Hesitantly, Poppy lingers—until Nova bumps her toward the seats, practically shoving her into the booth, landing next to my sister with a softoof, shooting Nova a betrayed glare that screamshow could you do this to me?!
I clear my throat, hyper-aware of my posture, my feet rooted to the floor, my hands; the fact that I have no idea what to dowith them. One’s wrapped around my sweating glass, the other wants to stuff itself back in my pocket.
Poppy won’t make eye-contact.
Georgia, bless her meddling heart, doesn’t seem to notice the tension that’s thick enough to butter bread with.
“We werejustsaying how this place has the best chicken enchiladas. Life-altering. Their quesadillas are great too, if you just want nibbles.”
Beside the table, Nova shifts her weight from one foot to the other, fingers tugging at the hem of her sleeve.
Then, in possibly theleastsubtle move I’ve ever witnessed, she clears her throat. Loudly. Like choking on a corn chip, impossible to dislodge, eyes fastened on my sister.
Georgia ignores her.
Nova tries again, this time adding a dramatic stretch and a stage-whispered, “Um—Georgia, right?” she says, her tone edged with nerves. “Sorry to interrupt, but… could I borrow you for a teensy weensy second?”
Georgia blinks up at her, reluctant to tear her gaze from the menu.
“Me? Why?”
“I need help... finding the bathroom.” Nova gestures toward the opposite side of the restaurant where a neonRestroomssign is literally glowing like a Vegas billboard, next to a massive mural of a Catrina with brightly colored angel wings.
More throat clearing.
More coughing.
Georgia’s eyes narrow suspiciously at Nova, looking between the two of us, her lip twitch tells me when she’s finally caught on.
Ohh…
“Oh,” she says slowly, sliding out of the booth with a chip still in hand. “Right.Bathroom. Yes. Come, friend. Let us pee.”
Nova rolls her eyes.
Poppy turns red.
poppy
. . .
There are about seventy-five things I want to say.Some of them are sharp and biting, born from every ache and confusing day since I left. Some are soft, vulnerable, the kind of words that make your throat hurt when you try to force them out.
None of them come.
Instead, I sit here. Frozen. Hoping he says something first because if I open my mouth now, I might accidentally ask him if he still sleeps in the hoodie I left behind.
Turner tilts his head, eyes never leaving mine. “You look great.”
Do I? Because I’ve felt like complete shit, but we’ll get to that in a second…
“Thanks,” I say, easy breezy—fake. “You look perfect, as usual.”
There’s a pause, not awkward, but charged. Like the moment before lightning strikes, where the air gets thick and you know a storm is on the horizon. I reach for a napkin and begin twisting it in my lap.
“So,” I blurt, louder than necessary. “How have you been?”
Ugh, how generic could I be?
