“Another chai?” the barista asks after a few seconds.
“I’m still deciding,” Milo says, right as I go, “Yes, please.”
Surprise glitters in his eyes. “Hey, I know you. You’re—”
“Chavez,” I say, and then die inside. Because, does he think—
“Your name is Chavez?” A smirk catches on his lips. “You look way more like a Johanna.”
My cheeks burn. “Yeah, I’m Jo. And you’re Milo. From history.”
“Milo from History,” he muses. “Good band name.”
I grin and look at my toes for a second too long, because I can feel his eyes on me and it’s making my cheeks so red, I think they may incinerate. When I do look up, he’s grinning too, struggling to read the menu.
“What are you choosing between?”
“Bagel and a scone,” he says. “Thoughts?”
“Bagel. Definitely. I don’t trust a pastry that can be either sweet or savory. Too big of a mindfuck.”
“Ah, but bagels can be savory or sweet too, right? I mean, somebody explain strawberry cream cheese to me.”
“Yeah, or pumpkin spice.”
“That’s just sick.”
The barista rolls her eyes at us, but I can’t stop smiling, my heart pounding beneath my sweater. This close, Milo smells of lemongrass and nutmeg. A sexy, human version of the chai latte I’m currently being handed. I pass the girl a five-dollar bill, and Milo orders an Americano and a bagel—cinnamon raisin.
“Cinnamon raisin?” I sneer. “Traitor.”
“Hey, my mom’s a pastry chef,” he says, raising his palms. “I’ve got a sweet tooth. That’s actually why we moved here.”
“You moved to Santa Fe because of your sweet tooth?” I marvel. “I thought gambling was the worrisome addiction in Vegas. But, wow.”
His chin juts up to the ceiling as he laughs. “Actually, no. The sweet tooth is serious but not criminal. My mom’s job, I meant. She’s a pastry chef at that new French bakery on Water Street.”
“That’s cool. What’s her stance on scones?”
“I’ll have to ask her.”
“How about your dad?”
“He’s ambivalent on scones.”
“Okay.” I giggle. “But I meant, what does he do? Another pastry chef?”
Milo grabs his coffee off the counter, wincing as he brings it to his rosy lips. “My dad’s still in Vegas. Closing on our old house and packing up. But let’s get back to the genetics of scone hatred—how do your parents feel about savory versus sweet?”
“Oh.” My smile crashes. “They, uh, don’t.”
One of Milo’s eyebrows creeps up, and I clear my throat.
“I live with my grandparents. They’re retired. Buttermilk biscuit people,” I say, but my breath catches. Because, for the first time in my life, maybe disregarding my parents is a lie. Or a half truth, at least.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry, I—it’s complicated.”
He nods gravely. “Like scones.”
I solidly chuckle. “You know, I think we’ve just broken a world record for longest scone conversation in human history.”
“How about, next time I see you, I promise to have an arsenal of scintillating conversation topics in my back pocket. Are we relegated to baked goods?”
“Sky’s the limit.”
“Okay, cool.”
On cue, my insides turn into a mosh pit of warm gummy bears because, next time. He’s already planning future encounters. I watch him grab a lid and a cardboard sleeve for his cup. “Hey, I gotta go. But it was really nice talking to you, Jo.”
“You too, Milo from history.”
He pauses for a second, smiling at me. Like, smiling at my soul, almost. Then he pulls his wool cap back down over his ears and heads for the door. The frustrated barista clears her throat with a look that says, bitch, would you focus? and hands me my change, which I promptly put right back in her tip jar. It takes everything in me not to dance as I turn back to the table where Leah is full-on gawking.
“And that’s how it’s done!” she whoops. “Boo-yah! That was honestly one of the most adorable, rom-com-iest moments I’ve ever witnessed. I wanted to get my phone out and take pictures! We could have done that football thing after—where they go over each individual play on screen with a special pen?”
“You want to critique my flirting moves?”
She shrugs, like, yeah, and?
I roll my eyes and resume smiling. “He’s really easy to talk to.”
“Easy to look at too,” she murmurs. “Tight little butt on him.”
“Mind out of the gutter.”
“Yes, sir.”
Despite the lack of photos and stylus to help make her points, Leah wastes no time dissecting every second of my interaction with Milo, breaking down our body language and the way he laughed at my jokes. It’s nice. Hearing that I might actually have a shot with this beautiful new stranger. But, even more than that, I like what the past ten minutes has done to me. Bolstered me. As if I, Johanna Carlson, can be one confident, cool-ass bitch. Maybe even a badass. A sudden siren of energy blares through me, and, on a whim, I grab my phone from my jacket pocket.
“Ooh!” Leah shrieks. “Are you texting him?”
“Yes,” I say, then shake my head. “I mean, no. Not Milo. My father.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah.”
I type a few versions of: Let’s meet for coffee, and my thumbs freeze. Breath stalls in my chest. Leah grips my arm for moral support, and then—holy shit—I press Send.
She gasps.
I gasp.
And then I turn off my phone before it can explode in my hands.
3
“Amen.”
Gran opens her eyes, releasing my hand in order to scoop turkey casserole onto our plates. Grandpa slices a loaf of crusty bread while I fill our water glasses. He thanks her for the food, I thank him for the bread, she thanks me for setting the table. Cardboard silence follows. I blow steam off my fork and think about the mouth-scalding enchiladas Leah’s probably eating right now. The whole Fromowitz clan, roaring with laughter at her dad’s goofy jokes, the five of them cuddling up on the couch for family movie nights. Or Gabby’s family, frying up dumplings and playing strategy board games till midnight. The meals I share with my grandparents are more like bran flakes—dull and soggy after about a minute.
See, here’s how it is: Ever since our first playdate in kindergarten, Leah’s parents have described me as Little Miss Polite. Even Gabby says her manners are only that good when she’s with her grandparents in Kingston. Which kind of sums it up. It’s as if I’m on vacation visiting my grandparents. For my whole life.
“Fixed that leak under the bathroom sink today,” Grandpa says after a while.
“Oh, wonderful,” Gran says, but there’s a familiar hesitation in her voice. “Light bulb off the back porch started flickering yesterday. Did you notice?”
He sighs and shakes his head. “I’ll get to it tomorrow.”
“Yummy casserole,” I say, guiding a wilted leek around my plate. “Thanks.”