“Come on,” I say. “Come with me.”
She rolls her green eyes, then levels them right at me. “I’m not gonna tag along to college with you. Really. How could I leave this?” She sweeps her arm at the wide window in the front of the shop. In the pale afternoon light, the weather-worn buildings across the street sag beneath the last of the snow in a way that complements her sarcasm just right, and I feel like a horrible person for not telling her first thing this morning. I clear my throat.
“I’m a finalist. For the Cruz-Farnetti Scholarship.” I say it more to my chai than to Kat.
She leans back and practically yells to the whole place. “Did you just tell me that my best friend is up for the no-joke, tenth anniversary, full ride scholarship to frickin’ Stanford?” I nod again, and in less than a second she’s out of her chair, with her arms wrapped around me in a hug that’s solid and proud and the slightest bit uncomfortable since my face is smooshed into her boobs. “Holy. Shit, Parker!” A lady in the corner shoots us a glare that doesn’t bother Kat in the least. “When did you find out?” She pulls back so I can answer, ready to hear all the details, and I’m relieved because she looks happy for me. Genuinely happy.
“The letter came yesterday. I haven’t even told my mom yet because I know as soon as I do she’ll be on my back about writing the perfect speech. That’s the biggest part of their selection process, and it’s gonna be the hardest. I basically have to get up and somehow convince the entire board that I’m the one they should give hundreds of thousands of dollars to.”
Kat waves a dismissive hand. “Please. You’ve aced every essay you’ve ever written, mine included. You’re gonna get it.”
I laugh, but apprehension seeps into my stomach. “I don’t even have any ideas on how to start.”
“You will,” she says, with a certainty that makes me feel a little better. “You’ll figure it out and come up with something brilliant, and then you can put all your energy into more important things. Like Trevor Collins.” She sits back in her chair and smiles, shakes her head. “I knew there was something you were sitting on. You’re a shitty secret keeper.”
“I wasn’t keeping it secret, I was just . . . waiting for the right time to tell you ’cause I didn’t know . . .” I don’t want to say I didn’t know how she’d take it once it became a real thing that might actually happen.
She lets me fumble a moment before reaching across the table for both my hands. “P, all that crap I give you about leaving is just that—crap. I’m happy for you, I really am. I’m gonna miss you like crazy, but this is huge. And well-deserved. We should celebrate.”
Before I can answer, the bell above the door jingles and Josh, the owner of the place, strides in, the smell of cold swirling all around him. He nods at us. “Ladies.”
“Hi,” I say, and look down at the table, wondering what I could possibly add to that. Josh intimidates me. He’s older than us by more than a few years, with perfectly messy dark hair, warm brown eyes, and tattoos up and down his arms—which I normally wouldn’t find attractive, but they’re intriguing on him. He’s good-looking in a quiet, unassuming way that somehow reduces me to one word answers and makes me wonder what he’s really like. Kat and I have been in a lot over the years, but he’s never said anything to us that wasn’t necessary for business. Not that he’s rude or anything. He just seems like one of those people who’d rather keep to themselves.
“Mocha’s perfect today,” Kat chimes in.
“Good to hear,” he says. He gives her one more little smile, not the flirty one she’s looking for, but one that says he’s just being polite, then heads back to the counter that Lane is making sure is spotless. I watch a moment as Josh sets his package down and fills a tall cup of coffee, greets Lane with a pat on the back, then surveys his café/gallery. It’s a small, cozy space covered in art that is always changing. Paintings of all different sizes and styles cover every inch of available wall space, and above us, metal mobiles sway gently, their pieces clinking softly together before settling back into place. I’ve always assumed that somewhere on the walls Josh has a piece or two of his own hanging up, just because he has that whole ex-art student look, but I’ve never asked.
“I think he’s depressed,” Kat whispers to me, watching Josh out of the corner of her eye.
“Because he didn’t flirt back when you batted your eyelashes and leaned on your boobs just now?”
“No,” she says. “Because he doesn’t act interested in anyone. Ever. He just walks around with his head down all the time, which is a shame since he’s so goddamn good-looking.”
“He’s also way too old for us.”
“I don’t know,” Kat says, with a wicked grin. “I bet he’s not even thirty yet.”
“Okay then. Maybe he’s just smart enough not to have any interest in seventeen-year-olds.”
She sighs. “There is so much you don’t understand about guys, P.” We both watch him move around behind the counter, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he’s our topic of conversation. And that we’re staring.
Kat shrugs. “Maybe he’s gay.”
“He’s not gay,” I say. “And you’re whispering too loud.”