“I’ll look fine.”
We head to the register and I start putting everything on the counter. That’s when she notices the blue peeking out from under my pile.
“What’s that?”
“Accessories.”
“That’s blue.”
“So?”
“Everything else you got was black or gray.” She’s looking at me like she’s trying to figure out my angle.
I pull out the scarf and beanie. “Then I guess you’ll have to take them.”
“Rodriguez—”
“You said the cold is brutal. Now you won’t freeze either.” I pay before she can argue more.
“This is too much.”
“It’s a scarf and a hat, JuJu. Not lingerie.”
But I wish it was, great, now I’m imagining her in sapphire blue lingerie.
We leavethe mall with bags full of clothes I didn’t plan to buy and Juliette looking pleased with herself about the whole thing. The walk back is colder now, the wind picking up and cutting through even my heavy coat.
We’re about halfway back to the hotel when Juliette stops in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Oh my god.”
I follow her gaze. There’s a food truck parked on the corner, a small line of people waiting. The sign says “BeaverTails” in red letters.
“What’s a beaver tail?” I ask.
“Only the best thing in the entire world.” She’s already walking toward it, faster than I’ve seen her move all morning. “Come on.”
I’ve never seen her excited about food before. Juliette is usually all carefully portioned meals and protein shakes and eating because it’s functional. The only thing she’s really had a strong opinion about is her coffee order. But right now she looks like a kid in front of an ice cream truck.
We get in line and she’s practically bouncing on her toes. “You have to try one. It’s basically fried dough but shaped like a beaver tailand you can get different toppings but the classic is cinnamon and sugar and it’s—” She stops. “I sound crazy.”
“You sound like you really like beaver tails.”
“I haven’t had one in three years. Since before I moved to Seattle.”
We order one to share and when the guy hands it over, it’s still hot and covered in a mountain of sugar and cinnamon and Juliette’s entire face lights up.
“Here,” she says, breaking off a piece for me. “Try it.”
I could take it from her hand. That would be the normal thing to do. Instead, I lean forward, taking a bite directly from her fingers, letting my teeth scrape across her skin. Her breath catches and her pupils dilate. For half a second she doesn’t pull her hand away and I wonder what would happen if I—but then she snatches it back like she remembered we’re in public, on a sidewalk, in Toronto, fake dating.
The pastry is hot enough to burn my mouth slightly, crispy on the outside and soft inside, covered in so much cinnamon and sugar that it gets everywhere. It tastes like every carnival and fair I’ve ever been to, sweet and indulgent and completely worth the mess.
“Do you like it?” she asks, breaking off her own piece.
“Really good.”
We walk and eat and I’m watching her more than I’m watching where we’re going. She’s got sugar on her chin and fingers and she looks absolutely joyful.
