She’s a little flustered. “Yeah. Iris and the twins made them last night. We had a birthday dinner at home. Levi insisted I bring most of them back here or Milo would be on a sugar high and wouldn’t sleep for three days.”
“What flavor?” I ask, just to keep her from shutting the door in my face.
“Vanilla, with strawberry filling. I'd like to think they picked that because it’s my favorite, but I'm sure it has more to do with the fact that the gooey center looks like blood oozing out. They’re big true crime nuts, my siblings.”
“The third graders?”
“And the kindergartner,” she says, nodding.
“I would love to have a strawberry blood cupcake.” Those are never words I thought I’d say, but I also never thought I’d be in Josie’s doorway again. She bites her lip in hesitation, and I brace myself to have her door slammed in my face. But it never happens. Her pretty mouth curves into a half-smile and she steps back, leaving the door open.
“Sure, I have plenty,” she says as I step inside. The room is so perfectly Josie–all different shades of purple, with little bits of white and green. I feel like I’m in a field of flowers and I don’t mind it at all.
I’m not sure if she’s just being polite or if it’s because today’s her birthday or what, but if the universe is letting me into Josie’s orbit, even for half an hour, I’m not turning it down.
Somehow we end up sitting on the floor, our backs against the edge of her bed, just like the night we met. We don’t talk about how weird it is that I’m here. I have a feeling that if I acknowledge that things might be thawing a little bit between us, Josie will freeze me out again, so I stay quiet, eating three cupcakes and watching an episode of some show I don’t even know the name of. It takes place a couple hundred years ago and everybody’s got a British accent. They’re all lords and ladies of something-or-other, but it’s actually pretty good. Plus, there’s sex, and not the fade-to-black kind. That should be awkward, but when I sneak a glance at Josie, she’s fast asleep.
Lifting her onto the bed, I drape a purple fuzzy blanket over her. I’m tempted to kiss her forehead, to wish her sweet dreams and seal it with my lips. But tonight wasn’t about me. It wasn’t even about us. Tonight was about Josie. Besides, a stolen kiss while she’s sleeping isn’t what I want. If I’m ever lucky enough to get my lips on Josie again, it won’t be chaste or sweet. It won’t be a kiss goodbye. It will be the start of something I never want to end.
18
Josie
“For the love of god, Josie, you have to talk to him. If for no other reason that the fact that I’m going to die of curiosity if you don’t.”
I’m sitting in Drip with Mel, eating an oatmeal raisin cookie and trying to live my best life. But that seems impossible now that Van is back in my life.
Mel takes a sip of her coffee before leveling me with her red-rimmed gaze. “I’m serious, Josie. Have some pity on me. I’m a broken-hearted spinster and I need to live vicariously through you.”
Mel and Will broke up a few days ago and my best friend has been out-of-sorts. I can’t blame her. Van and I aren’t even together, and my brain feels like goo.
“You’re hardly a spinster, Mel. And all hope is not lost. You asked for space and he’s giving it to you. That’s a good thing, right?”
Mel shakes her head and signals Theo for another latte like we’re at a bar and it’s last call. “It’s a fucking miserable thing,” she replies, “which is why I need you and Van to get your shit together. Make my cold, dead heart believe in love again.”
“I’m not looking for love,” I remind her (and myself). “I’m looking for closure.”
Theo drops off more provisions and I offer a grateful smile. I think he’d ply me with a dozen cookies right now if that meant I’d be Mel’s sounding board so he wouldn’t have to.
“It’s just so confusing, Mel. I can’t make sense of it. When we’re together, it feels right, easy, natural. But we’re not together. We’re just forced to hang out. So that’s why I need closure. I’m going to do it. I’m going to talk to him tonight. That’s a good plan, right?”
“Mmhmm,” Mel agrees, taking a bite of her scone. “Closure. That’s what you need. Or sex. Sex would work, too.”
My big plan was to talk to Van and seek some sense of closure. And yes, I realize that’s probably why he’s been trying to talk to me for weeks.
But it doesn’t look like that conversation is happening tonight.
We’ve been making steady progress these last few weeks, but tonight is different.
Van’s in a grumpy mood, and I can understand why. He’s worked so hard lately, and his grades are starting to improve, all except for one.
“This class is gonna do me in, Josie. I’m serious.” He pushes his laptop away in defeat, his shoulders slumped. Van’s exhausted and overwhelmed right now. I get that.
Dr. Schoenbauer’s lit course requires in-class, handwritten timed essays. Her reasoning is simple: if students are divested of electronics and AI tools, then the work they produce will be entirely their own.
The problem is that Van has bombed every single essay, even the ones we’ve brainstormed ahead of time. Of course, I have no way of knowing exactly what her questions will be, but we’ve mapped out ideas for dozens of possible prompts. He’s verbally demonstrated his understanding of each work to me, but when he walks into that room and the timer starts, it all falls apart. At least, I’m guessing that’s what happens.
“I’m here to help you, Van, but I really need to know what you are doing in the actual essay.”
