“Making you so mad on Saturday that you drove off without getting a latte from a perfectly good Starbucks that was right in front of you,” I say with a syrupy-sweet, sarcastic voice.
“Right,” she says slowly, still not sure.
“And for thereasonyou got mad on Saturday. I’m really sorry.”
Obviously, I’m not going to come right out and say all the things I spent the weekend thinking about. Not here, at least.
But maybe somewhere more private—
“So, after practice, you should come over,” I say.
Her brows shoot to the ceiling, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Don’t act so shocked.”
“You’re kidding, right?” she asks, her voice low.
“About acting shocked, yes. About you coming over, no.”
Hannah opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.
“I mean, if you need time—”
“It’s just—I guess—I just wasn’t expecting… I mean, we’re all caught up on committee stuff, right?”
“This would be for homework. Like, you come over, we do homework, maybe eat some snacks—”
“And you’re being serious?” she asks, staring at me blankly.
“Yes.”
She continues to stare at me and I stare right back.
“Oh,” I add, “and my mom will be there.”
“Yourmom.” This really gets her. I didn’t know her eyes could go any wider, but they do, and her mouth hangs open, speechless.
“Yeah, she’s picking me up today. She’ll probably make the snacks, that we will then eat during the studying…”
Hannah sets the latte on the shelf in her locker, shaking her head in disbelief before finishing unloading textbooks from her backpack.
“I mean, I understand if—”
“Excuse me,” someone says, tapping my shoulder.
I turn around, and a girl wordlessly points to the locker next to Hannah’s, the one I’m standing in front of.
“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry,” I say, shifting out of the way. First bell rings, and I haven’t even been to my own locker yet. Before moving, I add, “Either you come, or you don’t. Just know that you can, and that I… I want you to.”
“So, what time is your friend coming over?” Mom asks from down the hall.
She emerges, having traded her scrubs for a sweater and a pair of sweatpants. Her hair is down now, out of the braids she usually wears to work. She jumps into at-home mode, lighting a pine-scented candle before opening the dishwasher to put away the clean dishes.
“After field hockey,” I say, pulling the candle closer so I can inhale its wonderful scent. “Which—based on the time—should be any minute now.”
She puts away some glasses and spins around, opening up the cabinet on the other side of the island to retrieve an oven tray. I move some of my folders and notebooks out of the way to make space as she puts on a pot of decaf coffee, then pops a frozen pasta dinner in the microwave.
“You know, you don’t really hang out with anyone else other than Kristen,” she murmurs, closing the dishwasher and washing her hands even though she was touching clean dishes.