Let's thicken that plot, shall we? :)

Katie

I think Leslie will have to drag me to the end of this group project. And by me, I mean my dead body, because Rich is killing me slowly. It's okay, Leslie's more than happy to do it. She's told Jordan and I several times.

I've finally decided Leslie isn't that bad. She will never be Ashley (or Shelby, Leah, Nessie, insert other imprints here), but she is here for now and we get along well enough. Friends by proximity still counts when you're in the proximity, right?

They must, because we've decided to start saving spots for each other at the library during our lunch. Just the two of us. It's a nice break to be away from Jordan.

He's weird, and I know Seth's not crazy about him. Or he wasn't the last time they met, at least. Lately, Seth's all fired up over Adam and Leah, and doesn't have much time to be crazy about anything else. Including me.

Between my work schedules, class, homework, and this damn group project (sorry God), and all Seth's goings-on with his job, patrol, and Jacob's damn cabin (again, sorry), Seth and I are ships in the night. I don't think we've eaten dinner together in two and a half weeks. My heart pangs just thinking about it.

"You okay?" Leslie asks on this particular Thursday. When it's just the two of us, she talks less. Still a lot, but less. Maybe because somehow, when it's just us, there's less awkward silence to fill. "I'm here if you want to talk about it."

I slide my philosophy book shut slowly. I really do want to talk about it, but Leslie can't know the half of it. I rest my elbows on the edge of the table, spinning my rings. "I just haven't seen a lot of Seth lately. I miss him."

"Where's he been? Are you both really that busy?" Her brow is furrowed, and her pen is still poised over her notebook. She must not have been expecting me to answer so honestly.

I sigh. "His sister has a new boyfriend, and it's kind of a messy situation and Seth just doesn't like it all that much. And he's helping his friend remodel a cabin on top of his normal job."

Leslie nods slowly, flipping her pen end over end on her page. She hasn't capped it, so every second turn a little dot of neon green ink graces her page. "How messy?"

It's really not my business to share. Not at all, but who is Leslie going to tell? I don't know why I want her to be my friend if I never have time for friends in my schedule as-is, and if we'll likely never see each other again after we graduate. I open my mouth anyway. "He's married."

Her gasp is perfectly loud and theatrical, and it turns a few heads. She flushes, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear and we giggle as we duck down. "Oh, my God. So dramatic. I love it. Is it one of those 'he's going to leave' things and then he just doesn't ever leave?"

"It is exactly that," I say. "I feel so bad for her."

Leslie nods understandingly. "Of course, how could you not? The same thing happened with my cousin. Well, sort of. Basically, she was the married one and she found out that her husband had an affair with a woman in Redding and had a whole other family. Like children and dogs and pictures on the holiday card type shit."

My stomach sinks, because I realize I don't know much about Adam. I know what Leah told me, what Seth's been able to drag out of her. But it's not enough for me to be confident that he doesn't also have those things.

My phone vibrates on the table with a text, probably a group message. There are a few options from there. It's either the one with all the wolf pack girls, where it's likely to be Leah freaking out about Adam, Nessie freaking out about Jacob, or Emily freaking out about the baby (which is still a month and a half away, but Emily swears could happen at any moment).

Or it could be the group chat I have with Leslie and Jordan. And since Leslie's sitting here in front of me still rambling about the mess her cousin had to drag herself out of, my money's on Jordan. Seth's penchant for gambling with the wolves has rubbed off on me.

I owe myself five dollars, because when I peer down, I see – Jordan Johnson: Stopping for coffee. Do you want anything?

Coffee sounds amazing, because it's still too cold outside for me to be enthusiastic about walking to class later. I type back – Latte would be great, thanks so much :) and lock my phone.

I have to pick it right back up again when it buzzes, and I see his response – Where are you? Wherever it is, be there in ten :)

Since the library is so small, there's only a few places students can congregate around the books. I send him our coordinates, because Leslie's picked up her pen again and is back to taking notes and doesn't seem that interested in putting in her own coffee order. Her phone's still face down on the table.

Jordan arrives on schedule, ten minutes later, and sets my coffee down in front of me.

"Um, hello?" Leslie asks, waving a hand in front of his face, snapping her fingers at him. "Where's mine?"

My brows crease together as I watch Jordan's expression turn sheepish, a hint of color blossoming high on his cheekbones. "He sent it in the group text," I say.

"No, he didn't," Leslie says, pulling it up and showing me her phone. Sure enough, his coffee message isn't there. "Not cool, Jordan. Playing favorites. I'm going to make your next portrait look especially disgusting for this. Honestly? I was just thinking about how good coffee sounds right now."

Jordan doesn't answer, just shrugs as he pulls the chair out next to me and slides in it. I know he's looking – staring – at me, but I'm busy scrambling for my phone to figure out what in the world is going on.

I realize a few things at once. As Leslie said, Jordan didn't text the group chat like I originally thought. He texted me personally. Maybe not a big deal. But instead of the friendly, perfectly fine smiley face I thought I sent him, I actually mistyped and sent a flirtatious, not okay winky face.

"I had a typo," I blurt, heat filling my cheeks as I meet his eyes. He looks confused, so I elaborate. "I meant to send a smiley face. I was rushing. I didn't mean to send the wink."

Leslie scoffs. "If I send you a wink will I get coffee, Jordan? I will send anyone a wink if it means I get sustenance."

"Have some of mine," I say, pushing it across the table to her. "I can't drink the whole thing, or I'll be bouncing off the walls."

That's not true, not at all. I could drain it easily, and probably still want another. But I don't know what this coffee means to Jordan, and I'm starting to get the feeling it doesn't align with what it means to me.

I do know, though, that Leslie will be bouncing off the walls after she has half. She'll get more talkative and will therefore fill the awkward silence in which I know that Jordan is staring at me, but I refuse to meet his eyes. Like now.

"See, Jordan? What a nice, friendly gesture," she drawls, enunciating the friend. Her tone is sharp and I'm not sure why she felt the need to draw attention to the word. Can she feel my stomach churning, all the way across the table?

I consider asking to switch groups, and immediately feel stupid. Jordan's fine. Overly friendly, but nice. And besides, our entire grade hinges on two completed portfolios, of the same person over time. Rich has said multiple times, in multiple different ways, absolutely no switching.

My only choice is to Leslie like a life preserver to get through this group project. So that's what I plan to do.

"Oh, Katie," Leslie asks, wasting no time in scooping up the coffee cup and popping the lid off. "Did you bring that portfolio?" She's doing a great job of still ignoring Jordan, even as she takes a big chug from my cup.

I ignore him, too, even though his gaze is sharp in my periphery. "Shoot, no. I meant to tell you, I still can't find it. I think I know where it is, though."

Leslie's in the Nature and Wildlife Photography class I dropped this semester, a detail she didn't let slip by unnoticed. I feel like I'm in the class anyway, for all the feedback I've provided her.

She asked to see my photo collection from Mount Rainier, but I can't for the life of me find it. I've turned our house upside down and right side up again, and it's just not there. I've come to the conclusion that it must be at Leah's. Which is weird, because the last time I remember having it, it was definitely at home.

"Also," Leslie says with importance, "I can't meet on Saturday like usual. My brother's getting married in September, and we're going bridesmaids dress shopping in Seattle."

Jordan clears his throat, but when he speaks next, he still sounds raspy. "That's okay. We can still meet without you."

"Are you sure?" Leslie asks, but she's not looking at Jordan. She's looking at me.

She must be a mind reader, of the Edward Cullen variety. Or maybe I'm just easy to read. But if that's true, why isn't Jordan reading me?

"Yeah, that's fine," I murmur, hardly opening my mouth as I flip my textbook back open. "I should study."

I decide to go to Leah's on Friday after work in Port Angeles to look for the portfolio. If it's not here, I'll just have to rebuild it. Which honestly sucks, because it took me weeks to decide what prints to use and in what order.

Maybe if she's here, I can pick her brain about the Jordan thing, see if she thinks I'm reading into it, being dramatic. Ashley does. Shelby doesn't. I do. Seth doesn't. The score is tied.

Leah lives on a relatively residential street, and cars and a work truck line the road in front of her house. Her car is absent; she must still be at work.

I send her a text, because I feel gross about going into her house unannounced when she's not home – Going to let myself in to your house. Looking for one of my portfolios. In and out in ten minutes.

I wait for her to answer, but she doesn't, even though I give her a full song and a half. With a sigh, I pull the hood of my jacket up and push open my creaky door.

Even though I'm shrouded in my raincoat and wearing a sweatshirt underneath, the cold and rain still bite at me as I rush to the door, fumbling with numb fingers to slide the key in the lock.

I slide through the threshold, shutting the door behind me as I catch my breath from the cold-weather sprint. As my breathing mellows, I hear a sound that is both familiar and unfamiliar. It takes me much longer than it should for my brain to recognize the sounds of sex. Of course, that's about the time I realize I am not alone in this room.

"Sorry!" I blurt as the same time as the man currently on top of Leah (nice to meet you, Adam) says "Fuck" sharply, scrambling for a blanket.

I immediately tuck tail and fling the front door open again, cheeks blazing.

"Katie, wait," I hear Leah call behind me. She has the audacity to sound amused.

I am hot and sweaty, although thirty seconds ago I was numb and shaking. I peel out of my rain jacket, but it's not enough, so I peel off my sweatshirt, too. The rain pelts at my arms. It's still not distracting enough.

This is the most embarrassing moment of my life. I can tell no one, probably not even Seth. I think he'd be more mortified than I am. I think I'd rather be back on the kitchen table, on the other end of things, than have to witness that again.

The door swings open, but I don't want to look at who's come to talk me down. I don't want to make eye contact with Leah ever again, now that I know what she sounds like when she's—

"Katie," she says. "It's okay. Come inside. Put your clothes back on."

I bark a laugh, pressing my icicle fingers to my cheeks in an attempt to squelch the heat. "You put your clothes back on."

She laughs. "It was bound to happen eventually."

I'm pacing a rut into her damp grass. "I should have waited for you to text back. I didn't realize he was going to be here."

"It's okay, I didn't either. He picked me up from work." She sighs, loud and agitated. "Come on, seriously. You're getting frostbite."

"Leah, I'm sorry, but I will never be able to look at your boyfriend again. You don't even need to invite me to the wedding." I think I've picked up Leslie's habits of filling awkward silences with incessant babbling.

"We're getting married?" a deep voice says from the doorway. "Were you going to tell me?"

My cheeks blaze as I continue to pace and stare at the ground. I don't know how I'm still standing, considering every drop of blood must be behind my cheeks.

Leah laughs. "Katie's being a little dramatic."

"She's going to get frostbite. It's snowing." His tone almost matches Leah's. Joking. "I'll make some tea."

Heavy footsteps retreat, and when the door closes softly, I finally dare a peek at the porch.

Leah's leaning, arms crossed, against the railing. She's both relaxed and amused. I wonder how much confidence a person needs in order to look like that after you've been interrupted during sex.

"I just need my portfolio," I say, my foot nearly slipping from under me. "For school."

She nods, tilting her head toward the door. "And to defrost. For real, you're turning purple."

I groan, because I know she won't let me leave, and stomp toward the stairs. "That's not from the cold."

Adam's in the kitchen when I finally force myself to enter. True to his word, he's making tea. As much as I want to deny that I want it (maybe even need it), I can't. I'm shivering again now that my face isn't on fire.

Leah hauls me to the couch, but I plant my feet. "I'll stand," I say.

"Jesus Christ, Katie," Leah laughs. "I still eat off the table."

"What happened on the table?" Adam asks curiously, bringing two mugs of tea over. I don't miss the way his eyes flick to the table he's probably eaten off of.

It's the first time I get a good look at him. He's tanned (how, honestly? It's Washington), with sharp cheeks and dark eyes. He's older, probably mid-thirties, made obvious by his deep smile lines as his face lights up in a grin. He's not looking at me, though.

"Thank you," Leah says, accepting the mug from him. Both of their hands stay clasped around, and as I glance back and forth between the two of them, my stomach stirs. Somehow this moment is just as intimate as the one I interrupted five minutes ago. Maybe more so.

Adam breaks his gaze first, extending the other mug of tea out to me. "Peace offering."

I swallow thickly, and I accept the mug if only to have something to do with my hands. "Thank you. And sorry."

"No worries. I'm Adam Baker. It's nice to finally meet you."

I'm glad he doesn't offer his hand to shake, because this mug is the perfect temperature, and I don't want to ever let go.

"Adam, this is Katie, my sister." Leah doesn't tack 'in-law' on the end like I'm expecting, and it's jarring.

"I've heard a lot about you," Adam says.

I've seen a lot of you. "Likewise," I manage to choke out, head still spinning from Leah's words. They're both acting like it's totally normal for them to have been interrupted five minutes ago and be having adult introductions now.

Today is weird. I feel drunk.

Leah plops onto the couch, taking care not to spill her mug, and she tilts her chin at the open chair next to the couch. That's good. I can sit there. I can act normal.

Adam retreats for a third mug and settles onto the couch, dropping his arm behind Leah's shoulder. Another thing I never thought I'd see? Leah snuggles into his side. Is this what I'm like around Seth?

"So Leah told me you're a photographer," Adam says. "That's really cool."

Color returns to my cheeks. "I'm still in school," I hedge. "But yes, I guess technically I am."

Leah rolls her eyes. "Katie's being modest. She's won tons of contests. She's amazing." Leah leans forward, shuffling a magazine out of the way to pull my missing portfolio from the coffee table.

"I've been looking for that everywhere," I murmur. "Yes, Leah, you can absolutely borrow that."

She laughs, pulling it into her lap. "I want to show you something."

I take a tentative sip of my tea, and it warms me from the inside out. Adam's a good tea maker. I'm usually a coffee girl, but this might convert me. After another indulgent sip, I say, "You want to show me something from my own portfolio?"

Leah flips through the first few pages until she finds whatever she's looking for, holding it out for me.

I set my tea on the end table before I accept the book from her. It's flipped open to a picture I took at Mount Rainier, of one of the visitor's centers. Leah couldn't shut up about the windows when she saw it. For whatever reason, she loved them.

"Yeah, I know. The windows. What am I supposed to be—" I stop short. On the opposite page, is the contact information for the architect who designed the installation, captured in a photo of its own. There, whittled in ancient oak, is the name Adam Baker.

"Whoa," I breathe, running my finger over the cellophane covering. "Small world." I look up, eyes wide. How is this possible?

Leah nods like she's reading my mind. "I know. Crazy."

"When Leah told me, I thought it was insane," Adam says. "I did that installation like four years ago. I hardly remembered it until she showed me."

There are so many things I want to say, ask. But nearly all of them involve the imprint, and I'm almost certain he doesn't know about that yet. I force a tight smile. "You do great work," I say. "It's beautiful. It's art."

"Your photos make it look better than it is," he counters. "I wish you could photograph all of my installations. For my website."

"She can do Jacob's," Leah inserts. "I'm sure Jacob has some before photos."

I gingerly set the portfolio on the table and pick up my tea again, hoping I'm not blushing as hard as I think I am. "I usually just do nature," I start. Adam's face twitches downward, and Leah shoots me a death glare. "But I'd be happy to do that for you. The cabin."

Adam smiles, and when Leah glances to him, a smile lights her face in return. It's blinding. Supernatural but second-nature. I don't know if I've ever seen Leah smile so wide, and I don't know if she's ever looked more beautiful.

Leah looks good in love.

We chat until I finish my tea, and they both offer me to stay for dinner. I politely refuse, because I have an early shift at the diner tomorrow, and if Leah brings out wine, I'm not sure I'd be able to keep from asking stupid questions like How's your wife, Adam?

I want to hate him, I think. Even dislike him. But Adam Baker is a likable guy. Seth's going to hate that.

I swipe the portfolio off the coffee table on my way out, and Leah starts to grumble. "Don't worry," I laugh. "I'll make you copies."

Jordan is early the next day at the diner; he arrives at eleven instead of our regularly established noon. Because of it, our regular table is still occupied.

I point him to sit at the far end of the bar instead, and after a few minutes where I fiddle with coffee and menus and other acts of deliberate procrastination, I head over.

"Hey," I say. "You're early."

He grins, but it doesn't reach his eyes in the way it does when Seth does it. "You noticed."

"Uh, yeah," I say, tilting my head at the digital clock the wall flashing double one's. "It's hard not to."

He laughs like it's the funniest thing in the world, and I balance on the sides of my shoes behind the counter. "I just didn't want to wait."

"It's still a little early for my break," I say, looking around for the other waitress. "But I could work from back here. We're just doing the digital proofs today, right?"

He nods. "That sounds perfect."

I give him a tight smile, turning over my shoulder. "Let me just get my bag out of the back, okay?"

As I root around in the back, Larry appears in the doorway of the kitchen. "Your friend's here again."

I nod, straightening. "We're working on our project."

"Does he know that?" Larry asks pointedly, crossing his arms over his slightly rounded belly. I can't say whether it's from beer or dessert. Maybe both.

"He knows I'm married," I say, because Jordan does know that. It should be obvious that I'm only being friendly.

"I don't think a reminder would hurt," he gruffs, turning back to the kitchen. "I'll walk you out later, okay? Just come grab me when you're done."

I'm able to ignore Larry's comments, Jordan's ill-placed laughs, and we plan our portfolios using digital PDF software, making notes in the margins on his laptop and mine. I haven't seen all of the photos he's taken of me, but the ones I have seen are good.

It stirs my stomach to admit it, but professionally speaking, the ones I have of him are good, too. They're getting better with each class, as Rich provides feedback, gives us tips and tricks to try.

Rich mentioned last week after class, with Leslie and Jordan hanging out in the doorway, that he got contacted about an entry level job at the Oregonian, the newspaper I won the contest for over winter break. They were "looking forward to my application", Rich had said.

When he asked me why I hadn't applied even though he had all but recommended me for the position, I told him I'd never thought to look for jobs outside of the area; I'd have to switch schools again, change the plan again. Rich had nodded slowly, shrugged, and said, "Sometimes a change of plans can be a good thing."

That night, I'd gone home, reviewed the application, and applied. Even if I get it, I don't think I'll take it. This is home. Our family and friends are here, and I suck at making friends bad enough without starting over again.

"Do you have plans later?" Jordan asks conversationally long after he's overstayed his welcome. I closed my laptop an hour ago.

I call my answer from the other end of the bar, wiping it down. "Homework, probably. Just livin' the dream."

"What time do you get off?" he asks next. "You wanna get coffee or something?"

I eye the clock on the wall. I'm supposed to get off in twenty minutes, and I think I mentioned that earlier. My stomach churns, and like a scene in a bad movie, a clap of thunder is heard outside as a spring storm rolls through. I brace against the counter, elbows and knees locked as I roll onto the sides of my feet. "Oh, I—"

"Katie!" Larry calls through the order window. "That was Leann. Her son has a bug. Can you work a double? Cover her shift?"

I give Jordan a(nother) tight smile, and I don't miss the way his shoulders seem to slump. "You bet, Larry," I call back. "I really should get back to work." I wring my hands on my apron, even though there's nothing on them.

"Right," Jordan says, sliding from the barstool and pulling some bills from his wallet. "It was really good hanging out with you today, Katie. I liked being able to talk to just you."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," I say, and I find myself giving him a genuine smile this time. "Leslie talks a lot."

He nods, slinging his backpack on his shoulder. He looks like he's about to say something, but shakes his head instead, turning and waving. "See you Tuesday."

After Jordan leaves, I poke my head through the order window. "Will Leann be back in tomorrow? I can work a double then, too."

Larry shakes his head from the other side. "You get off in twenty minutes. I'll walk you to your car."

My brow furrows. "But you said—"

"Just trust me, kiddo. Don't question authority." He tries to make his tone light and joking, but his eyes are serious.

I gnaw my lip for the remainder of my singular shift, and as promised, Larry walks me to my car, arms crossed. He makes sure he can hear the doors lock. I feel his eyes on me as I drive away, see him in my rearview.

Somewhere behind me, thunder cracks, lightning flashes, and tires squeal.