It almost kills me to say yes, but she’s right. How do I really know what I felt for Rafe? What if it was only the weight of memory and nostalgia that linked us?
“Okay,” I say.
“Nothing like enthusiasm!” She nudges me. “You don’t have to, you know.”
“I want to try.”
She looks at me carefully. “It’s only coffee or a drink,” she reminds me. “You can end it anytime. You might realize you would work as friends. What ruins these things is the fantasy of a potential future and what a person could be in your life, rather than experiencing it for what it is in the moment.”
“Poetic.”
“I got it from Jayne. She’s seen a lot of dates at the bar.”
“Does she have any other advice?”
Ana nods. “Say no to something at least once to see how they respond. If they keep pressuring you to change your mind, nope on out.”
“Jayne should write a dating-advice book.” I think for a beat and then brighten up. “Or an advice column! She’d be great.”
Ana sighs. “Yeah. She would be. She’s so smart.”
We finish up the cookie, and I wrap up a huge chunk of the leftovers to give to my new friend down the hall as a neighborly gesture. I’ve only emptied half of my suitcase when a text comes from Ana. It’s a phone number.
Ana:His name is Matt and he’s waiting for you to text him. When you want. If you want.
I stare at the number as another message comes through.
Ana:No pressure, honest.
Me:Thanks.
I toss the phone onto my bed and keep unpacking, thinking back to all the pivotal moments in my life when I acted to make things worse instead of better. Because at a certain point, I could absolve myself of any responsibility to fix it. Things would simply be unfixable.
Is Rafe unfixable? Am I self-sabotaging right now by agreeing to go on a date with this guy?
The question haunts me as I go to sleep, wishing, yet again, that my own moli worked on me.
***
The next day, I talk myself out of texting Matt until the evening. I don’t want to look too eager, after all, or disturb him at work. It makes sense to hold off for a bit. Plus, I need to decide what to say.
The day goes by quickly enough. The Pulse Points have become bestsellers and have started making more influencer and blog lists, so I fix up the front window to prominently display our new jewelry. “Here,” says Ana, handing me a vase. “Tie one of the necklaces around the neck of this. It’ll look cool.”
It’s pure white with little knobs, and a chip out of the base makes me shudder. I twist it around and put it—with the necklace—in the window. Ana likes it, so I let it be.
“What do you think about having your mom sell Pulse Points in Vancouver?” Ana asks during a lull. “Broaden our market.”
“I’ll ask her.” I talked to her earlier, and she was full of plans after a conversation with Missy’s fashion designer friend, who sounded like a perfect match for my mother’s style. She sent me his lookbook, and Ana and I gasped at his designs: gorgeously constructed modern interpretations of old Shanghai. They’ve decided to give up the Burrard store and open up in a hipper part of town. Mom’s already hiredsomeone to put a vault for the Hua perfume collection in the house, which she’s going to keep after apparently much negotiation with Dad.
“Do it now.” She looks back out the window. “Oh, Priscilla and Elvis are holding hands and looking at your garden. That’s sweet.”
Elvis bends down to pluck a sprig of lavender, which he tucks behind Priscilla’s ear. It’s surprisingly chaste for the two of them, and she looks thrilled.
“Good for them,” approves Ana.
The message comes back from Mom, and I turn to Ana. “She’s happy to be a distributor,” I say. “She also has some ideas about what would work well in the market there. We could do limited editions.”
“Love it.” She looks over fondly at the table display. “Have you thought about contacting Matt?”
