Page 102 of Double Apex

We both flail forward as the driver slams on his brakes and mutters darkly at another cab. Brooklyn says something to him in a language I don’t recognize, and he flicks a glance over his shoulder, smiling and responding in kind.

She notices my raised eyebrows.

“Hindi,” she explains as if it’s nothing.

“Holy shit, lady. How many languages do you have under that technicolor hairdo?”

She works the candy around in her mouth, eyes moving ceilingward in thought.

“I’m only good at two: Hebrew and Swedish, because of my parents. But I grew up in Beverly Hills with an international cast of characters swirling around our place, so I picked up bits and pieces. Mostly if I ended up fucking someone who spoke it.”

I can’t help asking, “Know any Romanian?”

She chuckles, biting down on the candy with a loud snap and grinding it up.

“I haven’t sampled Cos.” She takes out another pastille. “Neither has Peach—I know you’re worried about that.” She puts the second candy between her lips. “Not that she didn’t try to wear him down. But he’s in love with you, soooo yeah. No.” She shrugs.

My impulse is to sayNot anymore, but her phone chimes and I hold back my reply and ponder her comment, gazing out the window at the city sliding past while Brooklyn sends a volley of messages back and forth with someone.

The cab pulls up to the curb outside a café with big windows, and Brooklyn pays for the ride digitally, then presses a fifty-euro note into the driver’s hand despite his protests. This girl is such a star—she has style for days and is exactly the kind of well-balanced rich kid I rarely meet. She’s generous without being showy about it, confident but not arrogant, and has a joie de vivre implying she recognizes her privilege and truly is happy and grateful rather than being a jaded monster.

I follow Brooklyn into the café and up to the counter.

“Their blended drinks are out of this world,” she tells me. “Can I do the dude thing and order for you?”

She rattles off our order in (I think?) Arabic, and I no longer want to be Sage Sikora when I grow up. I want to be the love child of Sage and Brooklyn.

She herds me to the end of the counter and thrusts the cup of slush into my hand. “Try it,” she urges, plonking a paper straw into her own.

I take an experimental sip. “That’s fucking delicious.”

“Right?” She grabs a white pastry bag and tips her head sideways for me to follow as she weaves through the tables.

“What’s in it?” I ask.

We head for a row of stools facing the windows.

“Dates and honey. Really sets off the coffee.” She pulls out the chair for me, then sits too. “Don’t think I’m a stalker, but let’s go shopping together and have brunch before sharing a ride back. Wanna?”

“Um.” I sip the cool drink and swipe a shred of unblended date pulp off my molar with my tongue. “I’m flattered you seem to like me, but not gonna lie—I suck at friendship. I get quiet or crabby or just straight-up weird.” Wiggling the straw to stir my drink, I add, “My bitch-tastic cleverness on social media can be misleading.”

“Don’t make me adore you more than I already do. Socially awkward people are my catnip—the yin to my yang. The fact that Owen and I are both extroverts is a fluke.”

She opens the pastry bag and extracts a slab of baklava. She peels a flake off and lays it on her tongue, then points at the rest with eyebrows raised to share. I pull out the whole clove studding the top and suck the honey off the tip.

“You’ll think I’m full of shit,” she tells me with a sly smile, “but Peach is super insecure.”

I cover my lips as I laugh with a mouthful of coffee slushy. “Idothink you’re full of shit.”

“For real though. We became friends in boarding school because she was a disaster.” She lifts another layer of phylloand nibbles it. “Her dad’s in jail for trying to have her mom offed. And the mom’s a lush who’s addicted to plastic surgery. Peach is surprisingly fragile.” She examines me while chewing. “Not saying that to make you pity her. Just, people get a certain view of each other.”

“Huh. Yeah, true.”

I know Brooklyn isn’t trying to make me feel like an asshole, but I do.

“Friday night she got morose because Cosmin wouldn’t take her to his room. She cried when we got back to our suite and said, ‘Why can’t I be a science genius girlboss like that Emerald owner, so guys get obsessed with me, and I could take it or leave it like she does?’”

“Holy shitbiscuits, I cannot convey to you how thoroughly I donotfeel like I could ‘take it or leave it.’” I suck in more of my coffee drink, scowling. “I’m in love with him. But for fuck’s sake,don’ttell him that. I just can’t—” I fiddle with my straw.

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