Free Vertical Lines (The Vert Series Book 1) by Kristen Kehoe Page A

that doesn’t look like it breaks every health code around, there is no line.
    “Do you know what you want?” I ask her.
    Her swallow is audible. “I’m not sure I know where to begin.” She looks at me. “I’ll have what you’re having.”
    “I hope you’re not a vegetarian.”
    Her laugh is honest—amused, and a little ironic. “If I was, I wouldn’t be anymore.”
    Twenty minutes later, I have two Styrofoam takeout bins with carne asada burritos smothered in sauce, and rice and beans on the side. We sit outside at a round plastic table with an umbrella, directly across from the boardwalk.
    “Am I going to get food poisoning?”
    “I hope not, because that means I will, too.”
    Her smile is small. I flip open my carton and cut into my burrito, shoveling in two bites before Jordan finishes using her knife to cut a small piece. Manners in full force, she sets her knife aside, placing her unused hand in her lap with her napkin before nipping the small portion of food from her fork.
    “Poison?”
    She shakes her head. “Cardboard,” she says after setting her utensil down and wiping her mouth. I fork up another large bite of my own burrito. She’s right; it is a little like cardboard, smothered in not-quite-right salsa.
    “Have you always wanted to be an artist?” she asks before her next bite.
    “I’ve always been an artist. Selling what I create doesn’t change that—it just makes it possible to eat.”
    She sips more water. “Did you go to school and study?”
    “No.”
    “Why not?”
    “Afraid my technique isn’t good enough to do you justice, Red?”
    She smiles now, a real one. It’s fun and amused and everything that makes me see pockets of who she really is. “I think your portfolio proves you’re more than capable of doing someone justice . But you don’t replicate people,” she says. I pause in the act of scooping up more food to look at her.
    “No?” She shakes her head. “Then what?”
    “I don’t know yet—but it’s more than just sketching someone’s face and slapping some color on it. You make people feel,” she says, and my heart goes from thumping to knocking at my ribs.
    This girl. This. Girl .
    “Who are you, Red? Because you’re damn sure not the girl I thought you were a couple of days ago when I first saw you.”
    She raises her water glass in a single salute. “Here’s to hoping that’s true.”
    “Is that what the list is for?”
    She drinks her water and looks down at the table. “How do you know about the list?”
    “Nala mentioned something a couple times in passing yesterday—about how you could add or check things off. Is that what you’re doing?” I lean forward, weight on my forearms while I get closer to her. “Checking items off of a list like every other college girl who’s finally set free from her parents?”
    “It’s not a bucket list, if that’s what you mean.”
    “Then what?”
    She looks at me, and a hint of color stains her cheeks. Embarrassment settles over her, but I don’t budge and neither does she. “Sometimes, we need a reminder that life is easier than we think. I need the reminder,” she amends. “So I made a list.”
    “What does it say?”
    “Why does it matter?”
    Because I need you. “I told you I wanted your face, Red. And I do. But it’s not just about your face—it’s more. I can’t explain it, but trust me when I say spending time with you, even if it’s to go over a checklist, is pretty goddamn appealing to me right now.”
    It takes her ten seconds to respond—I stare at her the entire time. Finally, she pulls out her phone and taps some things. When she sets it on the table, her hand shakes a little. There’s a neatly typed list on the screen. I glance at it. “It reminds me to go to the beach, to relax, to do more than study, to breathe when I feel like I’m suffocating. And it tells me to try something new, to take chances now instead of waiting for the perfect time.”
    I stare at the