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Now he just had to determine how to reach out to her. Because she’d kissed him last, right? So the ball was in his court. Neptune stretched his legs, as if giving him permission to go.

Of course, his leash was still wrapped around Leo’s ankles, something he didn’t realize until he was already falling. He was weightless for a moment, the hard concrete of the sidewalk looming before him—ready to break a tooth or worse—but then his mom was there, catching him, holding him up. He was surprised for a moment that she was strong enough, but then, hadn’t she been strong enough this whole time?

Embarrassingly, tears pricked his eyes as he disentangled himself from his mom and then from the leash. “Thank you,” he said, and he hoped she knew he wasn’t just talking about saving him from a face-plant.

When they got back to his building, they stopped so he could grab his mail, which he handed to his mom to hold so that he wouldn’t have to juggle the stack of envelopes and junk magazines with the dog leash and his keys. Once inside the apartment, he motioned for her to put the mail down on his counter while he poured Neptune some fresh water from the pitcher in the fridge (the spoiled dog would only drink it cold; Leo himself tended to drink from the tap), then plopped down on his couch and pulled out his phone. Opened his messages app. Stared at that perfunctory Thanks! Took a deep breath.

Hey, long time no talk. Was wondering if there was a Hanukkah party this year? I’ve really got a hankering for some latkes and Manischewitz. He paused before hitting send. Hope you’ve been well. Before he could talk himself out of it or get all in his head, he hit the button. The little whoosh said his message was off to its intended target. Leo let out his deep breath and turned his phone over, sliding it onto the countertop. It was done. He’d reached out. He’d done what he could.

“Hey, Leo, did you see this?” His mom brandished an envelope at him, because of course she was snooping through his mail. He squinted at the envelope. It was a big fancy one, light blue and sealed with a gold sticker on the back, like a wedding invitation. Shira’s, he thought with a flash of panic, then realized that was ridiculous. He would know if Shira had been dating someone long enough to get married, and she hadn’t been dating anyone last Hanukkah, right? Shira wasn’t the type of person to throw caution to the wind and marry someone after dating less than a year.

“It’s from Shira,” his mom said, and he jumped up from his seat, making the dog prick his ears. His heart pounded as he crossed the steps into the kitchen and took it from her. His shoulders relaxed almost immediately at the doodle on the envelope. It was a menorah, with him standing behind it, ready to light it, his mouth open, ready to sing. Doodle Leo was a cartoon, so Leo couldn’t say for sure how he knew it was him, but Shira had captured enough of his essence in the way the doodle was posed for him to tell. Something about the hesitation in his mouth because he was never one hundred percent sure that he was pronouncing the Hebrew words correctly.

He slit the envelope open with the side of a finger, careful not to ruin the drawing—he kind of wanted to hang it on his fridge. He slid out the piece of sturdy cardboard inside: an invitation. To the Hanukkah party. “Very fancy,” he said, eyes scanning the invitation. It was hand-painted, covered in tessellations of blue and white and gold, neat cursive spelling out the details of the event. He would be there, he knew even before checking his calendar. After skipping last year’s and spending the night at Aunt Ellen’s, sitting morosely on the couch, petting her cat while all her friends cooed and clucked over him, he never wanted to miss another Hanukkah party again.

Wait. He squinted at the words. It wasn’t just an invitation to the Hanukkah party; it was also an invitation to…an art show? For Shira’s work? It had to be, right? Who else’s would it be?

He was slightly devastated the event was more than a week away. He wanted to see whatever there was to see now.

Please RSVP to Shira Levinson. You know the number. Now he felt silly for the text he’d sent her before. He went back for his phone, stopping only to scratch Neptune behind his ears.

He had a whole volley of texts. From Shira.

You didn’t get my invitation?

I sent an invitation. By mail. In case that wasn’t clear.

It must’ve gotten lost. Curse your mailman.

I actually worked really hard on it! I’m slightly devastated.

…

He went to respond before she could spiral further. Sorry, sorry, I never check my mail because it’s always junk. I got it! It’s a beautiful piece of art. Sent. And then, because he realized he hadn’t actually RSVP’d, he typed, I’ll be there. Can’t wait.

She replied immediately. Neither can I.

“Why are you smiling like that?” his mom asked, popping a chocolate into his mouth. Where had she even gotten it?

It was only then that he realized he was grinning like a fool.

24

Shira had figured that once she’d heard back from Leo, she’d be able to relax a little bit because clearly the fact that he couldn’t wait to see her and come to the party and look at her art meant that he didn’t hate her, and that her kissing him hadn’t ruined everything forever. They could still be friends. Even if they never became more than that, that was okay. He would still be part of her life. Because she’d lived a life without Leo David in it already, and she never wanted to do that again.

But no, there was no relaxing. Which she probably should have figured because, one, her name was Shira Levinson and Shira Levinson did not ever really relax, and two, now she could go from stressing over whether he’d show up at all to stressing about what he’d think of her paintings, which she planned to hang all down her house’s hallway, since they weren’t due at the gallery in Philly until January. What if he hated them? Or worse, what if he thought it was super weird that she’d incorporated so much of their childhood into her art, that it was kind of sad and pathetic that she was clinging so much to the past while he was moving forward fearlessly into the future?

Ugh. She wiped a trail of sweat that was, despite the cold weather, snaking its way down her forehead.

As a distraction, she threw herself headfirst into prep for the Hanukkah party. With no job to do and her paintings finished, it was the only thing she really had to occupy herself with. Especially with Talia not at home anymore and her parents busy. It was weird, being at home for so long that her parents weren’t taking time away from work or book club or bird-watching group to be with her. Who even knew her dad had gotten so into bird-watching? She’d let him bring her to one of their sessions to show her off and brag about her art, and she’d trailed after the group of sixtysomethings with binoculars strung around their necks and goggled at her father as he spoke authoritatively about something called a Swainson’s thrush, but Shira wasn’t entirely sure whether it was a bird or a disease.

It turned out one of the other bird-watchers was Jewish and had the most epic idea for the Hanukkah party: a latke bar. Shira couldn’t believe she’d never thought of it before. “So of course you have the latkes, but then, in addition to applesauce and sour cream, you have a whole bunch of other different toppings people can try,” she told Talia on the phone later. She still couldn’t entirely believe she was talking to Talia on the phone, much less while walking the aisles of another dollar store where she’d stopped to see if they had anything new and fun for Hanukkah. “I went online for people’s favorite offbeat latke toppings and jotted down some ideas. I’m going to get duck sauce, mango chutney, cranberry sauce, ranch dressing, peanut sauce, sauerkraut—”

“Ketchup?” Talia interrupted.

“Ew, no,” Shira said. “That’s just wrong.”

“Ketchup and fried potatoes are a match made in heaven.”