I let him steer me into the store. My thoughts are still fuzzy, whether from the shock or from the heat of his hand on my shoulder, I can’t tell. A little bell jingles over the door as he pushes it open. Walking by, I glance down at the chalkboard and see that it reads:

I SPEAK SIGN LANGUAGE

The store looks just like I remember, but maybe a little more bleak—the floor is made of peeling linoleum and illuminated by dim fluorescent lights. In front of us is a curved glass counter filled with pastries and bagels, and behind that the wall is lined with textbooks. The rest of the space is filled with DVD cases, covering the walls and piled onto rolling racks. Andrew and I used to love exploring those racks when we were kids. We’d pool our allowance together and ride our bikes here in the summer. Even though we could probably find whatever we wanted online if we tried, this place felt like more of an adventure. But then we grew up and stopped coming. Seems like we’re not the only ones. There are no customers or other employees around; we’re the only people inside.

“Is it usually this empty?” Hannah asks.

“We do better in the morning when people want coffee,” James Dean says. “Now is kind of a slow time. Hardly anyone’s bought a DVD for like twenty years. Mostly collectors. Vintage types. Actually, there’s a regular who looks like a vampire. Blade. Not Twilight.” He steps up to a set of barstools by the counter and opens a little gate, taking his place behind the register. “I’m Dean.” He runs a hand absently through his mussed hair.

No way. I look over at Hannah and see her eyebrows rise and her mouth open. She begins to laugh and brings her arm up to fake a coughing fit. What are the chances?

“Your name is Dean?” I ask stupidly.

“Um, yeah,” he answers. “Why?”

“It’s nothing.”

Dean motions to the bar stools for me to sit. I look down at my wet clothes. My coat is actually dripping onto the floor, a puddle forming on the tiles beneath me.

“I’m kind of soggy,” I say. “I don’t think I should—”

“Please, these stools are a hundred years old, they’ve seen worse.”

“Actually, I should go,” Hannah says, turning to me. “Now that I know you’re okay. You’re okay?”

I nod.

“Great.”

“You just got here,” he protests. “Stay for a drink.”

She laughs. “This is supposed to be a job interview, actually. So I’m basically intruding. It’s not very professional.” She backs away, toward the door.

“Job interview?” he asks. “You want to work here?”

I shrug. “I saw your sign.”