“We’re keeping it quiet, ordering in. But there are things lined up.” Lie. Sabine’s graduation had crept up on Marlow, given her recent workload for her boss, Oscar.
“Could I bring dessert? Add myself to the festivities?”
Rage shot through her. “No. You don’t just get to add yourself to Sabine’s life out of the blue.”
He ran his hand through his hair, and two muscles in his upper arm flexed as he did so. “I get that you don’t want me to come,” he said. “But would she?”
“Back off,” said Marlow. “She has her pick of universities. She’s out of her teenage funk, I think, I hope, and I don’t need you throwing it all off. When you’ve been absent for your kid’sentire life, you don’t get to attend her grad dinner just because you run into me by accident.”
She turned away, cutting off the possibility of any more discussion, threw open the festival office door, and headed inside. She did not need her parenting questioned. She did not need his curly locks and biceps. She needed to do this presentation, get dinner ordered, and get home.
And clearly, given her active loins situation, she also needed to get laid. But that would have to wait.
Juggling her open, full-to-bursting knapsack, Sabine tried to manage her wild brown curls, twisting and clipping them up again as she opened the door to Bubble Tea Town. Books tumbled onto the floor, her hair did not get caught by the clip, and the door closed too fast, propelling her inside. Smooth.
She dumped her stuff on the table by the window and reclipped her hair. She wished she had straight hair like Willa, who should have already arrived but was perpetually late. They needed sustenance after two hours of recycling the contents of every binder they’d used in Grade 12—almost all of it useless. Sabine turned to order, but Mrs. Nguyen wasn’t behind the counter, her tall son Desmond was, in a Raptors tank and jean shorts that were cuffed above the knee and slouched low. He’d graduated last year and had just seen her act like a complete idiot. Perfect.
“Hey,” he said, tossing his head to the side to see her through his black bangs.
“Hey yourself,” she said. Seriously esoteric conversation.
“Last day of school, eh? Congrats. How’s it going?”
“Emptying our lockers.”
“The lockers no one’s used since September?”
“Exactly. How was first year?”
“Meh,” he said.
“Ringing endorsement.”
“It probably could be awesome if I was interested in what I signed up for.”
“Which was?”
“Economics. What a shitshow. Now I’m back, working part-time, figuring it out. Or not.”
Desmond was smart like Sabine. They’d been in Calculus Club together. She’d always been intimidated to talk to him, but here he was, for some reason, chatting like they were equals.
“Getting ready for prom tomorrow?” he asked. “Been hearing people talk about it.”
“Nah. Decided not to go.”
“Oh? How come?”
“Didn’t like my options,” she said. Not the full story but good enough.
“I hated my date last year, too. I could go for a redo.” He grinned. “Wanna?”
Was he serious? He seemed serious. Sabine reached into her pocket, dropped her wallet, lurched to grab it, and banged her head on the counter.
“God. What a klutz. I don’t think I—did you just ask me—?”
“To prom? Guess I did, yeah.”
“Why would you want to?” That sounded so dumb. “I mean—why would you want to go back to your old high school, for my prom, not yours?”
