“Hey, the reading isn’t until later if you—” I say, then I look up.
Justin Michael steps into the light and smiles at me. The lighting makes his blond hair glow like a halo.
“Oh my God!” I screech.
“Candy,” he says. He opens his arms and I launch myself into them.
“Twice in a week!” I say, squeezing him. He’s far more muscular now, and he smells like spearmint and cologne instead of Cocoa Puffs and crossword-puzzle newsprint.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. I mean… it’s a bookstore, but still.
“I came in to pick up a couple of novels, but your uncle said you were upstairs,” he says. We disentangle from each other. “You look so pretty.”
I immediately fuss with my hair, and I’m glad for my green-and-white-striped dress. Better than looking like a Winnie-the-Pooh cosplayer, that’s for sure.
“What are you doing?” he asks. “Can I help?”
He springs into action, and in seconds we get the extra chairs set up. We walk out of the reading room and the faux bookcase closes behind us. The book castle lies directly ahead of us.
“We used to spend hours in there,” I say. “Remember?”
I point to the small house encased in real books.
“How could I forget?” he says.
“You were a lot shorter then,” I say, frowning. I reach up and place my hand on his soft hair, mock measuring.
He smiles. “I know. I used to love lying with my head in your lap as you read Percy Jackson books to me. Sometimes you’d sneak strawberry laces in there. You always shared.”
As he says it, I picture us in the book castle. Like there’s a ten-year-old Korean girl and a same-age blond boy with glasses quietly reading instead of what appears to be a mob of kindergartners storming the castle. The artificial strawberry and sugar scent fills my nose and brings peace in this chaos.
“I can’t believe you remember it that clearly,” I say.
He smiles slowly. “It was the most content I’ve felt in my life. It’s nice when things are as good as you remember them.”
Our eyes meet, and it’s like I’ve been hit with a melting serum. Me. He’s talking about me. My shoulders drop, my knees get weaker. Words bubble up inside me. I should tell him that those days meant a lot to me. I should say that even though things ended badly all those years ago that I don’t care. It feels like he never left. I should be a different kind of person entirely and stand on my tiptoes and kiss him for saying something so sweet. And maybe I’d linger. And maybe it would be a real kiss.
Wait, what? No. He’s my friend. My friend since we were literally babies. He’d be grossed out. And I am definitely not that kind of person. I’m still dating Paul… sort of. Maybe? Ugh. And I’ve never kissed anyone else. I’ve never wanted to kiss anyone else. Something weird is happening to me.
“Do you… can I make you some tea?” I ask.
“I’d love some,” Justin Michael says.
We head down the stairs. His hand grazes my back as we leave behind the memories of who we used to be in the children’s section.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
JASMINE’S IPHONE
MAY 27
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♥ Paul ♥
Are you okay, Jaz?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The secret, if there is one, to making good tea is to leave it alone. Follow the instructions, go a pinch heavy on the leaves, and keep your hands off.
While the Darjeeling steeps, I serve Justin Michael a raisin scone. He perches across from me at the counter—the only customer at the moment. I liked the bacon-cheddar flavor the best, but he always had more of a sweet tooth so I chose raisin for him.
“Your aunt Jay is incredible,” he says, admiring the scone. “These are so light and fluffy.”
Jay was the one who taught me how to properly measure flour, to not overwork dough, and the importance of letting it rest. She and I used to taste test new baking combinations, and nothing was better than something right out of her oven.
Laughter rings in my ears, hers and mine, from when we’d had a flour fight after I’d pointed out how she’d gotten some on her cheek. Mom was annoyed that I’d gotten my black shirt dirty, but Jay had just rolled her eyes and said she’d get me a chef’s jacket. She did.
The little egg timer goes off behind me, stirring me from my memories. I pour a cup of tea for Justin and one for me. We both use sugar. He takes milk.
He washes down another bite of scone while I warm my air-conditioning-chilled fingers on my cup.
“I’m glad I ran into you,” Justin Michael says. “I was going to text you about getting tea, and here we are.”
We clink our mugs.
“Cheers,” I say. I lift my tea and blow on the fragrant brew. It’s too hot to drink right now. “I’m glad too.”
“I probably would’ve botched asking you,” he says. “Like when I tried to ask you out.”
His words register, and instead of blowing on my tea, I slurp it up. I don’t have time to regret it. It’s like I swallowed a comet. The back of my throat catches fire. Tears flood my eyes as I cough.
I try to respond and yep… that’s worse.
Flailing, I slosh the tea in my mug. The hot liquid rises and burns my left hand. I shake off the tea, stumble forward, and drop my cup on the counter. It spills before Justin sets it right, but at least I didn’t burn him, too.
While still coughing, I turn on the sink and run my hand under cool water until it feels better. It’s not a bad burn. Only the awkward stings. There are napkins on the bar, but I dry my palms on my apron. Finally, I catch my breath. Some shoppers have turned to stare, but since I haven’t spontaneously combusted yet, they’re back to browsing.
Instead of noting the day’s scones, Charlotte should’ve written that there’s a clown serving tea who’s available for children’s parties.
“I’m really, really sorry,” Justin says, his brown eyes full of concern. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I croak out. I grab my bottle of water from the fridge. I take a sip and cool my mouth and throat.
“My timing is awful. That was my fault,” he says.
I tilt my head. Why is he sorry? Paul would’ve walked away from me for making an embarrassing scene, like he did when we got snacks at a concession stand and I tripped and spilled popcorn everywhere, but Justin Michael is apologizing? Like he’s the one who hasn’t mastered drinking?
“No, no. I’m just… I was caught off guard,” I say. Because Justin Michael claimed he asked me out. Either that or he’s really learned how to deadpan a joke.
“I can tell,” he laughs.
His chuckle makes me laugh too, then we’re both laughing hard. At least I don’t snort like Emily.
“For the record, though,” I say, “you never asked me out.”
“No, seriously, I did,” he says.
“Never happened.” I shake my head, my ponytail swishing.
“I asked you to go to a movie with me,” he says. “It was a Pixar film and you turned me down cold.”
I’m still laughing, but he’s… serious? It can’t be, but those are too many details to be made up. Plus, his face is sincere. I rack my mind trying to think of when this could’ve been. If it happened, I do know one thing: I didn’t realize he was asking me out.
“Did I know it was supposed to be a date?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “In hindsight, no. I was so nervous and you said you were busy so I kinda walked away. It took a while for me to realize you just had plans. But I felt rejected—listened to angsty breakup songs in my room and everything.”
He laughs at himself and runs his hand over his beard. His jawline has changed so much from the boy I knew to the man in front of me.
“I didn’t work up the courage again,” he says. “My mom got that VP position, and with the move and all, I lost my chance.”
I’m stunned, just stunned. I can’t even
process it because my mind gets stuck on when he ever asked me to go to the movies. We usually played games, read books, or had tea. But wait… there was one time.
He was pushing me on the rope swing that hung off the weeping willow tree in his backyard. It was before yet another Yap/Ventura party. He said his parents could drop us off at the movie theater, and he seemed oddly nervous about it. I didn’t understand why he’d stopped pushing me or why he was swaying like a metronome and shifting his glasses again and again.
Now it all makes sense.
“Wait, this was the summer before ninth grade?” I say.
He nods.
Right before he moved away.
Pieces come together, and I finally realize why we had a falling-out. In the two weeks after Justin moved to Texas, we messaged all the time. Things were great and we were scheming on how to see each other again—flights, trains, hitchhiking across the country. Then high school started, and thinking he was just my close friend, I told him all about meeting Paul. That was when Justin got cold. I kept messaging like always, but he’d barely respond. I missed one FaceTime chat because I was busy with a group project, and we got into a fight. He said he was sorry he wasn’t more convenient. I said he’d never been convenient, which didn’t come out the way I meant it. That was when he said he didn’t want to bother with me anymore, that I wasn’t worth it. I was crushed. I was certain he was going to apologize, and I kept waiting, but instead he never messaged again.
People said I shouldn’t have expected to stay in contact with someone who’d moved so far away. That most childhood friendships don’t last. But I knew there was more to the story. I just never knew what. Eventually, I had to let it go. But it turns out he’d liked me and I’d hurt him.
A million apologies get dammed up at my lips. I want to tell Justin I’m sorry he felt rejected even if he can laugh about it now. Because I know all too well what rejection feels like. That I would’ve liked to have gone on my first date with him. And I wonder what would’ve happened if he’d been my first boyfriend instead of Paul. But I can’t change any of that, and saying it four years later doesn’t seem right. It’s too little, too late.
Instead, I say, “I would’ve liked to have seen that movie with you.”
He smiles warmly and sips his tea. At least one of us doesn’t fling it around like a malfunctioning robot.
“Funny enough, it’s on Netflix now,” he says.
He and I could watch it together—pretend like we went on the date. But it’s different, more intimate streaming a movie on a couch. The thought makes me rub my palms against my apron even though they’re dry. But really, there’s no need to be nervous. Justin is my friend. Even if he asked me out, we were kids four years ago. It doesn’t mean he wants this to be anything other than a friendly hang.
Right?
I put my hands on my hips, imitating my mom. “Justin Michael Simmons, are you inviting me to Netflix and chill?”
“No,” he says, his eyes wide, the picture of innocence. “It sounds like you are, though. Maybe we should say ‘movie night’—there are children present.” He waggles his eyebrows and waits with a smile on his face.
I laugh. “My house? Thursday night?”
“Sounds good,” he says. “I’ll swing by after work. Popcorn and strawberry laces?”
“Definitely,” I say. “I’ll get some other snacks too because you know Davey is a human vacuum cleaner now.”
He laughs, then digs in his pocket and pulls out a twenty.
“Your money is no good here,” I say, pushing it back. I fully intended on covering his tea and scone from my tips.
He reaches out and covers my hand and the money, pressing them down on the counter with his palm. Our hands are so different, compared to when we were kids. And the feeling of his hand on mine makes my stomach flip.
We lock eyes and he smiles slowly. I stare at him, forgetting to breathe.
“Please,” he says. “Keep the change.”
He takes his hand off mine, and it’s a few seconds before I shake off my stupor.
“No. Here,” I say. I have to try twice to pick up the money.
He looks me dead in the eyes then turns and bolts. He runs out of the store with his comical, small-step run, then peers at me from the store window before taking off again. I stand at the counter, laughing and shaking my head.
But all I can think about is how it felt to look in his eyes with his hand over mine. I can’t explain it, but it felt like someone handing me an umbrella after I walked in the rain. That kind of easy comfort just flowed through us.
It’s not until I’ve rung up the order that I realize: I just made a date with Justin Michael Simmons. And there’s a possibility it could be a date date.
What do I do now?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It’s Tuesday night and I’m in another dress. I felt fancy coming in to work at Berry Plum, but Katia has an honest-to-God orchid behind her ear.
What can ya do? Can’t compete with that.
It’s quieter than yesterday evening’s shift. There’s only an older couple who came in a few minutes ago, two college-aged friends who have been debating a philosopher for like an hour, and a family with young children who are up pretty late for this much sugar. I think they’re on vacation since the kids were shrieking about Magic Kingdom while doing laps around the table.
Winter Park is somewhere between twenty-five and ten thousand minutes from the Mouse, depending on I-4 traffic, so we don’t get a ton of tourists here. Justin Michael said his commute to Disney isn’t great, but Houston is worse any day of the week.
He’s staying with a cousin in Baldwin Park—another suburb of Orlando. He took me on a virtual tour of the very sleek bachelor pad when we FaceTimed last night. He showed me his bed and I couldn’t help but blush.
I hate my face.
“Let’s start closing so we can get outta here on time,” Katia says. “I have a date.” She does a little twirl.
“Ooh. With?” I ask. I’ve never seen her this excited.
“Lee. I met them at a concert this weekend and we went out last night,” she says. She rattles off some group I’ve never heard of. Orlando is cool that way—it’s a big mix of musical tastes, including a country presence, which I love, and a techno side Paul was all about and I couldn’t understand.
Katia takes off from behind the counter. People don’t normally come in late on a Tuesday, so she dismantles one of the less popular machines. We take one apart a night for cleaning and the day shift puts it together. I wipe down the other machines, essentially closing them for the night.
The family takes the hint. They get up, throw out their trash, and leave. The older couple is still working on their dessert. The college friends were done with theirs long ago.
Since we’re nearly finished, I grab my phone and text Cari, asking her to come get me in fifteen.
There’s another message from Justin that I look at quickly. It’s a picture of him holding a very hard to identify fruit he found in his cousin’s refrigerator. It’s hard to ID because it’s growing colorful mold, and Justin is making a funny scared face next to it.
I laugh. It’s been great to talk to him again—even if I still don’t know if movie night is a date or not. Or if I want it to be. Or if he does.
I feel a little weird messaging with boys (well, one boy, still nothing with Eugene) when I’m still sort of with Paul, but he was the one who asked to see other people, so this is fine. Right? No reason to feel guilty.
Note: I still feel totally guilty.
Paul has messaged too. He asked if his previous message went through and he wanted to know if I was okay. I said I was fine, just busy with work, and he said, “Good, I was worried.” I have no idea why he was concerned, and honestly, I’ve been too busy to think about him much.
The front door chimes, and I drop my phone into my bag with a sigh. I’m going to have to wipe down the yogurt machines again. I knew I did it too early.
I try to plaster a smile on my face, but when I look up, my mouth falls open because Aaron the baseball player stands in front of me.
“He… hey,” I say.
His perfect face breaks into a warm smile. “Jasmine.”
Butterflies alight and flutter through me as his eyes focus on me. I’m not the only one a little starstruck. He’s in a plain T-shirt and shorts, but everyone in the place has stopped what they’re doing to look at this man. Even the college girls ceased their endless debate. And there’s a new feeling associated with being around him. Like I feel important. It’s stardom, maybe.
“Wha… what are you doing here?” I say. Apparently, I’ve developed a hotness malfunction. Great—just what I needed.
“Your family mentioned you work here and that I should try it out,” he says. “We had a home game today, so I figured I’d swing by. It’s cute. Real cute.”
I bless and curse my family for their meddling. A little heads-up would’ve been nice. Cousin Teagan and Cousin Joe were in here earlier for a while—they could’ve told me, if they knew. But who knows which of my value-pack-sized family mentioned it.
At least Berry Plum is cute. It’s aimed at kids, but it’s streamlined enough for adults to like it too.
“Um, yeah, yes, you should try it out. Definitely,” I say. Then I shut my mouth so suddenly, my teeth click. Seriously, Jasmine, stop talking forever.
“Do I just help myself to what I want?” he asks, leaning forward slightly.
I feel a blush starting and… yogurt. He’s asking about yogurt, you mess.
“Yes, yes, please,” I gesture toward the large cups and waffle bowls stacked to the right. He walks that way.
“Let me know if you want a taste,” I say.
The second the words are out of my mouth, I realize how they sound. We lock eyes and I spin away from him because I cannot.
“Jasmine,” he says.
Nope.
Reluctantly, and with the deepest internal cringe at myself, I turn.
The Jasmine Project Page 9