Ramin—ithadto be him, ithadto be—took another bite of gelato, sucking the spoon clean, and his dimples deepened.
Something soft and nostalgic hooked itself behind Noah’s belly button. He should say hello. Right?
But what if Ramin didn’t remember him? Noah hadn’t actually talked to Ramin since graduation. But they’d been friends, hadn’t they? Or had Noah put more stock in their friendship than Ramin had?
Noah hadn’t meant to stop talking to… well, everyone from high school, but he’d moved out of his parents’ place right after graduation and spent the next few years working his butt off. Not that Ramin would’ve had any way of knowing that. Did he think Noah hated him?
Did he think about Noah at all?
It might’ve been moot, anyway, because what if this was just some random Italian that happened to lookexactlylike his old friend, if his old friend had aged well?
He looked down at Jake, happily going to town on his bright green pistachio gelato. Noah’s own lemon cone was beginning to drip in a few spots, a trail of yellow trickling toward his index finger. He licked it off, the tartness bringing his senses alive.
He had to know, even if he embarrassed himself. Noah didn’t have many friends—realfriends, at least—back in high school, and he had even fewer now. Somewhere along the way, his whole world had become about Jake (and Angela, back when they’d been married). But Angela was moving to Italy and maybe taking Jake with her.
And if this reallywashis old friend, then what did he stand to lose, trying to reconnect?
He swallowed away the sand in his throat.
“Scusi. Are you American? Sei Americano?”
The guy nearly jumped off his stool. Noah hadn’t meant to startle him. He was about to apologize when the man finally turned, and the light caught his eyes, and Noah forgot how to breathe.
“Sì. I mean, yeah. Yes.”
That voice… soft and gentle, high and clear. But happier now. More confident. It had to be Ramin.
Nerves clawed at Noah’s throat. He’d be mortified if Ramin didn’t remember him. He hedged and asked, “This might sound weird, but you’re not from Kansas City, are you? Did you go to Northland High? Class of ’05?”
Ramin slowly nodded.
It really was him.
“Ramin, right? It’s Noah. Noah Bartlett.”
Pleaselet Ramin remember him. Please don’t let this moment be awkward.
“Yup. I mean, yeah. Hey!” Ramin hopped off the stool, but he stuck his foot right into one of the shopping bags on the floor and pitched forward, right against Noah’s chest.
Noah nearly dropped his sorbetto, but he managed to swing it out of the way in time.
He also managed to get a whiff of Ramin’s cologne, citrus and spice, and feel Ramin’s warm weight against him as he took his free hand off Jake’s head to steady him. Ramin blinked, so close his eyelashes nearly brushed against Noah’s face.
And then he righted himself and backed away, holding up his hands like they’d been stained or something. “I’m so sorry. My bag—”
“It’s fine,” Noah chuckled. Ramin looked so funny when he was flustered, his cheeks turning pink. The years really had been good to Ramin—he’d gotten more handsome. “Wow. Ramin Yazdani. I can’t believe it. What’re you doing here?”
Ramin bit his lip for a second. “I guess part vacation, part remote work? But wait, who’s this?” Ramin dropped to a crouch so he was eye level with Jake.
Embarrassment (and a tiny bit of shame) flashed through Noah. He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten to introduce Jake. But Ramin had noticed Jake standing there, patiently waiting. He’d even gotten down to Jake’s eye level. Like he saw Jake as a full person who didn’t deserve to be talked down to. Noah’s embarrassment swiftly gave way to warmth.
The Ramin he remembered had always been a good guy.
“Hey. I’m Ramin,” Ramin said to Jake. “I went to school with your dad. Wait. He is your dad, right? If he’s not, blink three times.”
Jake giggled. “He is my dad!”
“Okay, then. What’s your name, Noah’s kid?”
