“What if Hallie needs us?” I point out.
The dimple in his cheek winks at me, which I find makes it somehow harder to focus on making good decisions. “I bet you’ve never broken the rules here in your life,” he says.
He’s right. The pressure of these four walls somehow makes me feel like a hardworking kid again, terrified to break a rule, lest Dimitri see me.
“Okay, let’s get out of here,” I agree, pushing open the building’s front door, not bothering to even grab my coat.
I bounce down the steps to the parking lot. The gym is on a mostly isolated stretch of road, neighbored by a nondescript office building on one side and thickets of pine trees on all others. Even if we wanted to walk into the town center, it would take longer than the journey would be worth. Ryan catches up to me, jangling his car keys.
“I didn’t think you’d actually say yes,” he says.
“I can break a rule or two,” I insist.
“Reliving your LA wild-child days?” he teases.
Ryan unlocks his car, and I get inside.
“Where to?” he asks, flipping on my seat heater, then turning the radio to his favorite classic rock station.
“Um…”
Greenwood is small and boring. Growing up here, if I wasn’t at school or in the gym, my only real hobby was trawling CVS for Bonne Bell Lip Smackers and issues of Seventeen.
“Come on, you grew up here, you must know somewhere,” he prods.
“Let’s go to Lolly’s,” I decide.
“I don’t know it,” he says.
“You don’t know Lolly’s? Best chai latte in the world?”
He shakes his head. “In the world? I mean, that’s a pretty high bar. I don’t know if you want to set my expectations there—”
“Oh, shut up.”
I give him directions, and ten minutes later, we’re inside the tiny café. I haven’t been here in a decade, but the peeling floral wallpaper, chintzy armchairs by the brick fireplace, chalkboard menu, and gently piped-in soft rock songs from the easy-listening station are exactly how I remember them. Lolly herself is still behind the counter, though her once-dark hair is now mostly streaked with gray. She’s wearing a floral apron and does a double take when she sees me.
“Avery, is that you?” she yelps, coming around the counter to give me a hug.
“Hi!” I greet her, suddenly feeling squeezed by the surprising strength of her embrace.
“I haven’t seen you in, gosh, what, a million years? Where’s Jasmine?” she asks.
Ryan cocks his head.
“This used to be my spot with Jasmine on cheat days,” I explain. “We’d ask for extra whipped cream on the chai lattes and sit here for hours in front of the fireplace.”
“The best kids hogged the best seats in the house,” Lolly tells Ryan. “Not that I minded, of course.”
“I didn’t know you were that close with Jasmine,” he says to me.
“Those two? My god. Matching orders, matching outfits, all the way down to the matching scrunchies.” She turns to me. “How is she these days? I don’t see much of her, either.”
“Oh, Jasmine?” I ask, stalling for time. Somehow, telling Lolly that I don’t see much of her either feels like I’d be letting her down. I give her a big, plastered-on smile. “She’s great. Has a big job. Married. The whole nine yards, all great.”
“And you two?” Lolly says, gesturing between me and Ryan.
I try not to look too alarmed. “Oh, no, we’re not married!” I say, maybe a hair too loudly. “We, uh, work together.”
“I see,” Lolly says coyly. “Well, you two look very nice together. What can I get you?”
Ryan follows my lead and orders a chai latte with extra whipped cream. While he pays Lolly for the drinks, I examine the framed newspaper clippings hung by the door. They’re slightly yellowed with age, but I remember the thrill I got the day the first one was hung. Lolly saved the Boston Globe clippings announcing that two local girls were on their way to the Olympic Trials. Jasmine and I skipped the sugary drinks that day and asked for plain tea; Lolly, who had the round, soft body you’d expect from a woman who made baked goods for a living, had rolled her eyes and told us to live a little. “This is us living,” I remember telling her, pointing to the newspaper clipping.
The story isn’t long, but it features a black-and-white photo of me and Jasmine, frozen at nineteen years old, with our arms slung around each other’s shoulders. The date on the framed article feels so far away—a lifetime ago. Next to it, there’s a bigger framed article, the paper’s front-page story from the day Jasmine returned home from London. There’s a larger, color photo of her by herself with a pile of Olympic medals splayed out across her chest. I wonder what the younger version of myself would say if she saw me here now, lying to Lolly about Jasmine, Ryan trailing behind me, out on a furtive break from Summit. I don’t think she’d understand how I got into this situation at all.
Ryan sets down the chai lattes on the table between the armchairs, then comes up behind me. He’s quiet for a moment, reading the two framed clippings.
“Ah, I see,” he says. “You took me here just so I don’t forget you’re a hometown hero.”
“I brought you to a place I loved,” I correct him. Sass floods my voice. “And, uh, was a hometown hero. Once upon a time. Not so much anymore.”
Jasmine’s photo floats in my peripheral vision, and I try to block it out.
“Your hometown must be the same way, no?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Men’s gymnastics isn’t so much of a big thing. People at home thought it was cool I made the Olympics, but they didn’t… I don’t know, ‘crown’ me, the way they crowned the women’s gymnastics team.”
He makes air quotes around the word, and I understand exactly what he means. I wonder if he felt bitter about it, too.
“So it’s not just me?” I say, almost embarrassed that I want him to agree and confirm how I feel.
There are times I’ve wondered if Jasmine’s success only looms so large for me because of how tight we were and how close I came to having it, too. I can’t see her clearly because of who she is, who we were together. I’m fairly sure she’s still a household name. But time makes fame evaporate; maybe her star has cooled long enough that now she’s just a regular person again, the kind of former athlete who can make it through her hometown’s grocery store without being stopped in aisles four and seven for autographs. But somehow I doubt that.
“Look,” Ryan sighs, kissing my forehead. “Forget about Jasmine for now. Let’s drink these lattes you love so much.”
We sink into the armchairs by the fireplace. There’s something different about the steaming beverages in the ceramic mugs, but it takes me a moment to figure it out. A heavy sprinkle of cinnamon forms a pristine heart on top of the whipped cream, and there’s a heart-shaped chocolate bonbon on the side of my saucer. I spin around; Lolly is watching us.
“I may have whipped up a little something,” she says.
“Happy Valentine’s Day?” he says hopefully, like he’s waiting for my approval.