Internal Rom-Com-ologue

                Is Beef Casserole 8^th date material? I stand in the grocery store holding a cabbage, gazing into its depths for an inkling on whether this would be trying too hard. I want to do something romantic, but I have a feeling Adam won’t be into it if I go too elaborate.

After some pondering, I decide that casserole falls within the acceptable range of fancy but not too fancy, and start picking up red wine, carrots, onions etc. to match, loading one item after another into my arms, stacking the pile higher and higher up my chest until I can barely see over the top of it.

Walking up to the counter, I really feel like I should have gotten a basket. I hadn’t been expecting to buy this much when I came in. I’m balancing Grocery Mountain with one hand whilst fumbling for my wallet with the other. I manage to get the zip of my bag undone, but as I start reaching around inside for my wallet, my attention slips too far away from the pile of groceries and everything comes loose.

I catch some of it, but a lot falls to the floor, including the cabbage which rolls away far across the store. There’s no chance I’m getting that, not without dropping all my shit everywhere again as I go, so I decide to let it go. I’ll get another one later.

I gather up the rest of my stuff and start heading to the counter. I’m almost there when someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn around to see a guy standing there, holding the cabbage out to me.

“Excuse me,” he says, running a hand absently through his hair. “I think you dropped this.”

“Oh…” I say. “Yeah, thanks.” Our fingers brush as I take it from him, and we lock eyes for a second before he bashfully blinks and drops his gaze, smiling awkwardly at his general surroundings.

“Say, that’s a lot of stuff you’ve got there.” he says, just at the moment before the silence would have become too permanent. “Do you need some help?”

“Uh, sure!” I say before I have chance to think. I swear that wasn’t what I meant to do, but I’m already watching myself hand over half my stuff. “I’m holding onto this though.” I put my hand firmly on the cabbage. “I’m not letting it escape again.”

“Can you blame it?” he says with a chuckle. “If I was going to be cut up and cooked alive, I’d try and escape too.”

“Hey, you’ve never had my cooking before.” I laugh. “You should be honored to be an ingredient.”

We get to the counter and my stuff finally gets bagged up. Once I’m done paying, I turn back to cabbage guy. “Well, thanks…”

“…Max,” he completes. “I’m Max.”

“I’m Alyx,” I reply. He extends a hand and we shake.

“Hey, do you maybe want to go grab a cup of coffee or something?” he says.

There it is. I’d been waiting for it. “I’m sorry, I can’t.” I squeeze his arm. “I’ve got to go meet my boyfriend.”

The letdown would have been pitch-perfect had I not rolled my eyes when I said the word boyfriend. Why did I just do that? I like my boyfriend. Don’t I? I like his … hair? Fuck! No, no, there’s more to him than that, I’m sure of it. I just … need to get out of here so I can think of it.

“I’ve got to go,” I say. “I’ll see you around though!” I turn and briskly exit the shop, walking directly across an intersection without stopping, causing a taxi to break hard and honk at me. I flip him off as I walk, before quickly heading down into the nearest subway station and getting on the train back to Brooklyn. I lived in New York before today, right? … I guess I must have.

A few days later, and I’m out with Adam. We’re at a fancy restaurant with white tablecloths, folded napkins, multiple sets of silverware and waiters with bowties. I suggested the home-cooked meal thing, but he told me there was no reason to bother with shit like that when we could just go somewhere that would do it for us. I really thought he was going to like the idea, but apparently not. Oh well, this place is pretty cool too, I guess. And I guess we’ll find a way to use the wine I bought when we get back to mine anyway, although my store-bought shit will probably pale in comparison to the 1986 vintage Omcharre Doux with hints of vanilla, plum, and dark, sweet, spice, that Adam is currently in the process of ordering for us.

“Remember, keep it coming all night, okay?” he says to the waiter. “I don’t want to see an empty glass on my table. Understand?”

“Of course, sir” the waiter bows his head, eyes on the floor.

“Excellent,” Adam closes his menu. “We’ll have the Duck Parfait to start then, followed by the Coq-au-Vin.”

We will? Was I taking too long or something? I quickly flick through my menu, hoping for something else to catch my attention, but it’s too late. The waiter holds his hand out for me to give it back, and I reluctantly comply.

“So how is it at the paper?” Adam asks me.

What paper? I take a drink. I don’t remember a ... “It’s fine, I guess” I say. “I just wish my editor would take me seriously. I can do more than write the advice column, I just need a chance to show him.” Oh. I’m a … journalist. No … yeah, I’m a … young, fledgling journalist struggling to climb the ranks in the big city. Of course I am. I always was.

“I like your advice column,” he takes a sip of wine. “It’s very funny. I think you should keep doing it.”

“Funny?” I frown. “It’s not meant to be funny.”

“It’s not?”

I swear he wasn’t like this before … was he?

“Anyway, things are going great at the office for me,” he says. “I made a $5million trade today. My bonus from that should get us a table here through the end of the year.”

He drains his glass and starts looking around for the waiter. The guy is already coming over, but of course it’s not fast enough. “My glass is empty,” Adam raises his voice, indignant. “I said I didn’t want to see that happen!”

The waiter is fumbling with the wine as he rushes to the table. “My apologies sir,” he takes the glass and begins filling it, but, in his haste, he misses and spills some on Adam.

“Are you kidding me?!” Adam stands up, enraged. He holds a wine-soaked wrist adorned with an expensive-looking watch out, shoving it in the waiter’s face. “Look at what you just did. This watch is worth more than you’ll make in your entire life!”

The waiter scrambles to wipe it down with one of the delicately folded napkins from the table. The watch glints at me as Adam’s wrist is turned this way and that. It’s a nice watch. Has he always worn it? I’m trying to remember seeing it on one of our other dates, but I can’t do it. I can’t even remember what our other dates were, or, if they were anything like this, how the fuck I managed to suffer through them.

Adam is still cursing at the waiter even though his watch is fine. He turns to me. “Can you believe this?” he scoffs.

No, not really. Why am I here?

I push my chair back. “You know what? I think I’m going to go.”

His hand still absently wiping the watch freezes. “What? …Why?” He looks at me as in disbelief as I stand up. “Because of this guy?” he gestures to the waiter. “Babe, I’m sorry. I’ll get him replaced, I promise.”

“Because of you!” I say. “Because of the way you’re acting!”

“Oh,” he says, his face darkening. “You know, I’m sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable,” he says in a way that indicates he’s not even an ounce of sorry about it. “But you’d do the same, I guarantee it, if you actually had anything expensive for him to ruin, you sanctimonious, little…” he stops mid-rant, noticing something on his shirt sleeve. “On my clothes too?” he starts scrubbing furiously at his clothing. “That waiter is going to pay my dry-cleaning bill, I swear.”

I’ve officially had enough of this. “That’s great,” I gather up my coat and my bag. “Why don’t you see if he can pay for a new fucking girlfriend while you’re at it?”

“Pay?” he says, looking up from his wrist. “I got you for free, didn’t I?”

“Well, if you want to keep the next one for more than 8 dates, maybe you should consider a new strategy. You know, just as a word of advice.” I turn and begin walking away, but apparently I’m not done. Without looking back, I shout “Oh, and by the fucking way, that advice was supposed to be funny.”

It’s been a weird night, but I feel good as I walk out of the restaurant. After some odd moments recently, I feel like I’m back in control of my universe, rather than it being in control of me. I’m following my heart for a change, and my heart is … walking the wrong way home. Where is my heart going exactly?

I almost stop walking, I want to, but instead I just keep going. Like I’m being overridden somehow. I push the thought away. That’s stupid. You’re fine. Everything’s fine. I keep going, another intersection, another block, and another. Why haven’t I just gone to a subway station by now though? My place is so fucking far from here. Why can’t I just stop…

As I’m coming up to another intersection, I sharply round the corner instead of going straight, and immediately trip over something coming the other way. I go sprawling on my hands and knees, my bag crashing to the ground. I hear a little shit of a dog yelping somewhere around me, and I look up to see a surprised man holding the end of a leash.

It’s cabbage guy. Who else? Somehow, I knew before I even saw his face.

“Alyx?” he says, peering down at me. “Is that you?” He extends a hand and pulls me up.

“Max?” I sound more shocked than I feel. “What are the odds?”

“Sorry about Baxter,” he says. “He gets pretty excitable sometimes.”

“That’s okay,” I say, despite hating small dogs for this exact reason. I’m allergic to dogs in general, but the small ones are just the worst. Yappy, little shits. “I’m fine, I think.”

“I’m glad,” he smiles back at me, and our eyes linger on each other for a perfect split-second too long.

“Hey,” I finally break the tension. “Do you like Beef Casserole?”

I guess it must be a weekend, because I find myself hanging out in a coffee shop with my friend Abby the following afternoon rather than going to work. We’re sat at a table for two, having coffee and cake. Abby is wearing a bright, polka-dotted dress, together with a pair of petite, yellow rainboots. She has a little, red bow in her hair and is wearing adorably oversized, round glasses with no lenses in them.

 “So did anything happen between you two?” she asks with an expectant grin.

“No!” I say. Did she always have bangs? …Probably. “We only just met each other.”

“Didn’t stop you taking him to your apartment for a romantic meal.” She puts a fork into her cake and takes a bite.

“It wasn’t a romantic meal,” I can hear the defensiveness in my voice.

“Oh yeah?” she says. “How many of those candles I helped you buy the other week did you light?”

“… A few,” I say as if that admission somehow backed up my own point.

“You like him!” she smirks, now picking up the cake to eat with her fingers.

“No I don’t!” I have no idea why I’m protesting so much. Who cares if I like him or not?

“Yes you do,” she licks frosting off her fingers. “You want to marry him and have his cabbage-patch-kids.”

“Okay,” I laugh in spite of myself. “You need to drop the cabbage thing.”

“Why?” she says. “Will a handsome hunk appear out of nowhere and give it back to me?” She finishes her cake and flags a waiter over to get another slice.

I wouldn’t exactly call him a hunk, are the words on my lips. But instead, I look pointedly at the second slice of cake coming her way and say “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

That’s … not what I meant to say. That’s horrible. Why would I say that?

“What, this?” Abby says as she picks up the new cake and jams it into her mouth. “It’s fine, I’m on a juice cleanse right now.” Her fingers go straight through her glasses as she adjusts them.

I resolve to try again. Something weird this time. A non-sequitur perhaps. Why don’t your glasses have lens… “Why are you eating something if you’re on a juice cleanse?” I say. “Aren’t you just supposed to drink juice?”

“I’m not eating something,” she says. “I’m eating cake. Cake isn’t real food. It isn’t a proper thing, like pizza, or like…” she looks at me pointedly. “Like Beef Casserole.”

“Hey, my Beef Casserole has fermented grape juice in it, I’ll have you know” I fire back. “It could totally be part of a good juice cleanse.” My mouth is bantering away all by itself. I let it, instead putting all of my energy into trying to reach up and grab Abby’s stupid glasses off her face and snap them in half, into trying to throw them on the ground and stamp them into the rustic-looking carpet. But I can’t do it, I physically can’t move. My arm is stuck pushing this half-eaten slice of cake around with my fork. I can’t even eat it. Hell, I don’t remember eating what’s already missing.

When I tune back into the conversation, I find Abby yelling at an elderly passer-by about how We can talk about whatever parts of her boyfriend we like, you frigid, old bag! I have no idea how we got here, but I’m sure it was disarmingly hilarious.

“He’s not my fucking boyfriend,” I say, as if that’s the part of all this that needs the most immediate addressing.

“Can I get some more cake over here?” Abby shouts, as the old woman haughtily huffs and puffs her way to the exit.

“Forget it,” I say. “I don’t even know why I’m talking to you about this.”

“Neither do I,” she reaches over with a fork and starts eating the remaining cake on my plate. “If you’re feeling guilty about moving on so quickly, don’t. Adam was a dick, we knew this from the beginning.”

Oh, so we did know. Fucking wonderful.

“If you want to start dating cabbage guy, go right ahead. You don’t owe Adam anything.” She drains the last of her coffee and wolfs down her remaining half a slice of cake in one go, but like, in a quirky, attractive kind of way. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for my roller-skating class. We’re meeting at the ice rink today.”

“Oh, that’s cool. They’re having you try out ice-skating?”

“No.” She looks at me matter-of-factly as she gathers up her ukulele and her polaroid camera.

Max and I have been dating for a month or two now. Our first official date after the impromptu dinner was unexpectedly awkward, and involved a series of funny misunderstandings involving my uncomfortableness around dogs, but, somehow, we managed to push through it. After that, we went on several adorably romantic dates around various New York landmarks and restaurants. Holding hands in Central Park, riding tandem bicycles, eating hot dogs from a street vendor, walking the Brooklyn Bridge, voluntarily going to Times Square. For some reason, thinking of it now has me humming Walking on Sunshine to myself.

But things have gotten a little more complicated recently. With Max’s encouragement, I asserted myself at work and got assigned to a big story alongside a handsome, male colleague named Devin. We’re spending lots of time together whilst we work on the story and I’ve had to miss a couple of lunch dates with Max because of it. Meanwhile, in a crazy coincidence, an ex of Max’s from med school just transferred to his hospital right after I started having to work a lot. It all came to a head yesterday, with Max and I having a big fight. I stormed out and we haven’t seen each other since. I tried to go straight to his place after work to talk about it and make up, but my feet physically wouldn’t let me leave the building. Apparently, what the universe wants me to do is ignore my problems and stay in the office all evening to work on the story in close proximity with Devin.

The two of us are in the middle of eating an oversized takeout pizza whilst sitting on the office floor. It’s unclear how much work we’ve actually managed to do tonight, but we definitely don’t seem too focused on the task at hand right now. In fact, I can’t recall talking with Devin about our assignment even once since we’ve been working together. All we ever seem to talk about is the state of my love life. All I ever seem to talk about with anyone is the state of my love life.

“What do you think Max is doing tonight?” Devin asks me as he reaches for another slice.

“I don’t know,” I sigh, just opening my mouth and letting whatever words the universe has chosen for me flow right out. “Probably out fucking that bitch Laura.”

“Who’s Laura?” Devin asks through a mouthful of pizza.

“His ex,” I scowl. “His ex that he fucking works with.”

“Ouch,” he gives me a sympathetic look. “How long have they been working together?”

“A couple of weeks,” I reply.

“Since you’ve been dating then,” he whistles. “I’m surprised he even told you. That’s got to be worth some points, right?”

“He didn’t,” I say flatly. I wonder if he could even if he wanted to, or if he’s stuck on this carousel-ride too. “I found out from my friend Abby.”

“How did she find out?”

The story as far as I remember it involved a wacky and contrived sequence of events revolving around a yoga class, a sexy polaroid, and a dog with one leg missing. A funny and irreverent tale that provided a moment of levity amidst a period of relative darkness. “Doesn’t really matter, does it? The point is that the bastard kept it from me.”

“I guess, yeah,” he concedes.

We lapse into silence. I absently push my pizza crusts around the box.

 “You swear a lot, you know that?” Devin pipes up after a second just long enough to allow the challenges facing my relationship to hit home without it becoming too depressing.

Do I swear a lot? …Maybe. Just one of my many loveable quirks, I guess. I wonder if I always did that.

What did I do before all of this? Before Max? …Did I even exist?

I realize I haven’t spoken yet. Devin is looking at me expectantly, almost urgently. His mouth is open and quivering slightly, as if his next sentence is straining to get out, waiting ever more impatiently on its necessary cue before it can begin.

“No, I fucking don’t,” I say, finally.

“Yes you do!” He’s laughing, outwardly carefree, but looking into his eyes, I can see visible, palpable relief.

I think I just fought this somehow. I want to try again, but I don’t know how I did it. “No, I don’t! The rest of the world doesn’t swear enough,” I say. I reach out to take the last slice of pizza, but as I go for it, Devin steals it out from between my closing fingers.

“Mine!” He laughs.

“No!” I squeal, jumping across him to reach for it as he dangles it behind him. I make grab after grab, but it’s clear that I’m never actually going to get it. Shame. For a second I thought I might get to know what food tastes like. We’re practically sat on each other now, and just as we both finally start to calm down, he holds the slice up between us like it’s a piece of mistletoe.

He leans in for the kiss, and I can see it all coming before it even happens. I can see it coming! When we turn around, Max will be standing in the doorway having come to apologize, flowers in his hands or some shit, I fucking know it! It’s so predictable! My mind is screaming at my body to pull away, to run, to slap the shit out of my coworker-turned-attempted-fucking-homewrecker, but I don’t. I can’t. I sit there and let him kiss me, and for the briefest of seconds before pulling away, I kiss him back. Just for a second, but a second is enough.

I hear something crash to the ground. I look. Max is standing in the open doorway. On the floor around his feet are takeout boxes from my favorite Vietnamese place. One of them is starting to leak Pho out onto the carpet.

“Max!” I say, shuffling hurriedly back away from Devin. “It’s not what it looks like.” Of all the things I could have fucking said. I can see some broth creeping its way under his shoes.

He turns without saying a word, walking calmly away at first, or trying to, but quickly beginning to run. There’s a wet slap with each footstep. The door slams shut behind him.

“Wait!” I call, once he’s already gone.

It’s been a couple of weeks since the night at the office. I left Max a bunch of voicemails after it happened, cried a lot, ate a tub of ice-cream. Max got drunk and fucked Laura, and then felt very guilty and sorry for himself about it. You know, two equally legitimate, equally appropriate responses to the situation.

He came to me the day after, saying that he overreacted and he forgave me, conveniently leaving the part about his snap retaliation out of the story. But just when it looked like we might move past it, his secret came out, and then we were right back to crying, and voicemails, and feeling sorry for ourselves, only this time, the shoe was on the other foot.

I’m sitting in bed. Tonight has been a mint-choc-chip night. I look down into the tub, but there’s nothing left in it. Apparently, I was only allowed it in the montage. Wicked Game by Chris Isaaks is playing, it has been for a long time.

As I set the tub down on the floor, I hear a brief tapping sound cut through the music. I turn off my speakers and listen again. Another tap, then another. It’s stones being thrown against my window. I open it to find Max stood outside. Behind him are about 50 cabbages that he’s arranged to spell out the word “Sorry” in big letters on the sidewalk.

It’s at this point that I’m starting to get pretty pissed off. It’s just lazy work. It’s derivative. But people will probably accept it because it reminds them a little bit of Say Anything, regardless of how well it meshes with everything else. It’s just … this is supposed to make me take him back? He fucked another woman. But apparently, yeah, it is, because I can already feel the tears prickling behind my eyes. Now he’s professing the impressive magnitude of his love for me, saying it blinded him, made him do crazy, irrational, stupid things. He couldn’t help it because he loves me so much. Now he needs me back because every crazy, stupid second of love with me is better than being sane and alone. I try and roll my eyes but I can’t, they’re too full of tears.

I tell him I feel the same. I’ve been trying to pretend otherwise, but the truth is that I can’t live without him. I’m freely crying now. What’s the point in trying to fight it? I run to buzz the door open and he rushes up into my room. The music has started again, but I never touched the stereo. We embrace and kiss, long and full and passionate, a desperate, breathless reunion, before pulling back and staring deep into each other’s eyes.

“You smell like cabbages,” I say, and we both laugh through our tears before kissing again. I can see the apology perfectly out the window behind him as he moves onto my neck. Who’s going to clean all that up, I wonder? I swear I’ll be fucked before it’s me. Is it just going to sit there rotting? How would I even use that much cabbage? Honestly, can this shit just be over already?

It looks like it’s a few months later. We’re together in some beautiful, modest little open-plan house, somewhere in the suburbs probably. I think it might be ours. On the right of the door is a cream-colored, leather, three-piece suite, and on the other side is a rustic-looking, rectangular, wooden dining table. On the wall behind it are a couple of frames with pages from The New York Times mounted inside. At the back is a small kitchen unit with a breakfast bar. Currently simmering away on the stove is a pot of … well, you know what. The dinner table is set for four. Abby and some unlikely suspect from the second act will shortly be over for a double date.

Max is sat on the couch and I’m in the kitchen. An engagement ring glitters on my finger as I stir the pot. I add a dash of pepper to the mix and give it a taste, before heading over to my fiancé and cozying up to him on the couch. He gives me a kiss and flicks the game off to give me his full attention. All is well. I guess this is my life now, happily ever after.

Honestly, it could be worse. Assuming those framed clippings are mine, my career certainly seems to be taking off. I’ve got that going for me. Personally, I wouldn’t have taken him back. Cabbages or no, I thought it was too far. But hey, if this is my story, so be it. Sure, things could have been better, but they could have been worse.

We smile at each other contentedly. I move in closer and we kiss again, open-mouthed, suddenly swept up in a moment of shared passion for one another. Our feelings just as strong now as they were before, or perhaps even stronger.

Just as things are starting to get heavy, Max’s dog, now our dog I guess, jumps up in between us and lets out an excited bark. We break apart, laughing, and start cooing over the little shit like it was our fucking child.

Man, I hate this thing. I hate small dogs. That was one of the more focused-on elements of my characterization. Now I’m fine with it because … why? Where’s the explanation for that? I’m stroking the dog lovingly, and scratching behind its ears. Is it just a metaphor? Something to show that we overcame our issues? That might have made sense, except what issue did Max overcome here? I had to be the one to compromise, to change. Again! Not him. This is bullshit!

I feel a tickle building behind the bridge of my nose, followed by a sharp explosion throughout my head, but on the outside, nothing happens. They’ve forgotten that I’m supposed to be a little allergic, but I haven’t. Max and I give each other a peck on the lips as we keep stroking the dog together, smiling happily as we come away. I sneeze internally again – my fury, my discontent, my every snide thought exploding inside my mind, raging under the surface whilst my outside remains frozen in picture-perfect, monogamous bliss.

I’m stroking the dog, and I’m still stroking, and I’m still stroking, too aggressive, under its chin now, around the neck. Suddenly, my hands are tightening, squeezing its neck, wringing it. For a second I can’t believe what I’m doing, but after feeling another sneeze ricochet through the back of my head, I start to. I squeeze harder and the dog yelps in panic, thrashing its adorable little legs underneath it. Max looks at me, his entranced smile still stuck on his face even as glints of shock, of fear start spreading in his eyes. He’s trying to speak but he can’t. His lips flounder soundlessly. He’s still trying to pet the dog as it thrashes too; his body, if not his consciousness, continuing as if none of this were happening.

“How are you doing this?” He eventually manages. He can’t even stop talking in the cutesy-doggy voice.

“I don’t know,” I’m breathless, staring wondrously at my own hands as I command them to squeeze tighter and feel them respond – really feel them – every tendon moving as I choose. I don’t remember, I don’t remember a lot of things, but I’m sure I’ve never felt this before. Real control. It's incredible. I can feel the dog’s claws tearing through the bottom of my dress and cutting at my skin, but I keep holding on, practically euphoric. I turn back to Max.  “You can break free too! I know you can.”

“I don’t…” I can see his smile straining, twitching, changing shape around the corners, turning into something more real. “I don’t know if I…”

“You can!” I shout. “You’re already doing it! You’ve just got to…”

The thrashing stops. I look back expecting to see a dog, finally dead, but instead there’s nothing. I’m squeezing at the air.

“Wait … what? I … Max are you seeing th…” I stop.  Max isn’t there either. The only thing on the couch with me is a giant cabbage with two eyes drawn on the front.

I try and get up, but I can’t. I can’t feel my legs. I look down and I realize that I don’t have any. In fact, I’m not sure I have much of anything. I can see right through myself to the couch underneath.

I am a glass jar. Stuck to the front of me are three pieces of paper, and inside me there are a few more balled up. On the outside the first reads Struggling Journalist, the second Pottymouth, and the third Secretly a Romantic. They begin to float off my surface and go up, back inside me, back into the jar. The room is turning white. As it all fades I can make out a man in the corner, scribbling into a notebook, frantically crossing things out. The old papers land among the others inside me, and now three new ones are levitating upwards. I can’t make out what they are yet. I’m trying to read them but everything’s all white on white on white. It’s so bright in here. It’s all too bright, it’s all too…

I wake up. I’m on the subway. It’s morning and I’m on the way to work. It’s busy but it’s not packed. Enough people to sell the idea of a city commute, but without the inconvenience of all the jostling and lack of personal space. Most people are reading today’s edition of The New York Times, some big story but I don’t know what yet. The front page has a picture of a sugar bowl under the byline. I look around the car for a copy and find one conveniently on the seat next to me. I reach for it only to find someone else’s hand on it as well as mine. We both tug on it for a second, then let go at the same time.

My name is Summer. I’m a kindergarten teacher. I’m adorkably clumsy, and I’m sweet and innocent but with a sexy side.

I look up. The man standing there is handsome, tall with big, brown eyes and luscious hair. His smile is polite and he’s dressed smart, but there’s an unmistakable, devilish charm to him. He looks familiar, but I can’t place his face. I’m sure I’ve seen him before.

“You have it,” I say.

“No, please,” he raises his hands in protest. “I can’t even read anyway,” he jokes. “I just didn’t want to be the odd one out.”

I hide my smirk behind my hand. “Well why don’t you sit here, and then maybe I can teach you how?” I shuffle a little to the left and move my scarf so he can sit down. He politely obliges.

“I’m Jake,” he says, extending a hand. Behind his carefully crafted, devil-may-care smile, somewhere deep inside his eyes I can see a flicker of sustained surprise as his hand stretches towards me, as if he hadn’t expected to move it at all. I reach out and shake it, trying to think nothing of it. “Summer,” I say.

I open the newspaper and we both begin to read, him holding one side and me the other. Our fingers brush as we turn our first page together. “Hey,” I say after a while. “Do you like Beef Casserole?”

But I have no idea why I said it. Maybe my kooky best friend will know.