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“Right, hear me out on this,” I say awkwardly, making my way through the small maze of aisles, scanning the shelves for anything I think Summer would like. “You can’t tell me it’s not some kind of cosmic intervention that Grace justhappenedto be sick tonight, so I could go to the cooking class with Summer, by myself. Grace doesn’t even like cookie dough, but she ate it tonight of all nights.”
There’s someone at the counter, getting their items rung up. They don’t pay me any attention: I’m probably just another weirdo, looking for a sugar high on a Friday night.
“No, no, I’m not a believer in that kind of thing, not really, but it’s still pretty coincidental,” I carry on, relaxing into the fake conversation. “And this Levi thing seems sort of universe-heavy, too. Her seeing him, me being there to help her out, her opening up to me about all the stuff Lyndsey never told me. I can’t say if he was there or not, and she’s not sure, but… it’s all a bit spooky. I mean, if I never lost my temper at the Malaysia office, I wouldn’t have been sent back, and I wouldn’t have met her at Grace’s birthday party, and… there’s something conspiring here, and you can’t convince me otherwise, even though you probably should.”
The bell above the bodega door tinkles, and a whirlwind blows in. I freeze. Summer is in sweatpants and a t-shirt, grinning like a madwoman, as she bounds down the aisle toward me. Her long hair is up in a bun, and her face is wiped clean of make-up and, honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful in all my life.
For a moment, it looks like she’s going to hug me, and my muscles seize, bracing for impact. But she skids to a stop, a pace away, and the disappointment is immediate, sagging my shoulders and lowering my hand from my ear.
“Who you calling? Is it Lyndsey? Can I talk to her?” Summer extends a hand for the phone, but I can’t get a single digit to move. She was all sad and small when I left her at her front door to get provisions, and now she’s… transformed into the person I caught a glimpse of atDelphine’s.
“Work call,” I lie, hurrying to end the recording as discreetly as possible.
“In Europe, that would be illegal,” she tells me. “No calling employees after work hours, and it’s a legitimate sin to call on the weekends. Have you ever been? To Europe, I mean.”
She’s talking a mile a minute, and my buffering brain is struggling to catch up.
“A few times,” I manage to say, slipping the phone into my pocket. I’ve got no idea if I managed to end the recording or not.
She grabs my arm and groans. “I’m so jealous! Cybil keeps saying she’s going to take me and Grace to Italy, but I’ve yet to see a plane ticket in my inbox.” She pulls me to the refrigerators at the rear of the bodega. “I want Snapple. The pink one. Don’t ask me why—I’ve got a taste for it. Haven’t had it in years, but I was sitting there in my kitchen with a measly glass of water, and I thought—Snapple. Ineedit.”
She plucks out two bottles of the stuff, and a blue sports drink. There’s a giddiness about her as she tugs on my sleeve, walking me through the aisles, gathering snacks into the crook of her arm. But she’s not tipsy anymore, hasn’t been since around the halfway point between the wine shop and her home, which only makes it more confusing.
“You could’ve texted me for your Snapple-based needs,” I tell her, admiring the glow that radiates off her. Her energy is kind of infectious.
She wags a finger at me. “Don’t have your number. If I did, I would’ve apologized for my split personalities at the Brass Whistle, and you could’ve texted me to let me know no one was coming to the cooking class. If I would’ve had my phone on me, that is.” She sighs. “I wonder what we would’ve made if we’d stayed? I bet it would’ve been delicious. We’ll have to book again for another time.”
“You, me, and Lyndsey?” I test the waters.
She shrugs. “Sure, or just the two of us. A thank you, of sorts, for tonight.”
“Hey, I had a good time, all things considered. It was my pleasure.”
She halts, arms laden with chips and cookies and gummies, and her smile spreads across her face, lighting up her eyes until they don’t seem real. “I had a good time, too… all things considered.” She pauses, nodding down at her treasure trove of goodies. “You could come up to the apartment, if you want? We could watch a movie and polish these off—get ahead of the inevitable hangover?”
“I… I’d like that,” I say, meaning it with every fiber of my being. Walking her home and getting snacks is one thing but being invited up is…notwhat I expected. I thought I’d be calling a cab from the street, truth be told.
“You can pick the movie. I have terrible taste.” She strides to the counter and dumps everything on it, while I take out my card and skim it across to the clerk before she can fumble in her pockets for cash. “Hey, this is supposed to be my treat.”
I shrug. “You can get the next one.”
Will there be a next one?I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t want there to be, despite the warnings screaming in my head—Lyndsey’s warnings, to be exact. I’ve done everything she told me not to and I don’t regret a thing.
I carry the bags as we leave the bodega, but it seems Summer isn’t done. Her eyes dart left and right before she swipes an apple from the fresh fruit stand out front.
“Need something healthy,” she explains in a conspiratorial whisper, “and they say that one of these beauties a day will keep the doctor away.” She slips the apple into her sweatpants pocket, as I look on in disbelief. She wasn’t kidding about the split personalities but, so far, I’m enjoying meeting each one, though some are more painful to behold.
As she sets off for home, I subtly slide a five-dollar bill out of my wallet and fold it into the gap where the apple used to be. The guilt would kill me, otherwise. That done, I race after the wild creature who is in desperate need of a pink Snapple, eager to get to know her more. And with the quantity of snacks we just bought, I think I might have all night.
13
SUMMER
Ihave second thoughts about inviting Rowan in, as I fumble for my keys. There’s too much time to think between fishing the keys out of my sweatpants pocket and slipping the right one into the lock. To do this, to get out of my head, I need tonotthink… but that’s not exactly my forte. Forever the overthinker, the last time I made an impulsive decision, I ended up married and widowed in the span of one summer. And I’m not stupid; I know where this night is probably going to go if I let Rowan in. I gave him my number on the walk back to my placeandinvited him to a cooking class for two, so I obviously have intentions of something more, whether that’s tonight or another time altogether.
“Do you need a hand with that?” Rowan asks.
I wave him away. “Nope. Got it, thanks.”
