I blushed, wishing someone—the whole school?—was there to hear that part only, before the implied “but” that followed. “I like you a lot, too,” I said softly.
Was it more than that? Was I falling in love with her? Two days earlier, picking out chocolates at the store, I would have said yes, definitely, I was well on the way. Thinking about her gave me butterflies, and wasn’t that the primary symptom? But now, with the chocolate growing warm in my pocket, knowing Ruby would likely never love me—at least not enduringly, cross-geographically, singularly, and openly—it was harder to summon the feeling. And shouldn’t it be easier to feel butterflies when the person responsible for them is right in front of you?
“I can still come over, right?” Ruby smiled at me and winked, more and more exaggeratedly until I laughed.
“I want you to,” I said. Then I slipped my hand into my pocket and pulled out the box of chocolates. Ruby’s dimples appeared behind the fist propping up her chin. “I may have gotten you dessert.”
The recognition that this was yet another two-month anniversary gift hung between us, as did the recognition that its original meaning had changed. We both understood. We didn’t have to say it.
Ruby lifted the box gently, the red print of her knuckles spread across the bottom of her face like a rash. I wanted to reach over and wipe it off, like ketchup at the corner of her lips. But it didn’t work that way. I watched her open the box and select a milk chocolate caramel, then drop it into her mouth. She groaned softly. “I love See’s,” she said. She reached across the table and took my hand in hers. “Thank you.” With her free hand she pushed the box back toward me, and I chose the raspberry truffle. I took the smallest bite, worried it would be ruined for me now, tainted by its involvement in an over-the-top, ill-conceived romantic gesture. But it wasn’t. It tasted just as good as it always did. I licked the chocolate off my forefinger and thumb, wishing I had twelve more.
Two days later, Jamie texted me.
I got a letter from Linda Weller.
A pause.
…the controller? she added.
I know that now, thank you, I wrote back. I admit it had taken me a minute to remember, partly because I’d never expected we’d get a response.
What does it say?
I haven’t opened it, Jamie wrote. I’m too nervous.
Seriously?
Meet me at Triple? We can read it together.
You’re not worried they’ll catch on?
It feels lucky to open it there, she wrote. If it’s good news I want to tell Dee and Gaby right away.
OK, I wrote, growing excited in spite of myself. What if Linda Weller really did save the coffee shop? What if there were some grant for small businesses that this opportunity was perfect for, and we reached her just in time? What if Dee and Gaby were so happy they cried, and named drinks after us, and maybe put up a plaque with our names on it, and left us the coffee shop after they retired? I ran upstairs to change out of my winter-break uniform of sweatpants and pit-stained T-shirt and to brush my teeth, and then I flew out the door.
* * *
—
When I walked into Triple Moon, Jamie was already there, seated at the table farthest from the counter, jiggling both knees so hard her iced latte shook. When she saw me she waved jerkily, and I mentally replayed so many moments in which Jamie, mid-grand plan, went haywire. When Jamie had an agenda, her brain stayed measured and sharp, but her body turned radioactive with directionless energy, causing anything from large food spills (see: the jumbo-popcorn incident at the Hillcrest movie theater sophomore year) to minor injury (see: the time she decided to run for class president and leapt triumphantly from the third-to-last stair in front of school and sprained her ankle). (She lost.)
I made a note to grab extra napkins and went to the counter, which Dee