“Ooh, I love the way your mind works. Always so creative.” Ali drops the jar into her tote bag and hands a couple of bills to the cashier. Hooking her arm through mine, she leads us farther into the market.
“So, have you heard from your new boyfriend yet?” she asks as we stop in front of a fresh produce stand.
“He is not my boyfriend,” I correct her. “But yeah, he has texted a few times.” The truth is, I’ve kept my cell phone beside me at all times since Jake left on Monday morning. I practically had a heart attack when it vibrated against my sheets at 2A.M.last night, only to discover it was a Grubhub spam survey.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes in my hand. Butterflies erupt through my stomach when I see Jake’s name flash across the screen. Clicking the message open, I see a photo of a half-eaten, soggy stack of pancakes.
Had a hankering for blueberry pancakes but these amateur efforts are a B- at best. Missing the lemon juice, no doubt.
I grin as I type back a response.
Well, if you want the good stuff, you know where to find me.
Ali grabs my elbow, turning my body toward her.
“Oh my god,” she says slowly. “Lexi Berman, as I live and breathe. You do not merely like this boy. Youlovehim!”
“I do not!” I object, shrugging to free my arm from her grasp. “Honestly, I barely know him.”
“You’ve already started planning your wedding,” she continues, ignoring me. “The Pierre. A June wedding, naturally. Classic, chic. You’ll wear white, and I, your maid of honor, will wear tasteful champagne.”
I groan as I pay for my peaches and drag Ali toward the next stand. The market is brimming with luscious March greens: artichokes, broccoli, brussels sprouts. I do my best to push Jake out of my mind and focus on all the possibilities in front of me.
“What about stuffed artichokes?” I lift one up and gentlyfinger its pointed petals. “I could roast them with some melted butter, then fill them with breadcrumbs and a bit of pecorino? Or should I just play it safe and get a pound of tomatoes?”
To her credit, Ali refuses to be distracted. “Tell me the truth. Are you getting his name tattooed on your ass?”
I rib her in the side before stopping in my tracks and squinting into the distance. “Wait. Is that… Shawn Mendes?”
Ali whips around so fast she nearly drops her basket. I attempt to bite back a giggle, but after taking one look at her face, burst into loud laughter.
“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.”
Ali’s nose wrinkles in playful anger.
“You’re going to pay for that one!”
“How about an iced coffee to make amends? After I pay for these tomatoes.”
“Sure,” she says. “If you do me one favor. Admit, out loud, that you like this boy.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine! I like him, okay? I really, really like him. Which makes no rational sense, because we just met, and we barely know each other. But there’s something about him that’s… I don’t know. Special. And I canmaybesee it going somewhere. There, are you satisfied?”
“Supremely so,” she says, grinning as she links her arm through mine.
IT’S A LITTLE AFTER1A.M.that night when the buzzing of my cell phone slowly rouses me from the depths of sleep. Bleary-eyed, I grab the phone, rubbing my eyes with the heel of my hand. My body jolts awake at the sight of Jake’s name on the screen. We’ve been texting all week, but this is the first time he’s called since he left on Monday morning.
“Hey!”
“Lexi! You’re never going to believe what’s happened!” Jake sounds breathless, his excitement palpable even through the phone.
Before I can answer, he hurries on.
“So, Eddie and I were out at the bar tonight, and I decided to go up onstage and play a few songs, right? Afterwards, a few people came up to congratulate me and guess who one of them was? Seriously, you’ll never guess.”
“Who?” I ask, my stomach fluttering with excitement.
“Tommy Russo! Tommyfreakin’Russo!”
