“You made black-and-white cookies?” I ask.
“Well, I liked yours, and I keep thinking if I do more New York things, it’ll feel more like home.” He shrugs, watching as I take a bite.
“These are really good,” I say, trying to enunciate with my mouth full. He’s talked about his baking, but I’ve never actually tasted anything he’s made. I’m surprised by how fluffy and perfect they are. “Did your grandmother make these with you when you were a kid?”
“Oh yeah,” he says with a grin. “When Nan moved here, she started out making biscuits and shortbreads and everything British. But then I think, as she put it, she wanted to date some New Yorker, so she got really good at black and whites. Eventually she said it made her feel like a New Yorker herself, so she didn’t miss the old stuff.”
“Are you missing home?” I ask, knowing that isn’t why he asked me here but wondering it all the same.
“I’m ...” He pauses, the lightness dimming for just a moment. But then he shakes it off. “It’s fine. Anyway, Ididwant to give you a cookie. But I actually have something better for you.”
“Something could be better than cookies?” I ask as he pops away to go grab something from his room.
“Oh yes!” he says, practically running back and holding out his hand. And there, laid flat in the middle, his palm curved to keep it safe, is my button.
It’s the button I lost on the bike ride and assumed was gone. It’s twinkling in the light, looking like a shining star against his skin.
“You found my button?” I ask in disbelief.
I know I can see it right in front of me, and I know it’s unique enough that it can’t be anything else, but it seems so illogical.
“I ... yeah,” he says with a shrug, tipping his hand into mine so the button falls softly onto me.
“But it was lost.”
“Well, it was always there,” he says quietly. I hold it nearer to my face, as though seeing it up close will make it all make more sense. “I shouldn’t have let go while you were biking.”
I snap my head back to him, my eyes questioning. “So what’d you do? Go inch by inch through all those thickets to try and find a single button?”
His brow furrows, and I wish I could take the sentence back—because it seems like that’sexactlywhat he did. And he’s interpreting my words as incredulity, not the sincerity that I meant. I can’t wrap my head around it. He did this? For me?
“I just thought I’d be able to find it,” he says, shrugging again, like he can shrug off the weight of my stare. “I thought you’d be excited.”
My hand darts out to his shoulder, desperate to correct whatever thought is now burrowing. “Iamexcited. It’s from one of my favorite shirts,” I explain. “I just can’t believe you did this for me.”
“Is that so hard to believe?”
“Notyou,” I emphasize. I’m backtracking once again and trying to fix what I know I’m saying incorrectly in my stunned state. “I just can’t believeanyonewould do this. For me. For anyone. It’s a huge pain. It’s methodical. It’s a lot of work!”
“Not alotof work,” he mumbles.
“No, Eli, it is,” I say, my voice cracking a bit. “I’m really touched. You must’ve had to sift through a lot of uncomfortable brush, all while leaning over and ...” As I’m imagining it, it seems about as painstaking as painstaking could be. I look back down at the button, so simple but so irreplaceable, now back in my possession. “I just really appreciate it.”
“It’s not a big deal,” he says.
He looks embarrassed now, and I don’t get it.He’sthe one who put the note on my door. He’s the one who went through all the effort.
“I don’t get how you were so excited to show this to me and now you’re acting like it’s nothing,” I say. “It’s so cool that you did this. I’m really speechless.”
He rubs the back of his neck and looks away, the way he always does when he wants to avoid. “I don’t know, I didn’t mean to make it such a big deal,” he finally says. “Like, now that you say it like that, I’m a little embarrassed.”
“You’reembarrassed?”
“Yeah, it’s kind of overboard,” he says, flipping whatever switch he’s able to use whenever he wants to get his casual nature back. It’s amazing how he can do that. It’s such a skill to be able to pour ice over your emotions. Knowing him now, I find it sort of remarkable to watch the subtle difference when he shakes off his sincerity and puts the bravado back on.
“It’s not overboard,” I counter, not wanting to let him diminish. “It’s really kind.”
“Well, I thought you’d like it. And you do. So do you want another cookie? Or a cup of tea?”
