“Is it working?” I ask.
She smirks, scraping her thumb over my knuckles when I rest my hand on the console. The touch short-circuits me. I leave my hand there anyway, and when she plays with my knuckles again, I thread our fingers together.
We take the highway along the dark ribbon of water, Juju’s playlist humming low. She points things out along the way.
“There’s the bridge Uncle Hal convinced Papa Hector to climb.”
“Yikes. How did that turn out?”
“He did it, but never ever wanted to do it again.”
And a little later…
“That’s the billboard where Erin swears she’ll start a dating site. Each week will have a different starter, and whoever comes up with the best responses gets matched up with…” She pauses. “Yeah, I’m not sure how she thought that would work out. There are definitely flaws in the system.”
I counter with restaurant gossip, famous chef arguments, and the many ridiculous questions I’ve fielded.“Yes, ma’am, I’m positive this water doesn’t have calories.”
We roll into the city in no time and decide to go straight to the restaurant, since we’re so hungry. We leave the car with the valet and hurry inside. I offer my arm, and she takes it like this is a thing we do. I love being able to do this freely. Inside, the place hums—low light, dark wood, whispers of money. The host recognizes me and does that subtle double take. I put my hand on Juju’s back, and we’re led to a corner table.
“Champagne?” I ask.
“Absolutely,” she says, and I order a bottle I love.
The first course arrives perfectly plated: shaved fennel and pear, tiny curls of pecorino, a drizzle of something that smells delicious. Juju looks at it, reverent and eager. I see her when we were kids and I see the gorgeous woman she is now, and it’s like Cupid’s arrow to my chest. It makes me feel drunk inside.
We take bites and quickly deconstruct the dish, listing the spices they used.
“I used to want to hate that you were a food snob,” she says, “but I’ve always secretly liked it. And I like when you teach me things.”
“Snobis a harsh word,” I say, spearing a sliver of pear and offering it across the table. She leans forward and bites from my fork, lips closing around pear and the tip of steel, eyes on mine. I feel it in the soles of my feet. And elsewhere, where my pants are now tight. “And you’ve taught me just as much, if not more—trust me.”
“That’s sweet of you to say. Do you approve of the wordconnoisseurmore?” she asks.
“That’s acceptable.” I grin. “And you’re the connoisseur of joy. Which is much harder.”
She tilts her head. “Is that how you felt when I used to bite your head off? That I’m a connoisseur of joy?”
That makes me laugh, and it takes me a second to respond. “No, I can’t say that was the word that came to mind.”
“Hmm. Isirresistiblebetter?”
“We’re getting closer to the target, yes.”
She grins. “I still feel like rolling my eyes at you sometimes.”
“How about we negotiate about the right words to use and kiss until we’re asked to leave?”
“I don’t hate the sound of that,” she says, her eyes softening.
The next plates arrive—scallops in citrus, risotto, and a beautiful steak. We share everything. She narrates each bite:“Whitman goes in hard with the succulent scallops—oh! He’s stunned, folks. He’s stunned!” I’m laughing too hard to pretend I’m not absolutely gone for her.
Between courses, we talk about Tully’s game tomorrow, how he gets in his head before games. We talk about her parents deciding to spend more time in Windy Harbor, the way it makes her feel anchored and weirdly like she’s twelve again. I tell her that I still sometimes set too many plates at my dad’s table out of habit, one for my mom. She slips her foot over my ankle beneath the table and leaves it there.
“My mom still does the birthday ritual they did every year for their birthdays,” she says. “She goes to Cafe Latte and gets the latte and cake they always got, and then she stops at all the shops that are still around that they went to. I’ve tried to go with her for the past few years, since I’ve been living near her again. She breaks down at least once every time.”
“I didn’t know that,” I say, touched. “Wow. They had a special bond, didn’t they.” I smile at her. “Our families were meant to know each other.”
“Imagine if we’d moved onto another street,” she says, lifting her shoulder.
