baristas do. It seems dumb, idealistic, the way I’ve presumed with very little foundation that I have this incredible, genuine connection with her. I don’t even know her.
Juniper’s eyes jump to mine. “My last name is Ramírez,” she says, like she’s reading my mind.
It’s weirdly reassuring to know. Learning her name doesn’t change who she is to me, doesn’t change why I like her, or how much I enjoy her ever-present wit, or how utterly unpredictable I find her. It just gives whatever our relationship is a longevity it previously lacked. We’re more than baristas to each other.
Juniper takes the seat next to me. I turn to Lewis, who’s openly gaping at the two of us. It’s like I can hear the questions formulating in his mind, and I quickly head them off. “Juniper’s going to be leading our college trip now,” I inform him. “She’s an expert,” I say like it’s a real justification.
“Um—what?” Lewis asks, evidently trying to process this development.
“Only if it’s okay with you,” Juniper interjects, addressing Lewis. “I don’t want to derail any of your plans.”
Lewis ignores the comment. “I remember you,” he says, studying her. “You were in the basement at Brown. The Alpha Delt party.” He faces me, and I recognize his expression instantly. “I knew it.” My stomach knots with dread. “You tried to deny why you were in a hurry to drive to Brown,” he continues. “You were texting all day yesterday, and you pretended you were talking to a friend. But I knew.” He’s irritatingly impressed with himself. “I knew there was a girl.”
Juniper rounds on me, because the world is cold and unfeeling.
I deflect desperately. “What, um”—I pick up Lewis’s menu—“what were you saying was spicy?”
“Are you two a thing?” Lewis asks, predictably unwilling to let it go.
“No,” Juniper and I say simultaneously, and with too much conviction.
Lewis watches us, obviously interested. “I see.”
I notice Juniper blush, which is unusual. She’s not the kind of girl who’s often embarrassed or self-conscious. Not when crashing into students in the Boston University quad or when striking up conversation with people she’s never met in the middle of Mike’s Pastry. The fact that her cheeks have colored now gives me hope that Lewis thinking we’re together thrills her in some way. It’s hope I’m hesitant to hold on to, but that’s the only kind of hope I know.
“I’m game for the spiciest thing on the menu,” Juniper says, reading the folded laminate over my shoulder. I glance down, surveying the color-saturated photos of crispy, sauce-drenched chicken and remembering how hungry I am.
“I like her,” Lewis declares, looking impressed with Juniper’s choice. He pulls his tie off in one quick motion. “I don’t know if ultra-spicy is the choice I would’ve gone with in your position,” he continues with a meaningful look at the two of us, “but, respect. Let me know if you want me to leave, by the way. To give you some privacy for your date.”
“It’s not—” Juniper and I start to say simultaneously before we catch ourselves.
“It’s not a date,” I finish.
Juniper buries her nose in the menu, looking like she doesn’t believe me.
I don’t blame her. I don’t believe me either.
Juniper
IT DOESN’T TAKE long for me to learn Fitz and his brother are nothing alike. Lewis is relaxed in the way only truly confident people are, and he clearly loves an audience. I understand why. He recounts his hours of interviews with humor and charisma, and I even catch the waitress eyeing him appreciatively once or twice. In fairness, I understand that, too. From the fit of his suit, he definitely works out. His face is highlighted by his strong jaw, brown eyes in deep brown skin, black hair, and an irrepressible smile. I know he and Fitz are adopted. Nevertheless, it’s striking just how different they look.
I’m surprised how instantly included I feel, how comfortable with the rhythms of the conversation. I find myself describing my college picks and plans when Lewis asks, and then I’m asking him more about his interview. I notice Fitz’s discomfort when his brother elaborates on