Page 31 of My Return to the Walter Boys
It was Danny’s turn to look guilty. He grimaced and scratched the stubble on his chin. “I wanted to, but I was afraid you’d feel pressured considering what went down with Cole.”
“Why would I feel pressured?”
“He’s mytwin,” Danny replied as if that was the only explanation needed. “Wouldn’t it be weird, getting a call from the brother of the guy you rejected? I didn’t want you to think I was trying to change your mind.”
Okay, so he had a point. But I also knew Danny wasn’t like that. “Are you gonna try and change my mind?”
“No, never!”
I rolled my eyes. “Then don’t be ridiculous.”
“Right,” he said, cheeks turning pink. “How are you holding up?”
Good freaking question. Living with Cole for the past two weeks hadn’t been a walk in the park. While I understood he was upset, the cruel things that came out of his mouth when he wasn’t ignoring my existence hurt. How could he say he wanted to help me through my grief in one moment, then call me stuck up and taunt me in the next? If he truly cared, wouldn’t he want what was best for me?
“I’m…okay. Hanging in there.”
Danny’s eyes narrowed. “Cole is being a major jackass, isn’t he?
“A bit? He’s mainly been giving me the silent treatment, but some of the stuff he’s said to me…well, I get why he’s angry—I let him kiss me, and then I did a one-eighty on him. Considering our history, it could be so much worse.”
“That’s no excuse.” He sighed and carved a hand through his dark blond locks. “Just because he didn’t get his way doesn’t mean it’s okay for him to throw a tantrum.”
Funny, I’d had theexactsame thought.
Thankfully, Danny was able to give me some advice on how to handle the situation. Not anything groundbreaking—be my usual self, call Cole out when he crossed the line, and eventually he’d calm down—but I appreciated it nonetheless. It gave me the courage to confess that even though he was being a jerk, a part of me still wanted to be with him. The gratitude I felt for Danny’s nonreaction brought tears to my eyes.
“Of course you do,” he said with a shrug, like we were talking about established facts—the sky is blue, water is wet, Jackie wants Cole. “That doesn’t mean you made the wrong decision, though. If you’re meant to be together, I’m sure it will all work out in the end. Until then, focus on you, but don’t let him make you feel bad for putting yourself first.”
“Thanks, Danny,” I said, wiping away a single escaped tear, because that was exactly what I needed to hear. “Enough about Cole. How are you? How are rehearsals forA Midsummer Night’s Dreamgoing?”
***
If Cole wasn’t pissed at me, he’d applaud what I was about to do with pride.
I glanced over my shoulder, but none of the teachers on cafeteria duty were paying me any attention, so I pushed open the door and stepped outside. Only seniors were allowed to leave school grounds during lunch, but so many students ignored this rule that I didn’t feel bad about breaking it. The walk to LJD Custom Prints, a local screen print shop, would only take five minutes, which left me plenty of time to get back before my afternoon classes started.
While I walked, I reviewed my campaign checklist and was happy to discover I’d already tackled half of it. Yesterday morning, Erin approved the slogan I spent all weekend coming up with, along with the logo Katherine designed. The tasks I wasn’t personally overseeing, like social media and the creation and distribution of posters and flyers, had been handed off to Erin’s close friends. On top of that, I’d convinced Skylar to help me promote her candidacy to other student clubs after school, but only by agreeing to include the school newspaper so he could flirt with Chase.
I felt confident about our chances of winning. Although Erin’s opponent was the kind of guy who was friends with everyone, he was running solely on word of mouth and spent more time smoking behind the dumpsters with the likes of Isaac and Jet. But before I could turn my attention to drafting a victory speech, I wanted to getT-shirts made for everyone helping with the campaign to wear on Friday. Strange as it sounded, I was grateful to Erin for confronting me during the first student council meeting. If she hadn’t, I never would have been given the opportunity to be involved. Helping her with this showed me how much I’d missed planning and organizing and being involved in something.
As I neared the town square, a sign advertising a newly opened café caught my eye—CAFFEINATED PURSUIT. I froze in the middle of the sidewalk. What were the chances that this place was what I thought it was? Next to none, most likely, but I still crossed the street to check. When I pushed open the door and stepped inside, my breath caught in my throat.
I loved my parents, but they were routinely busy when I was growing up. Sebastian and Angeline Howard were shining examples of hard workers, which was what made the both of them so successful. The trade-off, however, was that they didn’t have a lot of time to spend with Lucy and me. They made up for it by taking us to the board game café down the block from our apartment every Sunday afternoon. If their schedules got too hectic for our weekly ritual, like when Dad was away on a business trip or Mom was preparing for fashion week, Lucy and I would go by ourselves in order to feel close to them. The older we got, the more time we spent there just the two of us until, eventually, it becameourhangout spot.
The layout of this café wasn’t the same, but it reminded me so much of the Caffeinated Pursuit back home that my hands startedto shake. It had the same industrial style—exposed brick and Edison pendant lights—made homey with an abundance of potted plants, handwoven rugs, and squishy armchairs, which I imagined to be just as comfy as the ones Lucy loved to camp out in. There was an entire wall dedicated to shelving all the board games customers were allowed to use, along with large wooden tables for groups to play at. The mosaic floor made up of game pieces was my favorite part—an unusual but creative amalgamation of Rummikub tiles, dominos, and colorful mandala stones.
What brought tears to my eyes, however, was when I spotted my go-to order on the menu—the Caramel Kerplunk, a dark mocha frappé doused in caramel. It was silly, crying over something as trivial as an iced coffee drink, but finding comfort in familiarity so far from home was shocking in the best way possible.
“Excuse me, miss?” The man behind the register—a silver fox type with glasses and a goatee—was watching me, his brow creased with a frown. “Are you okay? Is there anything you’d like to order?”
I laughed and wiped my eyes. “Don’t worry about me. I’m being ridiculous. It’s just, this café—it reminds me of another one that means a lot to me,” I said, stepping up to the counter. “I’d love a grande Caramel Kerplunk. Whole milk, please.”
“Oh, you’re talking about our place on the Upper West Side?” He pointed to a picture on the wall of a storefront I could draw from memory. How many times had I sat on that exact orange bench while waiting for Lucy to arrive?
“Yes!” I said, bouncing on my toes. “I don’t know if you’ve been there before, but I practically grew up in the booth next to the kitchen. I probably shouldn’t admit this, but my sister carved our initials into the tabletop.”
“So you know Jenny, then?” he asked as he poured ingredients into a blender.
