“I didn’t know you were that close with Jasmine,” he says to me.

“Those two? My god. Matching orders, matching outfits, all the way down to the matching scrunchies.” She turns to me. “How is she these days? I don’t see much of her, either.”

“Oh, Jasmine?” I ask, stalling for time. Somehow, telling Lolly that I don’t see much of her either feels like I’d be letting her down. I give her a big, plastered-on smile. “She’s great. Has a big job. Married. The whole nine yards, all great.”

“And you two?” Lolly says, gesturing between me and Ryan.

I try not to look too alarmed. “Oh, no, we’re not married!” I say, maybe a hair too loudly. “We, uh, work together.”

“I see,” Lolly says coyly. “Well, you two look very nice together. What can I get you?”

Ryan follows my lead and orders a chai latte with extra whipped cream. While he pays Lolly for the drinks, I examine the framed newspaper clippings hung by the door. They’re slightly yellowed with age, but I remember the thrill I got the day the first one was hung. Lolly saved the Boston Globe clippings announcing that two local girls were on their way to the Olympic Trials. Jasmine and I skipped the sugary drinks that day and asked for plain tea; Lolly, who had the round, soft body you’d expect from a woman who made baked goods for a living, had rolled her eyes and told us to live a little. “This is us living,” I remember telling her, pointing to the newspaper clipping.

The story isn’t long, but it features a black-and-white photo of me and Jasmine, frozen at nineteen years old, with our arms slung around each other’s shoulders. The date on the framed article feels so far away—a lifetime ago. Next to it, there’s a bigger framed article, the paper’s front-page story from the day Jasmine returned home from London. There’s a larger, color photo of her by herself with a pile of Olympic medals splayed out across her chest. I wonder what the younger version of myself would say if she saw me here now, lying to Lolly about Jasmine, Ryan trailing behind me, out on a furtive break from Summit. I don’t think she’d understand how I got into this situation at all.

Ryan sets down the chai lattes on the table between the armchairs, then comes up behind me. He’s quiet for a moment, reading the two framed clippings.

“Ah, I see,” he says. “You took me here just so I don’t forget you’re a hometown hero.”

“I brought you to a place I loved,” I correct him. Sass floods my voice. “And, uh, was a hometown hero. Once upon a time. Not so much anymore.”

Jasmine’s photo floats in my peripheral vision, and I try to block it out.