last week,” he says. “My grandmere
passed and we didn’t really need to stay in Paris anymore, so we came back. And Yelp said this is the best spot for coffee. Can I have a cup of whatever my mother has?”
Luz nods, as if she knows where he went or his grandmere or his life. Without a word, she moves back over to the counter and tries to covertly look at him.
She doesn't know what to do. As she tracks over his features, more freckles than bare skin and a scar running across his top lip, she doesn’t feel the tug.

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