So you bottle up the shame and the guilt and the exhilaration and the thought of Mariana’s dimples and you hold them tight.
Brody mimics fireworks exploding out of his hand, and you cringe as he cackles. “Come on, man, pick something. I’m hungry.”
You wind up at the Starbucks inside the Barnes & Noble, you with a lemonade and Brody with an iced latte made with oat milk. You’ve known the guy for months now but somehow you’ve only just realized he’s lactose intolerant. You never noticed him avoiding cheese at lunch, but now that you look back, he’s never had the pizza. You thought he just didn’t like it.
He’s in the middle of telling you about the latestStar Warsnovelhe’s reading when he sits up straighter, puffing his chest out a bit. He’s in a black sweater today, and he pushes the sleeves up his forearms while looking past you.
“What?” you ask.
“Don’t look,” he says, then sticks his tongue out at you. “It’s your girlfriend.”
Your—
“Mariana?”
You’re about to turn, but Brody kicks your shin under the table. “I said don’t look!”
But looking couldn’t be any more obvious than the “Ow!” you let out.
“Dayton?”
Now youhaveto look.
“Oh, hey!” you say. You swallow hard, then wonder if you look weird when you swallow. What are people supposed to look like when they swallow? But your mouth and throat feel dry. All that lemonade.
Mariana’s in a light purple puffer coat that brings out the warm undertones of her sepia skin. Her eyebrows are two perfect arches over her rich, honey eyes. Her dimples deepen as she smiles at you over her coffee cup. It’s a hot one, and you wonder what kind of drink she gets. And whether she adds flavors. And how many shots she likes. And whether she does whipped cream on top.
You wonder if she thinks you’re basic for getting a lemonade, and you vow to develop a better palate for espresso so you can talk about coffee and lattes and breves and whatever else it is that Starbucks makes.
“Hey,” you say again, scratching your chin and then yankingyour hand away, hoping she doesn’t notice the remains of yesterday’s pimple.
You can feel Brody’s eyes on you, sense the glee he’s barely containing, but you ignore him, because Mariana is looking at you. She’ssmilingat you.
You smile back.
“Um. Do you like coffee?”
Do.
You.
Like.
Coffee.
You want to face-palm. She’s literally holding it right now.
“It’s okay,” she says. “Is that lemonade?”
You nod. “It’s not as good as coffee, though.”
“Oh. Cool.”
Your heart feels like someone’s stuck it on the milk foamer. You wonder if it would be easier to talk to her in German, but when you try to think of something to say, every word you know in German flies out your ears exceptder Krankenwagen.
“Are you going to Sweetheart?” you blurt out.
Mariana’s smile softens. “Maybe. I haven’t asked anyone yet.”
