The Distance Between Us

errand,” he says.
    “Another day where mingling with commoners helps you appreciate your life more?” I could’ve sworn I said something equivalent last time, but the offended look that takes over his face lets me know I probably only thought it before. Oh well, it was a joke anyway (sort of). If he can’t take a joke, that’s on him.
    “Something like that,” he mumbles.
    Henry stands up. “The Scottish doll is mine, so hands off.”
    Xander holds his hands up. “Not interested.” I get the feeling Xander thinks Henry is talking about something other than a kilt-wearing doll. But since Xander is not interested , it doesn’t matter anyway.
    Henry heads for the door. “I’m going to sing the song in our set Friday night. Come. We’re playing at Scream Shout. Ten o’clock.” Scream Shout is a dive about five blocks away where local bands play to small, mostly wasted crowds for little or no money. I tag along with Skye occasionally, but it’s not really my scene.
    Xander watches him go and then turns back to me, all business. “My grandmother asked me to pick up a doll she ordered.”
    “Your grandmother?” I open the book, wondering if I had missed an order.
    “Katherine Dalton.”
    “Mrs. Dalton is your grandma?”
    “Why does that surprise you so much?”
    I close my open mouth. Because Mrs. Dalton is sweet and down-to-earth and amazing. . . . You take yourself too seriously, have perfectly manicured nails, and line your clothes with money (or at least that’s the excuse I give him for such good posture). “I just had no idea.”
    “So I guess she never talks about her brilliant grandson?”
    “I just thought she was sending Alex in.”
    “I am Alex.”
    Oh. Duh. Xander. As in Alexander. “So do you go by Alex or Xander?”
    He gets an arrogant smirk on his face like I had Googled him or something.
    “Your credit card,” I say, reminding him he had used it last time he was in.
    “Oh. Yes, I go by Xander, but my grandparents call me Alex. I’m named after my grandpa so you know how that goes.”
    I have no idea how that goes. “Yeah, totally.”
    “So, Susan’s daughter . . .” He leans his elbows on the counter, looks at a small wooden apple a customer gave us years ago, and starts spinning it like a top. “Do you have my doll?”
    I laugh a little at how that sounds. “Yes, I do. Give me one minute.” I retrieve the box from the back room and bring it to the counter. It surprises me that my mom hasn’t opened it to inspect the doll. Sometimes they come cracked or broken, and the service we use is responsible for that. I grab a box cutter from a silver cup next to the register and cut the packing tape. “Just let me make sure she hasn’t had any limbs amputated on her journey.”
    “Okay.”
    I remove the doll box from the shipping box, only displacing a few packing peanuts in the process, and carefully open it.
    “‘Mandy,’” he says, reading her name off the lid.
    “Mandy’s in good shape. Your grandma will be happy. I guess she’s for your sister?”
    “No. My cousin. Scarlett. That doll looks a lot like her. It’s a little creepy.”
    “Your cousin wears lacy socks and knit dresses?”
    “Well, no. But the hair . . . and my cousin definitely has that sly look in her eyes.”
    “So your cousin has a black bob and is looking for trouble?”
    “Exactly.”
    I slide the box across the counter to him. “Tell your grandmother hi for me.”
    “And she’ll know who ‘me’ is?”
    “Doesn’t everybody?”
    “Everybody but me, it seems.” He takes out his phone and pushes a few buttons.
    “What are you doing?” I ask.
    “I’m telling my grandma you say hi.”
    I roll my eyes. “That’s cheating.”
    “I didn’t realize we were playing a game.” He offers me his first smile of the day, and I’m suddenly glad he keeps that thing put away. It’s more disarming than any weapon. “Hi, Grammy. I got your doll. . . . Yes, a young lady at the store helped me with it. She told me to tell you hi. . . . No, not Susan.”
    I laugh out loud.
    “Her daughter. Dark hair, green eyes.”
    I look down, surprised he knows the color of my eyes. His are brown with gold flecks. Not that I’ve noticed.
    “Sixteen . . . ish?” He widens his eyes, asking if he guessed right. I shake my head no. “Seventeen?”
    And a half.
    “Caymen?” He raises his eyebrows at me. I shrug my shoulders. “Well, Caymen says hi. . . . Sweet? I don’t know about sweet, but