His face falls, and sadness clouds his features. “I’m sorry, Lo. I felt like shit. For what it’s worth, and I know it’s not worth much now, but you were pretty much all I thought about while I was away.”
A smile pulls at my lips. “Yeah?”
He nods decisively. “And I was so damn frustrated that I didn’t have a way to get in touch with you. And the guys, well, you know how they were. Jock pride and all. The captains basically said, ‘If anyone needs to call his mommy or daddy, do it now and do it on speakerphone.’ So yeah, I couldn’t.” He heaves a sigh, long and full of regret. “In retrospect, I should have. But in retrospect, I should have come to your dorm when the weekend was over and groveled. Got down on my knees and said, ‘I’m sorry, can we have a do-over? Here are flowers and chocolate and a thousand mea culpas.’”
My throat tightens with a knot of emotion I barely realized was there. When I part my lips to speak, it loosens. “I would have happily given you a do-over, Lucas,” I say, voice wobbly.
The corner of his lips quirks up. “You would have?”
I shrug in admission. No need to lie now. Do I need to tell him I was falling for him? Hell no. That stays under lock and key. But letting him know I was interested back then? That I’d have taken him up on a mulligan? Hell yeah. “I would have. I thought about you that weekend too. But by the time Monday rolled around, all I could say was Let’s just be friends. It was easier that way. Do you know what I mean?”
He lifts his beer, takes a drink, and nods thoughtfully. “I do, Lola. I do. And that’s what I’m most sorry for—that we couldn’t fucking figure out how to do that.”
I breathe out a sigh. Strange that I’d feel relief. But I do. The loss of what we’d had was a huge weight on my conscience, and it’s lifting for the first time as we open up about how flawed we were then, how ill-equipped to navigate the waters of friendship to lust and back with no road map. “I didn’t know how either. I suppose I can blame my parents for that,” I say dryly.
“Parents are always to blame.”
“And truthfully, I didn’t know how. Didn’t have a clue. My parents went from madly in love, to fighting and nearly divorcing, to back together and disgustingly in love, obsessed with each other, ignoring their kids. I was like, Um, how am I supposed to behave with this guy whose hand was down my pants? Where is the guidebook for that?”
Lucas smacks the table and laughs so deeply, so loudly that the couple at the table nearest us shoots him the side-eye. But then in the distance someone knocks down several pins, and all is forgiven.
When Lucas recovers, still breathing heavily, he says at a lower volume, “That definitely wasn’t in any talk anyone gave me either. Here, son. This is what you do when a girl you’re totally hot for says, ‘Let’s just be friends.’”
And I beam. It’s vanity—so much vanity—but happiness too. There was a part of me that thought he was turned off by me. Knowing he was turned on makes me feel surprisingly good.
But what feels even better is this honest moment. The admission. The confession.
And most of all, the opportunity this strange night has given us to let go of the ways we hurt each other when we were young and foolish.
Now, I’m nearly a decade older, and I hope a lot wiser.
So I say, “Why don’t we try again? To be friends? But mean it this time.”
The smile that ignites his face is magical. He extends a hand across the table. “Hi, I’m Lucas Xavier from São Paulo. I’d very much like to be your friend.”
“I’m Lola Dumont from Miami. And I’d like to be your friend too.”
We shake . . . for longer than friends usually shake.
And that, too, feels surprisingly good.
When he lets go of my hand, he gestures to the food. “And, as friends, I say we need to polish off this double serving of fries, play a quick game, then get the show on the road.”
“That sounds like an excellent plan.”
We eat and talk and laugh, and we don’t insult each other. We don’t shoot mad glances each other’s way.
We simply get along like old times.
Like we did before the night we kissed.
It’s as if we’ve rewound the clock.
But it’s even better.
Because we’re not twenty-one anymore. We’re thirty, and we can make it work this time around.
It’s wonderful.
The bowl of fries is empty. Lucas stares at it like a dog praying more kibble will magically appear in his food dish.
“Aww.” I push it an inch or so toward him, an offering. “Do you want to lick it?” I glance around the noisy lounge. “I won’t tell a soul.”
“Cover me, Dumont. I’m going in.” He grabs the bowl, brings it to his face, and pretends to lick.
As he places it back on the table, I laugh, saying, “I told you these were soul-selling worthy.”
“You did not lie. This is the number-three item I’d sell mine for.”
“That was just a cheap way to get me to ask what items one and two are. Fess up. Now.”
He wiggles his brows. “I thought you’d never ask. Of course, saving the forests, the trees, the earth would be number one.”
I smile. “That’s the Lucas I know. Saving the world.”
He parks his hands behind his head. “I’m magnanimous with my soul. I’d totally sell it for Mother Earth’s benefit.”
“So thoughtful. But, not to knock you down too many pegs, how much do you actually think your soul is worth?” I posit. “How do you know the devil would accept that deal?”
He clasps his hand to his heart, affronted. “I have an excellent soul, thank you very much. I’d like to think it’d command top dollar from Lucifer.”
“In that case, I’ll schedule the seance to summon the dark lord and get the paperwork ready. What’s the second thing?”
He slashes a hand through the air, like he’s ridding the planet of another offense. “Erasing all coffee shop phone calls from existence.”
“Again, look at you. So considerate. Sacrificing yourself so others won’t be aurally accosted in coffee shops.”
He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “I’m a generous guy, Lola. I’m looking out for the eardrums of others. Or maybe I just can’t take another second of Can I start my dating profile with ‘Is that a turtle in your pocket?’ Or Dude, I’m so drunk today, but no one at the office could tell. Isn’t that rad? To which I wanted to say, Everyone could tell. But wait—there’s more! From coffee shop phone calls, I’ve learned how to fix an old record player, how to trick a guy into thinking he meant to text you, how to convince a woman to dump you first, how to ghost effectively and still look like a nice guy, and where to buy a wet suit in Manhattan.”
“And you’ve been keeping all this from me? Didn’t you know I was looking for a wet suit?”
He raises his brows. “Go to Don’s Surf Shop on East Fifty-Ninth Street. He’ll give you a twenty percent discount if you whisper, ‘Fins up.’”
“I’m so there.” I laugh. “Also, is that what people are talking about in cafés? Because if they are, you could write a book—Things Overheard in Coffee Shops.” I’m thinking of Amy and her penchant for sniffing out ideas for quirky gift books.