“Oh, that’s too bad,” she said, picking up the roll and then handing her card to the server. “Looks like I got the last one.”
I stared at her for a second.
“I’ll pay you for it,” I said. I refused to elaborate on why this cinnamon roll was so important, but I didn’t care what it took. I needed it.
Another person made a frustrated noise and I pulled Alessi out of line as the server handed her card back. Everyone was staring at me, but that wasn’t my main concern.
“How much?” Alessi said, holding up the bag.
“Twice the price,” I said immediately.
“You’re going to pay me twice the price of this roll. It’s that important to you?” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
Alessi stared at me for a few seconds.
“How about we split it,” she said. “You can tell me what you’re up to.”
I narrowed my eyes, because somehow that felt like a trap, but this was Alessi. I knew her, or at least I used to.
“Deal,” I said.
“Come on,” she said, and headed for the door.
“Wait, I need to get a coffee,” I said as she pushed through the door.
“We can stop at the cafe,” she said. It happened to be just down the street. I walked beside Alessi, barely believing that this was happening.
“How long have you been back?” I asked, but she shook her head, curls flying everywhere.
“Coffee first,” she said and held the door to the cafe open for me.
I joined the line, and she didn’t seem all that curious about me, but I did catch her giving me a few sideways looks. I wondered what she saw. If I had changed from the clumsy kid with the big ears and the passion for staying inside and making collages when it rained. I hoped I’d grown into my ears at least.
Finally, I reached the counter and ordered my usual ice coffee with vanilla syrup and cream from the barista, Blue.
“You got it, gorgeous,” Blue said, and I put a few extra bucks in the tip jar.
Alessi waited with me for my drink, and I wondered what to do because there was absolutely no chance of getting a table. The place was jammed with the end of the summer crowd, gig workers who didn’t have home offices, moms trying to amuse their kids and have a moment of peace, and bored teens who were probably ready to get back to school.
“Let’s get out of here,” Alessi said, leaning toward me. This place was as loud as a bar on a Saturday night.
I followed her out the door of the cafe and then across the street, and down an alley between two buildings to the huge downtown parking lot. That wouldn’t normally be a destination, but the parking lot was located right on the edge of a bay, where the air smelled sharply of salt, and several boats puttered along, going out to fish or on excursions.
Alessi sat on one of the picnic tables and patted the seat next to her. I swung my leg over the seat, and then there we were.
I watched as Alessi pulled out the cinnamon roll and cut it in half with a plastic knife.
“Pick your half,” she said, and I was thrown back in time. I wondered what the last thing we’d shared was. Probably pizza.
I selected what seemed like the bigger half and bit in, savoring the caramel and sugar and soft texture and everything else. The perfect cinnamon roll. Sweet’s hadn’t let me down, ever.
I didn’t even care if I had caramel frosting all over my face. Alessi had seen me with my face covered in frosting before.
“So,” I said, putting down the cinnamon roll so I didn’t try to inhale it all at once, “what the fuck are you doing here?”
“That seems a little hostile, Sparrow,” she said, and I was glad I wasn’t eating, because the use of the nickname might have made me choke.
“I can’t believe you just called me that,” I said.
“I’m the only one you let call you that,” she said, bumping her shoulder with mine. I felt my face getting red. I’d become obsessed with a book about a girl who turned out to be a princess whose name was Sparrow and I’d asked Alessi to refer to me as Sparrow one summer when we were eight. How did she remember that?
“You’re avoiding my question,” I said, bumping her shoulder back. She was eating her cinnamon roll with smaller bites than I had and she didn’t have any frosting on her face. Overachiever.
“I moved in with Gram,” she said. “Technically I have my own apartment, but it’s above the garage.”
“Oh my god, Grams is still around?” I asked.
“She is. Still as salty as ever. More, I think,” Alessi said. “She bought a house here to retire years ago and this spring she broke her hip and so I moved in to keep an eye on her.” I sucked on my iced coffee for a moment, feeling the rush of caffeine through my veins.
“And how is she taking your attempts to take care of her?”
“She’s told me to fuck off at least five hundred times,” Alessi said with a laugh.
“I love your cursing grandmother,” I said, laughing with her. There was a lurch in my chest, as if I was being physically pulled. I ignored the feeling and went back to my cinnamon roll.
“And what are you doing here?” Alessi asked.
“That’s a whole long story,” I said, rolling my eyes.
Alessi turned toward me, “I’ve got time.”
Afterword
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About the Author
Chelsea M. Cameron is a New York Times/USA Today Best Selling author from Maine who now lives and works in Boston. She's a red velvet cake enthusiast, obsessive tea drinker, vegetarian, former cheerleader and world's worst video gamer. When not writing, she enjoys watching infomercials, singing in the car, tweeting (this one time, she was tweeted by Neil Gaiman) and playing fetch with her cat, Sassenach. She has a degree in journalism from the University of Maine, Orono that she promptly abandoned to write about the people in her own head. More often than not, these people turn out to be just as weird as she is. Connect with her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Bookbub, Goodreads, and her Website.
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