Maya shakes her head slowly. “No.”
“Hey…” Willow emerges from the break room, hesitantly approaching us at the checkout counter. “What should I do?”
Maya is about to respond, but her phone rings, cutting her attention. She looks frazzled. “This is our indie distributor… I’ll be back.” She answers the phone and sprints into the break room.
I type in a couple commands and then wait for the computer to reboot. “I don’t know if you remember me.” I turn to look at Willow.
She stands closer to me than before, glancing at the blue screen and keeping her hands on the white countertop. “Sort of,” she says softly.
My pulse kicks up a notch, and I motion to the computer. “I’m trying to get it working.”
She nods and pushes up her glasses again. “Are you good at computers?”
“Sort of.” My lips try to rise.
Hers almost do too, but she stays quiet, just watching the blue screen blink out while I discover the issue. I’m so used to loud, overpowering noises—my friends talking over one another—that the hushed quiet between us is different for me.
It beats the silence of being alone. Because I can feel her here, beside me, thinking.
After a minute or so, I speak. “Do you go to school around here?”
“I start at Dalton Academy on Monday.”
Loren Hale’s cousin is going to Dalton Academy. The preparatory school that Loren went to as a teenager.
My muscles tense, instantly scared for her—because there are a lot of people that dislike him, based on his reputation with their older brothers or friends-of-friends. Now that he’s famous, there’s a shit ton of jealousy in the mix too.
“I can show you around school,” I offer, though I’m not sure how much this will help. It’s not like I’m beloved right now either.
She stiffens. “You go there?”
“Yep.” I bend down to check the hard drive after the memory check passes. The fan looks nasty with dust and cobwebs. I blow on it and realize that the thing probably overheated. I tinker with the equipment for another minute and let it cool off.
The front door chimes and about four more employees enter like they own the place, dispersing behind us towards the bakery and coffee makers.
Willow nearly hugs the counter. Like she’s in the way, but she’s not. She squeezes next to me, and then pauses. Realizing how close she is, she starts to back up. “Sorry.”
“No worries,” I tell her and gesture to the computer. “It’s all fixed.” The Windows screen pops up and asks for the administrator’s password. I could login as “guest” but I test a few passwords, one being Scott Summers since the Cyclops cardboard cutout greets people when they enter the store.
It works. “Weak password,” I mutter, opening Chrome.
“How can you tell?” Willow fixes her braid, her arm brushing mine. An electric current runs through my veins—the brief contact more innocent than what I’m used to. More pure. Maybe that’s why it feels so different.
“A strong password doesn’t duplicate characters and it has numbers.” Anything less and an encryption program would take virtually three seconds to crack the password.
She gives me a cautious glance, a coffee machine grumbling to life behind us while feet clap against the floor.
“What?” I pop open Tumblr, about to type in my username.
“Do you break passcodes a lot?” Her cheeks pale again. “I mean, you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”
I want to hug her to my side for some reason. To comfort her maybe. She hangs her head a little and keeps glancing around at the employees, bustling behind us.
I don’t wrap my arm around her or pull her closer though. She has that closed-off stance, which I take as a sign that she might not like me touching her at all.
“A few times, yeah,” I tell her. “I have software that does it.” It’s not like I’m hacking into anything important. I’ve taken over my friends’ Twitter accounts as a joke a few times—that’s it. I could probably do a lot worse.
She doesn’t say anything. She’s dazedly staring straight at the Tumblr screen. “You okay?” I ask, typing my username: ryumastersxx
“No.” She winces. “Yes, I’m good. Just…shocked that you’d like this and this.” She points at the Tumblr logo and then my username.
My brows knot. “Wait, do you like Street Fighter?”
“You have a tattoo.” She glances at my inked skull between my bicep and forearm.
“I don’t know where we’re going here.”
“And you have a ton of friends—” Willow gets cut off as a college-aged employee walks behind her, nearly bumping into her side. I never move, so she ends up right against my waist, tucked close to me now.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nervously takes off her glasses and wipes the lenses. “I just never thought someone like you would like this stuff.”
“Well I didn’t think someone like you would be into an old video game.”