The glass lands with a clatter when he clumsily sets it down for a refill. “It’s complicated,” he states again, a sense of finality in the words. “What about you?”
I freeze. Because as much as I want to dish it out, I don’t know that I’m ready to take it. “What about me?”
Oblivious to my inner turmoil, Gabe continues, “I mean obviously you didn’t have anyone serious in Boston or you wouldn’t have left. Are you going to try to date now that you’re back? Should we establish some rules? A sock on the door situation?” He winks, in much better spirits now that the topic of conversation has pivoted.
Or maybe that’s because of the tequila hitting his system.
“No one in Boston,” I confirm. “And no, we don’t need a sock on the door. I’m here to focus on the coffee shop—everything else comes second.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue as a flash of red hair pops to the front of my mind.
Gabe holds his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright. Well, just know that now that you’re back, I’m sure Mom will try to set you up on dates. She already bugs Jules and I about it, but you’ve had distance to your advantage.”
“Noted.” What Gabe doesn’t know is that Mom is aware of my… uh, infatuation. I’ve always been close with our mom, and one night I let it slip that I had a crush on my biggest rival. Her response?The line between love and hate is very thin, my cabbage.Accompanied by a knowing smirk.
Needless to say, we’ve both quietly kept up with Cole over the years. Occasionally, Mom will ask, “Still, my cabbage?” and I know exactly what she’s talking about without any clarification.
“Still, Mom,” has always been my response.
But now I’m here. We’re both here. And maybe it doesn’t have to be a secret anymore.
Maybe, I can finally confess my feelings for Colette Russell.
When I get in bed that night, I have the unfortunate experience of realizing just how strong Gabe’s margaritas were.
Because after years of quietly stalking Cole’s Instagram without ever making it weird, I make the fatal mistake that all drunk, lovesick fools make.
I like one of her posts.
From five years ago.
The next several weeks are blissfully quiet.
Well, except for the morning after I ran into Ben outside of The Coffee Shop and woke up to find that he had liked a picture of me on social media.
And not a recent one either. A picture from when I first got Ernest, my three-legged rescue dog.
Five years ago.
It’s not like I post on Instagram often, but it would have taken him approximately seven scrolls to even get down that far on my feed. Seven! Give or take the size of his thumb.
Which I would imagine is large, given the size of… well,him.
So maybe it was closer to five Ben-sized scrolls, but still! He was looking.
Strange.
My theory, if I had taken long enough to form one—which I obviously did not because he does not take up that much space in my brain—would be that after running into me earlier that day, he had to figure out all of the ways he was still better than me.
I’m sure ifheadopted a dog, he would pick one with all four legs.
Seems like the easy way out, but what do I know?
Said dog chooses that moment to hop onto my lap. I give Ernest a few scratches behind his ears as he burrows deep into the blankets next to me. Ernest accidentally became mine when one of my engineering colleagues had a girlfriend, Cheryl, that ran a pet rescue. Management had allowed her to bring dogs in one day for all of us to cuddle, which really made no sense, but apparently it’s a stress reducing technique employed at high-stress jobs nationwide. They were always trying to do things to “boost morale,” and I started to wonder why morale was so low to begin with. Why weren’t they addressing the fact that maybe we were just overworked and underpaid?
Anyway, at our dog-cuddling-morale-boosting event, Cheryl brought eight puppies and Ernest. One guess on who everyone chose to cuddle with—it wasn’t Ernest.
They also posted up right by the coffee station, so every time I walked past to get another cup of coffee, that damn dog just stared at me. He is quite possibly the ugliest dog to ever exist. Truly, I’ve debated entering him in that World’s Ugliest Dog competition. His hair is wiry, his eyes are squinty, and his front right leg had to be amputated due to a bike accident. Both of his ears stick out at odd angles and he has a bald patch near his tail.
Like I said, he’s ugly.
