Short Stuff Read online

  “But you’ve been together for six months!”

  “And it only showed that no matter how much I try, he won’t ever be my type.” Gemma shrugged. “So I ended it.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Anya looked concerned, ready to comfort, to hug, to drop everything else and just be the best friend possible.

  Gemma shook her head and ran her hand through her hair. She was still surprised when her fingers met air after just a few inches; she wasn’t used to this change that came on the heels of all the others this past week and was perhaps the most visible symbol of it all.

  “Thanks. Not yet, okay? Let’s just get back to studying. We have to kill the SATs if we want a chance at those scholarships.”

  Anya nodded; her full lips were pinched with worry. “Okay. Whenever you want to talk, though, I’m here, okay?”

  “I know. Thank you.”

  The saddest thing was, as much as Gemma wanted—needed—to talk about that whirlwind of a week, to have somebody know, a part of her wasn’t certain she would ever tell Anya. How could she, without spilling the deepest, darkest truth? The thought of keeping secrets from her best friend left her feeling sick with guilt, but it was still better than losing Anya altogether.

  It didn’t stop her silly heart from stumbling when Anya squeezed her hand, still just a breath away, and said with that sweet, dimpled smile,

  “And I love your new haircut. I would never brave such a radical change, but on you it looks gorgeous.”

  Gemma smiled and followed her back upstairs without a word.

  5. Pumpkin Spice Latte

  Brandishing a travel mug, Anya rushed into Gemma’s dorm room like a gust of wildly colorful wind.

  “Pumpkin spice latte, extra shot of espresso, with a sprinkle of nutmeg on top. You’re welcome.”

  “You’re a goddess.” Gemma moaned, pulling her into a tight, quick hug. Anya’s cheeks were pink and cold, and her hair, braided into a crown, smelled deliciously like freshly ground coffee. She’d come straight from her shift at the on-campus Starbucks, where she happily spent every waking hour that wasn’t filled with classes.

  Anya slipped off her coat, kicked off her boots, and dropped them in the middle of the room as she tended to do. Gemma snorted and moved them to the designated area.

  “You have no idea how much I envy you living in the dorm,” Anya said, already elbow-deep in her spacious backpack. “My aunt is impossible. Curfew at ten. Lights out at eleven. No boys. Thank god your roommate’s away. I need a decadent movie night with brownies, wine coolers, and cuddles, and I haven’t seen you all week.”

  She emerged from her backpack with a bright smile and an armful of goodies and put them on the bedside table before climbing onto the neatly made bed. Gemma followed with her laptop and a fluffy blanket, ready for a lovely, long, unbearably platonic girls’ night with her best friend.

  It was three hours and four episodes of Gilmore Girls later that Anya turned to her in the cozy cocoon. She was so close in the narrow dorm bed that her breath, warm and chocolate-scented, tickled Gemma’s lips.

  “So did you manage to convince your mom to finance that Italian trip for you?” she asked. “The deadline is on Friday.”

  Gemma tore her eyes away from Anya’s pink, plushy lips before it got weird. “Um, no. We’re not really… on speaking terms right now, to be honest.” Actually, being honest was what started their fight in the first place, so perhaps the whole honesty thing was overrated.

  Anya’s beautiful face fell. “Oh, no. So you’re not going?” Her permanently cold hand found Gemma’s under the blanket and squeezed it tight, stealing Gemma’s breath for a second before she could answer.

  “No, I am. Funny thing happened, you know? Do you remember my aunt Natasha?”

  “The one your mom doesn’t talk to?”

  “Yeah. Well, she must have talked to her now, because Natasha called me yesterday to tell me she wants to sponsor my trip. Said it was in place of all the birthday gifts she’d missed.”

  “Huh. That is strange.” Anya was rubbing her thumb over the top of Gemma’s hand, seemingly without thought but distracting nonetheless. “Maybe they’ve made up?”

  “What, like they’ve put aside twenty years of differences because I was being ‘an ungrateful brat with no respect for traditions or social norms’? Yay for that, seriously.”

  Deep down, Gemma believed it was more than that. There was something about the way Natasha told her to just be herself—twice, all earnest and intense. She even said Gemma could call her with anything she needed, anything at all, as if she knew what confession caused the new rift between Gemma and her mom and wanted to tell her she was on her side without forcing Gemma to talk about the topic. It seemed almost as if Natasha knew exactly how it was.

  No, that wasn’t possible.

  “Well, what matters is that you’re coming, right?” Anya grinned and cuddled closer until her head rested on Gemma’s bony shoulder. That couldn’t be comfortable, but she looked content with the new position. “Let your mom have her reunion with her sister all she wants. We are spending our spring break in Italy, thank you very much. Oh, my god, I can’t wait to try Italian coffee! They say it’s an orgasm for your taste buds.”

  Gemma could feel her stupid, pale skin burn with a blush.

  “Yeah.” She swallowed. “Yes, I’m sure it will be delightful.”

  6. Caffè Marocchino

  “Ooooh, my god, this is amazing. This is the best coffee ever. It’s like this coffee is my soulmate. I want to drink it every single day of my life.”

  The coffee was definitely interesting: rich espresso with some cocoa powder and a layer of milk foam, generously sprinkled with more cocoa. It was too bitter for Gemma, but a perfect match for Anya, as evidenced by her indecent moans that made Gemma’s heart do funny things in her chest. Her eyes kept coming back to Anya’s mouth, which was smeared with the Nutella that covered the sides of the glass. Her lips were pink and plump, and would probably taste all sweet, and—Gemma really needed to stop thinking about that.

  Half the magic of the coffee was probably the location: a lovely little ristorante in a narrow side street in the middle of Rome. The building it occupied—a worn, yellow two-story house with laundry hung out to dry from the upper windows—was probably older than any building Gemma had ever visited back home. The two of them were seated outside, at a table covered with red-checkered cloth. A slight wind moved the strands of ivy hanging down from the wooden awning. All around them, people chattered in melodic Italian, and not understanding a word of it made Gemma feel deliciously as though she was surrounded by secrets and mystery.

  It was warm for early March. The bright sun stirred something wild and joyous in Gemma’s soul, and, oh, she could live like this forever, traveling the world, visiting all the places, breathing the history, and surrounding herself with different cultures and people and languages. She’d never been outside of the United States. She’d had no idea how free she would feel here, as if she could have anything she dreamed of, shape her life in any way she wanted.

  She wondered if Anya would run away with her, if Gemma asked her to.

  She would never ask her, in case the answer was no.

  Anya took another sip of the Marocchino. She seemed right at home, with her colorful dresses and her bright laughter and her beautiful curves. Even the Italian language came easily to her, and three days into their stay, she was already using basic, everyday phrases in a way that sounded completely natural.

  “I’m serious, Gem.” She closed her eyes. “I could marry this coffee. If marriages between people and beverages were a thing, I would be on my knee right now.”

  Before Gemma could recover from that picture enough to form a response, Anya’s eyes shot open. She put down the glass and leaned closer to Gemma. Bumped with a knee, the table wobbled.

 
“Oh, speaking of marriage: I think Ben is going to propose!”

  All thoughts of traveling and the otherworldly beauty of her best friend under the Italian sun flew from Gemma’s mind. “Wha— What?”

  “When we were video chatting, he told me he wants to talk. Said he’d come to visit when I’m back, that this is a conversation we need to have in person.”

  “And you’re sure it’s that?” The fettuccine Gemma had eaten for lunch weighed heavily in her stomach.

  Anya grinned. “What else could it be? He looked all cute and shy when he talked about it and he never gets shy anymore unless it’s an important moment. And we’d talked about this, you know? Over the summer, before I left for college. About getting married one day.”

  Gemma’s throat was closing up. She swallowed with difficulty and tightened a hand over the edge of her chair for an anchor. “But you’re only nineteen.”

  Anya shrugged. “Well, we wouldn’t go through with it right away, I’m sure. Not until I’m twenty-one at least. I intend to drink legally at my own wedding, thank you very much.” She laughed—so bright, so happy, with the dimples Gemma loved so much. “And I think long engagements are romantic, don’t you?”

  “I… honestly never thought about it,” Gemma croaked. She hoped her devastation wasn’t coming through loud and clear. “So, you’ll say yes, then? If he asks?”

  Anya frowned. “Well, of course. What else would I say?”

  “I don’t know, do I? Which is why I asked. Because, well. It’s such a big step, engagement; it’s like promising forever. Forever with Ben, all your life, is… is that what you want?”

  She was babbling. She needed to stop, because Anya was looking at her with confusion.

  “He’s a good man, Gem. We’re good together.”

  Yes, but is it all you want from life? Just getting married to the first boyfriend you’ve ever had, never trying other people, other choices?

  She wisely clamped her lips closed before any of that could escape; that would be unfair—to Anya and to Ben. So she just nodded.

  Anya beamed at her again, clearly reassured.

  “You’ll be my maid of honor, right? I can’t think of anybody else I’d rather have by my side at that special moment. You’ve always been my closest person in the whole world. I can’t do it without you.”

  Gemma’s breath caught at the unintended double meaning. She’d thought about it once, about Anya getting married—just once, because she wasn’t a masochist. She’d visualized herself at Anya’s side in a different role, not standing right there as Anya swore her love and loyalty to another; feeling that door close with every word the happy couple said; helping the girl she loved prepare for that special day when every little detail was lovingly chosen for her union with somebody else.

  Even the thought of Anya getting married was like a knife to the heart. How would she ever survive actually being there?

  And then she thought of not being there at all, of leaving that space—in the church and in Anya’s life—empty.

  She couldn’t do it.

  “Of course I’ll be your maid of honor,” she said with a smile that cost her more than anything ever had. “I love you. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  7. Irish Coffee

  “Anya, sweetie, I don’t think we should have another round. There’s a lot of whiskey in this—”

  “Shh.” Anya put a cold finger on Gemma’s lips, effectively cutting her off. “I’m moping here. And if I can mope with both coffee and liquor, I shall do just that.”

  Gemma nodded and watched Anya order the third round of Irish coffees from the nice tattooed bartender who used to work with her at Starbucks before moving on to this cozy little bar. He hadn’t even mentioned their IDs.

  The place wasn’t crowded on a Monday night with only a few groups of people occupying the larger tables toward the back and clearly celebrating something. Their laughter was in stark contrast to the somber mood at their tiny table, secluded in the corner.

  Gemma had already resigned herself to the prospect of Anya getting royally drunk and staying the night at the dorm with her. There was no way she could go home to her aunt like this. But that was fine. It wouldn’t be the first night they spent together in Gemma’s narrow bed.

  It was getting Anya to the dorm that worried her. Gemma seemed to handle liquor better, the few times that they drank, but she felt a bit fuzzy around the edges already. Walking her inebriated and emotional best friend all the way across town was going to be a challenge.

  “I mean, I get it, long distance is hard,” Anya picked up her rant once she had a warm glass between her palms again. “It’s been hard for me too, but you don’t see me sleeping around. And he could have just said something. We could have found a way to see each other more often, or have Skype sex maybe, or phone sex, I don’t know, something. And to think I was so sure he wanted to propose.” She snorted into her glass, then her lips trembled, curling into that sad little moue of heartbreak. “I loved him, dammit,” she mumbled.

  Gemma dove into her coffee; the hot liquid burned her throat when she swallowed too much too fast. She was here as a friend. A good friend wouldn’t utter any of the comments pinging through her brain right now. Her head was spinning; the alcohol muddled her thinking. She should have refused that third drink. She needed to get herself together.

  “Gemma? What do you think?”

  Gemma shook her head to get back to reality. “Sorry? I missed that.”

  “Do you think there’s a way to fix this?”

  “No.” It came out too harshly. She quickly softened her tone, seeing Anya’s face fall. “No. He doesn’t deserve you.”

  Anya looked down; her shoulders hunched further. “It was one mistake.”

  “Cheating on you? Multiple times? It doesn’t sound like one mistake.” She shook her head. Anya didn’t look convinced. “Remember when we were sixteen and we talked about things that were unforgivable for us? You said—”

  “I know what I said,” Anya interrupted. For the first time tonight, she sounded close to tears. “But we were children then, Gem. We knew nothing about real relationships or the compromises they require sometimes.”

  Nausea swirled in Gemma’s stomach and burned bitter in her throat. She took great care to put her glass down gently for fear she might smash it against the wall.

  “No. I understand compromise, and this is not it. He doesn’t deserve you.”

  “Doesn’t he, though? He’s a good man, Gemma. He loves me. We don’t fight, he never ever yelled at me. We’re good together. And he apologized. He admitted he made a mistake and apologized for it.”

  “He’s been cheating on you. For weeks. Are you really ready to forget that and stay with him just because he’s been slightly better than your father was?”

  Anya’s jaw dropped. By unspoken agreement, they’d never talked about those nights when she’d slept at Gemma’s because her parents were “talking.”

  “That’s not—” she stuttered.

  “Isn’t it? So you just love Ben so much that you would fight to stay with him, maybe marry him, even though you’d never trust him again?”

  Anya looked away, her eyes overflowing. Gemma took her hand.

  “Hey. I’m sorry. But you deserve so much better. You deserve someone who will love you and cherish you and who will always be honest with you. Someone who will tell you every day how amazing you are.” Anya glanced at her, biting her lip, and Gemma continued, emboldened. “Someone who will watch sappy movies with you and take you out of town on summer nights to count the stars, and bring you cappuccino in bed on lazy Sunday mornings. Who will hold you every night and kiss you every morning, and know to bring you a hot water bottle and Hershey’s kisses when the cramps hit—”

  Anya let out a wet little chuckle. “I don’t think any guy is going to be that good, G
em.”

  “Does it have to be a guy?”

  She knew she’d said too much, dazed with the whiskey and emotions, careless as she’d never let herself be. Anya’s eyes grew huge, confused.

  “What?”

  Gemma’s heart tripped over itself as it sped to a gallop. “Okay, let’s pretend I didn’t say anything.”

  “No. What did you mean?” Anya’s fingers tightened around her hand almost painfully.

  “Anya…”

  “Tell me. Please.”

  Gemma had never been able to say no to her.

  “I’ve loved you since we were fifteen,” she whispered, her eyes on the half-empty glass, unable to look at her best friend in a moment that had every chance to break them. But if she was saying this, she was going to say it right. “I’ve loved you longer than that, truly, but I was fifteen when I realized that it wasn’t only as a friend. And I’ve wanted to tell you so many times. That you’re the loveliest girl in the whole world, inside and out; that you brighten my every day by just existing; that I think you’re my soulmate. But… I was afraid, and I knew I would never be with you like that anyway.” She sighed and bit her lip to keep her voice from trembling. “I just want you to be happy. So, so happy. Because you deserve all the best there is in the world, even if it’s not with me.”

  When she dared to look up, Anya’s eyes were wide, and the expression of distress on her beautiful face cut right through Gemma’s heart. She knew it was a bad idea. She should have never said anything; she should have kept the truth in like a bird in a cage, the way she had all those years.

  Gemma pushed away from the table; her chair screeched over the tiled floor. “I… I have to go. I have to… I’m sorry.”

  She didn’t look back as she ran out of the bar.

  8. Cappuccino

  The knock on the door came on a Friday evening in late April.

  Gemma was alone, buried in books as she studied for her first final the following week. Studying helped. It kept her busy and let her forget, if only for a while, how shattered she’d been since that disaster at the bar.