Show Me How by Molly McAdams Read Free Book Online Page B

day. But I think we might have other problems now. This relationship . . . are you sure you want to be in it? You say you’re always there for this guy, listening to him about everything apparently . . . so who’s there for you? Who’s listening to you? I don’t know you, and you don’t know me—­or, hell, maybe we do; this is Thatch —­so you don’t have to listen to anything I say. But from what I’m reading, I think you’re putting way more of yourself into the relationship than he is. Find someone who would write these words about you.
    Who listens to your sad songs
    The shoulder that you cry on
    Out on that ledge you walk on
    When you’re sinking
    Who knows your keeps your secrets locked up
    When I’m there’s no one you can trust
    I know it’s much more than just wishful thinking
    Just say the words and ( you know) I’ll be there
    Before I left Mama’s with dinner for Graham and me, I placed the journal back on the greeter’s desk with the same piece of paper just below it. Only this time, I copied her words in my own writing on the back, warning anyone who saw the journal not to move it.

 
    Chapter Five
    Charlie
    May 31, 2016
    I PRACTICALLY RAN into work the next morning; my footsteps only slowed once I was inside and spotted my notebook where I’d left it the day before. I glanced around at the few workers already inside—­none of whom were looking in my direction—­and walked up to the greeter’s desk.
    I took the torn paper between my fingers, and eyed his scrawl in wonder. I didn’t realize I was smiling until I had flipped the paper over numerous times, looking at each side and how our words mimicked each other’s.
    But the smile faded when I read the note he had left for me.
    I wanted to write back, saying that I’d thought he was listening to me, but knew those words sounded immature and ridiculous given the situation. Just as my excitement to hear back from a stranger had been.
    What I had been expecting, I couldn’t say, but it had been more than that.
    Maybe Grey was right. Maybe I did read too many romance novels.
    I started to crumple the torn out paper, but stopped and placed it inside my notebook instead. After closing it up, I placed the notebook inside my waist-­apron pocket behind the check holders, and got to work.
    F IVE HOURS INTO my shift, on one of the many journeys up to the front of Mama’s Café to greet newcomers, something caught my eye.
    A napkin on the greeter’s desk with a familiar scrawl on it, and the words:
    Where ’d you go? I’ll come back for you.
    I inhaled softly, and a stupid, stupid fluttering took up residence in my stomach. One I knew needed to go away because there was no reason for it to be there in the first place, but one that was there nonetheless.
    I glanced at the three ­people in front of me, quickly taking in the confused looks they were giving me before slapping my hand down on the napkin and pulling it close to my body.
    I whirled around to see if anyone was watching, waiting for someone who would have a reaction to that note . . . but there was no one. Just residents of Thatch eating, others serving, nearly all ­people I had known most of my life. None of them paid any attention to me, or the chaos of emotions flooding me.
    Again, stupid fluttering and emotions that made no sense. Because this person was nothing more than an opinionated stranger, and I was making him and this situation out to be much more than they were because of my obsession with romantic fiction.
    â€œUm, table for three?” I asked through the lump in my throat, and shoved the napkin into one of my pockets so I could grab menus. “Right this way.”
    By the time I left work that night, my notebook was on the desk, the slightly crumpled piece of paper had been smoothed out, and had my plea not to move the book facing up. No