for years, and then one day the marriage was over. I felt them shift again when my mom told us her test results, and again when Lewis left home. I feel them shifting now, shaking the foundations of the life I know. I just want the ground under me to settle.
Lewis doesn’t mind the shifting, doesn’t reach for familiarity the way I do. Familiarity that today takes the form of cannoli dusted with powdered sugar, ricotta spilling out the ends. When I extended the invitation to Lewis to head uptown with me on the Green Line and revisit Mike’s, he declined, his flippancy betraying no cognizance of the childhood trips we would take with Dad. Instead, he suggested I join him for drinks with three friends whose names I obviously didn’t know, but who Lewis rattled off like I did. He wanted to hang out with Bruce, Trevor, and Amir before leaving for the week with me. I said no.
I don’t care, honestly. I’m content to visit Mike’s completely on my own. It’s probably better this way, because the week to come will be nearly nonstop time with my brother. For now, cannoli and solitude will be the panacea for the frustration of this trip.
I join one of the lines in front of the counters, although “lines” suggests an orderliness lacking here. While nobody is pushing or shoving, I find myself jostled in the gradually moving pilgrimage to the registers.
Eventually, I notice a girl next to me craning her neck, rising onto her toes to look over the heads of the crowd, checking her place in line a little obnoxiously. Wobbling, she tilts in my direction, her shoulder bumping mine. She glances toward me, and our eyes connect.
Which is when I recognize her.
Juniper, the girl from this morning. She’s holding her parka, and I notice she’s not wearing the coffee-stained cardigan from earlier. I search the shop for signs of the Hemsworth boyfriend, but he’s not here. Maybe they broke up, and she’s here to find someone to help nurse her heartbreak. I’m reaching for some small talk when she speaks.
“You were in the BU information session today.”
“I—yeah,” I stammer, startled she remembers me.
“You weren’t interested, though.” It’s a statement spoken like a question. Her eyes burn into me, holding the intensity I remember from this morning in front of the dorm. It’s intimidating when that intensity is directed at me, even if she looks curious, not accusatory.
“What makes you say I wasn’t interested?” I ask, puzzled I’m even having a conversation with this girl, and that this is the topic.
“I saw you reading. You didn’t even know when the presentation ended,” she replies, undaunted. Her hair remains in the uncompromising ponytail it was during the tour, and I’m beginning to learn there’s no halfway with this girl.
“You were watching me read?” I say, surprising myself with temerity.
For the first time I catch the force in Juniper’s eyes flicker. “I wasn’t watching you, watching you,” she explains. “You just stood out because you weren’t listening to the presentation,” she continues, recovering quickly.
We’ve nearly reached the registers, and I wonder if she’s going to question me through the entire ordering process. I know the women behind the counter don’t have a profusion of patience.
“I was listening,” I protest weakly.
Juniper faces me, a hint of playfulness in her eyes. “Well, are you going to apply to BU?”
I sigh. I could lie, but the directness in her gazes makes me rethink it. Besides, in a couple more questions, she’d probably corner me into admitting the truth. “Compunctiously, no, I’m not,” I say, and her eyebrows—her perfectly shaped eyebrows—rise. I wince internally. Once again, the pretentious word choice just slipped out. I know from experience that obtuse and antiquated vocabulary generally doesn’t go over well with the girls I try to talk to. With anyone, really.
The woman behind the counter gestures in my direction, and I order quickly. Plain ricotta with chocolate chips. She throws together the familiar package of wax paper, cannoli, and enough powdered sugar to leave the dough beneath barely visible. Juniper orders Oreo.
Handing the woman a rumpled twenty over the counter, I’m conscious