I barely slept last night. My mind wouldn't stop formulating every single negative thing that could possibly come from me leaving my notebook at Weeping Willow. How could I be so stupid? I take a notebook everywhere I go and I've never done that. Not in a public place, at least. My mom's nightstand seems like a juvenile mistake now that I left the book at the coffee shop.

Not just any coffee shop, a coffee shop where I would like to be able to go to again. I'm psyching myself out, I know I am. It's going to be fine. I'm sure one of the baristas, preferably not Trent, picked it up and is holding it in the office until it's owner comes to claim it. Nice private office where no one opens my book.

I lay awake until it's time to get ready for school. I'm going to try to convince my parents to let me drive to get my notebook and be late for school. It's only one day, is my argument. I have a feeling they may actually go for it, if I tell them how important it is that I get the book back as soon as possible. When I say soon, I mean like freaking yesterday.

While I'm getting ready for the day, I find myself swiping mascara over my lashes and trying on three different shirts with my jeans. My favorite jeans have been worn so many times that the insides of both thighs are starting to wear. I got them from a trendy consignment store and haven't been able to find the brand anywhere else in town.

I end up going with a black and white striped shirt that hits just above the button of my jeans. My sneakers are downstairs with my parents who I need to charm the pants off this morning. Not literally. I gross myself out sometimes. Finding myself funnier than most people do, I laugh at my awkwardness while walking to the kitchen. I think the anxiety of not having my notebook is starting to eat my brain alive.

My dad is sitting at the table and my mom is bending over, digging something out of a messy cabinet under the sink.

Her voice is muffled, "I swear I saw it under here last week!" She claims.

My dad barely looks up from a ring he's gluing a large green stone to.

"I'm sure you did honey," he agrees with her.

Before they can go into a married -couple debate over whatever it is she's looking for, I begin my plea.

I sit down across my dad and begin, "I left my notebook at Weeping Willow last night," I tell them. My mom bangs her head against the counter when she lifts up to look at me. Her white overalls are covered in a mixture of paint, food, and something that looks like blood, but I'm not going to ask.

"Oh no," she's sympathetic. Good start.

I rest my elbows on the table and put the next step of my plan into action. "So, I have to go get it. It's full of poems."

My dad nods and puts the finished ring on a towel with rows of many other rings with all different color stones. The deep green is my favorite. "That's no good. We can go tonight," he says, looking to my mom for approval.

She closes the cabinet and wipes her hand across her forehead. "Yeah, we can go tonight. No big deal, baby." She smiles, happy to solve my problem.

"I wanted to go this morning," I begin. Both of them are ready to say no, I can tell. "That notebook is full of poems that I'm not ready for people to read yet. I don't think I'll be able to focus on my schoolwork knowing that he could be reading every single page," I try to correct myself from saying "he" but it's too late. Both of them catch on immediately.

"Who is he?" My mom asks first. My dad looks straight at me.

I look away, "No one. I meant in general, not specifically."

"Bullshit," my mom calls me out.

I may as well fess up before they force it out of me. It may help my case anyway. "Fine, this guy who works there. His name is Trent. I don't know him or anything. I only met him last night but Crane knows him," I'm rambling but can't seem to stop.
"It's honestly nothing close to anything though, we only talked for two minutes or less. Don't make this a thing, please,"

My mom pulls her lips together to keep from saying anything. She looks at my dad and he smiles, laughing, "We would never." He says. I try to laugh but I'm still panicked about my notebook.

"So can I please drive to Willow before school and get a pass to miss first block? Please?" I smile, giving them my best impression of my five-year-old self.

My dad looks at me, then my mom. "I don't know Chaucer," he says. My mom stays quiet, letting him be the barer of bad news.

"My first block is Yearbook, I can miss it," I throw in another one of my points. I'm running out of them quickly.

"It's not about missing class, you know we don't feel comfortable with you driving there yet, it's so far and the highway is going to be packed this morning with everyone going into work downtown." My mom says. I've lost the Peet Family Battle Of Responsibility, I can tell by her tone and the sympathetic look on her face.

"I can drive you there?" my dad offers. He looks at my mom and her face lights up. She obviously didn't think of that option. I didn't either.

"Yeah, your dad can drive you there and drop you off at school after. Crane can take you home or one of us will pick you up?"

My nerves instantly calm. In less than an hour I will have my notebook back in my possession. I thank both of them and pop a bagel into the toaster to eat during the drive to the Quarter.

Most of the drive is spent listening to music with him. I pick a song, he picks a song, it's our thing. Most of our music taste doesn't overlap but he doesn't complain when I play my favorites.

"Well, parking sure is better during the day," my dad says as he pulls into a parking spot only feet from the door. I nod in agreement. I wonder if Trent is working this morning. He was working only twelve hours ago, so I assume he won't have such an early shift.

"Do you want me to stay in the car?" My dad asks, wiggling his eyebrows at me. I groan, wanting to crawl into a hole where my dad doesn't try to make jokes about my non-existent dating life.

"Please," I climb out of the car and step onto the sidewalk.

My dad rolls down the window, "Text me if you need anything."

I nod and give him a small wave before walking through the open door. The shop isn't nearly as crowded as it was last night and when I walk up to the counter, a bubbly blond is taking orders. Whew. No Trent. No humiliation if he read my poems.

I approach the counter with my hands in the pocket of my jeans. The blond approaches me, her smile bright and her eyeliner thick. "What can I get started for you this morning?" she asks.

"I'm actually here to pick up something, a book that I left here last night," my voice is shaky, unsure.

She looks confused for a moment before she points her finger into the air, "Oh! It's you! You're the girl!" Her excitement mixes with my embarrassment.

Before I can say anything, she yells, "Trent!" I duck down without thinking and she notices. The woman gives me a knowing smile and I try to stand up straight even though my body wants to run out of the shop and forget about the notebook.

On cue, Trent walks out of the back room. He's wearing a white t-shirt and a blue apron today. His jeans are dark wash, ripped lightly at the knee, not purposely. He looks slightly more grunge today, with his blondish hair messy on his head, covering his ears.

"You!" He points at me with a wide smile. What is with all the pointing today?

Not knowing what to say, I respond, "Yeah, it's me!" I attempted to sound calm and collected but that didn't happen. Apparently I have a mouse in my throat, turning my words into squeaks.

He unties his apron and holds a finger up for me to wait. He tosses the apron onto the desk in the break room and grabs a book from the desk. My notebook. He tucks it under his arm, holding it like he owns it.

Trent touches the blond girls arm, "I'll be back in a few minutes," he says to her. She nods, grinning at both of us.

My notebook is like a firework in his arms, it's making me anxious.

Trent comes out from behind the counter and touches my arm. He's affectionate. I like that. "Do you want some coffee or tea, anything?" He offers. I would love a green tea. As I'm opening my mouth to request one, I remember that my dad is waiting for me in the car.

"No, I'm okay. Thank you though." I smile.

He leads us to a table toward the front of the shop and I keep my eyes on the notebook. He notices. He sits down in front of me and lays the book on the table.

The moment he places the book between us, I reach for it. He's quicker than me, taking the notebook from me and he hugs it to his chest.

"Not yet." He says with a smile. His eyes are dark green and lined with thick blonde lashes.

I lower my eyes at him, wondering where he's going with this.

He leans forward so that he's barely sitting in the chair at all. "You wrote all of these?"

I nod, swallowing. "Yeah, so give it to me," I laugh awkwardly. He must have read them.

His eyes bulge and his smile is so big on his face. "Wow," he swipes his open hand down his face. "Wow. They are so.." he pauses, "so good."

I can feel the heat under my cheeks and his green eyes won't stop staring at mine. "Thank you," I reach for the book again. He pulls back.

He holds up a hand to tell me to be patient, "Almost." I stare back, loving and hating the guts of this stranger with ripped jeans.

"Promise me something?" he questions, his dark brow raised.

I laugh and fidget in my chair, "Let me get this straight," I look straight into his eyes and continue, "you are giving me stipulations before returning my property to me?" His smile makes me soften my tone at the end.

A couple sits down at the small table next to us and Trent lowers his voice. "If that will work yes," he laughs. The sound is thick and sweet like honey.

"I'm thinking by the look you're giving me, that this isn't going to work with you, so instead, hear me out and then I'll give you the notebook. Deal?" He opens the book to a random page and I hold my breath. I'm not as anxious as I thought I would be. I find myself more curious about his opinion than mortified.

His long fingers run across the black lines on the page. I remember this poem, Refuge. I remember drawing a cluster of ivy on the margins of the page. The words look more elegant under his touch.

"This one," he taps the last word on the Octave, safe. I flush with joy, I love this poem. I remember the pain I felt while writing from a mother who lost her young child and after a lot of pain she found peace.

I stay quiet, waiting for Trent's words. "It's so sad, it gave me nightmare last night even."

I chew on my bottom lip, "Thanks?" I sit back against my chair and he leans even closer to me and flips to another page.

"Back to our agreement and your promise. I need you to promise me that you will do something with these," he must sense my uncertainty because he quickly adds, "it doesn't have to be now, but please don't waste these words." His eyes are saucers now, wide and green and honest and lovely.

The terms of his promise surprise me. I didn't know what I had assumed they would be but I wasn't expecting him to feel so strongly about lines of words scribbled into a notebook by a stranger.

Trent speaks again before I do. "Do you want to perform them or just write them?"

Do I want to share this with him?

I decide to bring my own stipulation to the table. "Tell me something that no one knows about you before I answer that," I wager. He smiles, links his hands together and moves his fingers like our negotiation is something much more solid than a silly game between two strangers in a coffee shop.

"Hmm," he uses his index finger to tap on his full lips. I try not to stare. Trent looks away from me, his face scrunched in concentration. He's taking this so seriously, I love it.

After a few more seconds, he speaks. "I'm afraid to tell my uncle that I don't want to take over this shop."

I had expected a joke like he has three nipples or that his middle name is Bartholomew.

I didn't expect such a raw, honest, sentence to come from his mouth. "Why are you afraid?" I ask him. I'm genuinely interested. I'm quickly putting the pieces of the Trent puzzle together. He works as a barista at a shop that his uncle owns. He's witty and smiles a lot. He smells like summer and rain and if his green eyes are the grass, his voice would be the air. Fresh and calm.

He sighs and rubs his hands against the ripped knees of his jeans. "I just want to do more, you know? Like this shop is great, really I love it, but I don't want to work here forever and this building has been in my family since... well, since forever," he half laughs and his cheeks flush. I can feel him trying to read me. "Why am I talking so much? I should have just told you my real name is Tutu or something," he checks for my eyes once more.

"I was thinking that you look like more of a Bartholomew than Tutu." I laugh and his face breaks into the warmest smile that I've ever felt and I can hear the words in my head taking shape. Sunshine and skin kissed by the sun. Yellow flowers and green grass.

As our laughter slows and I'm preparing to give him my more than likely to be useless advice, my dad walks through the door. I lean back against my chair, not even remembering when I leaned so close to Trent in the first place.