On Saturday, I wake up around ten to find cinnamon buns on the counter in the kitchen with a note. Mom worked late again and is probably asleep. Dad is rarely home on Saturday mornings, rotating between Home Depot, brunch with the deacons, or going to sleep after an all-nighter at the hospital. Since one gooey, sweet bite exposes a still-warm cinnamon center, I wager he baked these before heading out to brunch.
The Post-it note says,Have a great day. We love you!I take the note and bun back to my room with a glass of water and shove the note in my nightstand with the others.
I finish my cinnamon bun and take a sip of water, my mind drifting to the day ahead. Since Hannah always has field hockey practice after school, today is our first chance to start working on the Squash the Pumpkin Festival. When my phone buzzes, I glance at the screen. A text from Hannah:Be there in 10.
We’ve only texted a little since Monday. All the conversations have been brief and logistical, making arrangements for today. I know texting is different from talking, and Hannah and I didn’ttext much while we were at camp. The close confines and crappy reception meant we didn’t have to; we could just find each other. But now everything is different.
I know I’m the one who decided against a relationship, but before we liked each otherthat way, we had been friends. And, even as just friends, we still talked and had conversations that were rich and full and detailed. If we had moved forward with our plan, come back from camp to continue with a secret relationship, our texts would’ve been everything we couldn’t say, a thread saturated with jokes, dreams, memes, and flirting. The only boundary that’s been set is against the flirting, so why can’t we have everything else?
Comparing how close we used to be to what our conversations look like now makes me worry. Without romance is there really nothing left between us?
I push those thoughts aside and focus on getting ready. It’s supposed to be chilly today, so I opt for a pair of mom jeans, a black long-sleeve shirt—tucked in—and my white Vans. I sit on the curb at the end of my driveway and wait about five minutes before Hannah’s Subaru comes into view at the top of my street.
“Always so prompt,” she teases when I get in.
“I figure there’s no need to waste time.” I resist the urge to search her face for the familiar smile, the one she wears when she considers me for a few seconds when we first get together, something I maybe took for granted.
Because if I look and it’s not there, then I’ll know just how far out of love she’s fallen.
We decide to go to Hai Tea, a bubble tea café on the outskirts of Kent. It’s far enough from the university that most people don’t know about it and close enough that most of the people who go there are students.
After we place our orders, we take the table in the corner by the front window, flanked with plants and framed in fairy lights.
“So, I’m assuming you’ve already picked a venue and booked catering and have opened a tab at Michaels for the decorations,” Hannah says, her tone light. She glances down, fidgeting with the edge of her bubble tea cup before looking up at me. I almost miss the way her smile falters, the hesitation in her eyes.
“I may have started piecing together some ideas,” I relent, my face getting hot. “But I figured since we aresupposedto work together, I could wait and go over everything with you before making any decisions.”
Hannah nods, taking a sip of her bubble tea and watching me while she chews some tapioca pearls. I sip mine, a little excited to hear what ideas she might have come up with.
But the silence stretches past the point of comfort, and when Hannah cuts her eyes away from me, I wonder if I said anything weird or forgot to say something.
“Are we—”
“Did you—”
“Sorry,” Hannah says, “you go.”
My heart skips in the worst way. I used to think our familiarity was unbreakable. Awkwardness and tripping over our words havenever been our thing. What if our face-to-face conversations end up as dry as our texts?
“I was just going to ask if you have any ideas,” I say, my voice a bit too bright.
“Oh, me?” she asks, surprised, like I called on her in a room full of other people.
“Who else?” I ask.
Was that rude?
“I just mean, I’m interested to hear if you have anything in mind. You and the team are a fresh perspective for the committee,” I add, the words spilling out.
I take a deep breath and meet Hannah’s eyes. I’m used to the nervous excitement that comes whenever I’m with her—the kind where I’m waiting for her smile or anticipating a kiss, that electric tension of knowing something incredible can unfold at any moment. And I know that’s not the dynamic between us anymore, but I never thought I’d feel like a flustered mess around her.
“I was thinking we could try using one of the Metro Parks,” she says. “Some of them have pavilions and open fields. For decorations, I figured that would be up to you and then the team would come in when it’s time to put them up.” Hannah pulls out her computer, a Human Rights Campaign sticker at the center of her cover demanding my attention.
“Okay, so Metro Parks, local parks. Maybe we can check out the Summit County fairgrounds.” I start jotting the ideas down.
We spend the morning looking up locations and going over the last two years’ decorations. We rotate sips of bubble teawith brainstorming and note-taking. Within a few hours, we’ve condensed our list of venues and outlined the first committee meeting. The festival takes place the first weekend of November, which—despite it being September—is right around the corner.
We make decent progress, but I’m stuck on the stiffness between us, the hesitation that wasn’t there before. As we pack up to leave, I can’t shake the unease.