I browse the stacks until I can’t carry any more choices, then settle in at the little coffee shop next door to whittle down my short list, surrounded by bearded college undergrads and burly biker types. I’m so deep in a collection of vintage kids’ ballet stories that I barely hear Josh’s voice. “Is that a cinnamon roll? Traitor.”
I look up as he folds himself into the chair opposite, a stern expression on his face. I hurry to swallow a mouthful of the offending pastry.
“Just keeping tabs on the competition,” I protest quickly. “And they’ve got nothing on you.”
He breaks into a smile. “I’m kidding. And, sure they don’t.”
“Modest,” I tease. “Anyway, no more delays.” I push my plate aside. “I can’t stand the suspense. What’s the big secret? Did everything work out?”
Josh suddenly looks bashful. In fact, if the light wasn’t already rosy from the stained-glass panels in the window, I would swear he’s blushing. He reaches for a sugar packet and begins to tear it open. “I, uh, came to talk to the guy next door. Did you take a look around?” I shake my head. “Right, I forgot, the books. Anyway, he’s got this great restaurant. Nothing fancy, just simple, fresh stuff. They even grow a bunch of the produce on a farm nearby — the whole local-food movement.”
“That’s cool,” I say, even though I don’t really follow.
Josh makes tiny circles in the sugar crystals with his fingertips. “So . . . I came to see about working here. An apprenticeship,” he explains. “Not just the stuff I do at work, but real training.” He stops, and then a huge grin spreads across his face, as if he just can’t hold it back. “And . . . he said yes. I got the job.”
“Josh!” I leap up. “That’s amazing! Congratulations!” I hug him across the table. “So you’re going to be a chef, for real?”
“Maybe. We’ll see. It doesn’t pay much, and I’ll be working crazy hours, but . . . I don’t know, I think I could be good at it.” Josh looks at me, hopeful, as if he’s waiting for agreement.
“Of course you will,” I insist. “We’ll miss you, though. When do you start?”
“Not for another couple of weeks. His summer intern goes back to culinary school in the fall.”
“Is that something you’ll need to do, then?” I ask, curious. “Go to cooking school?”
“I don’t know. I’m not thinking that far ahead.” He’s still grinning, clearly thrilled. “For now, I’ll just see how this works out.”
“It will be great,” I declare. “I can just see you in one of those floppy white hats, whipping up amazing meals and yelling at all your kitchen underlings.”
He snorts. “I think I’ll be the one getting yelled at for now. And I won’t be anywhere near the real food — just chopping stuff and cleaning up.”
“But it’s a start,” I insist. “You’ll be winning Michelin stars in no time. That’s the award, right?” I check. “That all the fancy restaurants have?”
He nods. “But I want to be more of a James Beard guy. It’s the award they give for the best chefs in America,” he explains. “The ones who really push the boundaries and put a whole modern spin on things.”
I’m amazed. “You never said you were into this stuff. You always complain about being stuck in the kitchen back at work.”
Josh shrugs again. “Sure, because I’m grilling sandwiches for the millionth time. This is different. Will — the guy in the restaurant — he’s doing amazing stuff with meats and herbs and —” He seems to catch himself, stopping with a shy smile. “Sorry, I get kind of carried away when it comes to cooking.”
“No, it’s great.” I look at him, at the energy in his expression. The casual act is gone, and instead, there’s something focused and full of excitement. “I’ve never seen you like this.”
Josh coughs, and suddenly that goofy smile is back. “There I go, ruining my bad reputation.”
“Sure, you’re a regular rebel without a cause.” I laugh. “Now, how about we get something to toast this news of yours?”
There’s a reason you didn’t block off contact with him entirely. And that reason is friendship — or at least, the dream of a happy, healthy friendship, unencumbered by the crippling weight of unrequited love. The utopia of BFFs, the (ahem) platonic ideal of emotional maturity. It’s getting closer every day, but the question is, are you ready for it?
I don’t mean kind of, almost, nearly ready. I’m talking immune-to-his-charms, cool-and-collected, ready-to-hang-up-in-a-heartbeat kind of ready. Because you haven’t done all this work just to turn around and hurl yourself at his feet again, pleading, “Love me! Love me!”
Asphalt hurts. But not as much as abandoning your dignity.
20
“I’m bored.” Kayla collapses next to me after Sunny Dayze lets out. I’m perched on the bench in front of Totally Wired on my break, peeling an orange and watching people on Main Street meander past. There’s a soothing calm to it, I’ve found: the slow strolling and absent errands that used to fill me with disdain and frustration are now kind of charming, after a manic morning serving coffees in the café.
“That’s new.” I offer her an orange segment. “Usually you’re exhausted and/or homicidal. Which, you know, isn’t the best thing when you’re working with kids.”
“But they’re so inane.” She sighs. “It’s all, ‘Kayla, look at my crayons!’ and, ‘Kayla, I made you a bracelet!’ Please. Come back when you can pee on your own.”
I laugh. “And somehow, every mom in town thinks you’re God’s gift to child care.”
Kayla bats her eyelashes at me. “As long as they tip at the end of summer!”
We sit side by side in the sun, enjoying the last orange sections. “Fall’s coming,” Kayla says. “I can feel it in the air.”
“You lie,” I tell her. “Fall isn’t coming, because if it does, that means winter’s on the way, and I refuse.”
“You refuse?”
“Yup. I’m not allowing it this year,” I declare, folding my arms. “Wet mittens and runny noses and ugly snow boots, and waiting in the cold for the bus. It’s just not going to happen. I forbid it. It’s staying summer forever.”