By the time I get to the bodega, my mind is loud and busy. It isn’t until about thirty minutes into my shift that my phone buzzes inside my pocket, and I take it out to find a welcome distraction: a text from Adam.

Morning!

Heya, I write back. What’s up?

Just getting ready for the matinee show, he says. Are you free later?

I feel a wave of anxiety in my stomach. I remind myself that we’re supposed to be taking things slow, that it’s okay to say I can’t hang out today. It’s okay to be honest.

Not today, I write back. Gotta work at the bodega until late.

Aaaah gotcha, he says. For a few seconds, my phone remains still, and I think hard about what to say next. Before I can come up with something, it buzzes again. And everything we talked about last night… do you still want to give it a shot?

Yeah, I write back. I don’t even need to think about it. This is one of the few things in my life I’m certain of. Let’s hang out this week.

Sounds good. Can’t wait to see you.

Me neither, I write. Break a leg at the show today!

He sends me a dancing boy emoji. Talk to you later.

Text me when you’re done.

I return to work with a smile on my face. The rest of my shift feels a little easier, as I think about Adam—Adam and the way he kissed me yesterday. Adam and the fact that we’re hanging out again this week. Adam and the shape of his lips, and his dimples, and the green in his eyes.

When the time finally comes to close the bodega for the day, I thank Erika for all her help and run straight to Maria’s. Deep down, I feel longing to pick up Sophie, to see her, to spend time with her after a busy day at work, but there is pain in my chest as I think about this morning and the way she turned away from me without even saying goodbye.

“How was your day?” I ask her as soon as we walk out of Maria’s building.

“Fine,” she says, putting her hands in the pockets of her jeans.

“What did you guys do?”

“Ate hotdogs.”

I’m about to ask where exactly they went for hotdogs, when I instinctively stop, noticing the way Sophie is turning toward Third Street.

“It’s this way,” I say gently, pointing toward Avenue D. “We gotta take the bus at Tenth to get back to Jorge’s.”

“Can we just walk?”

I don’t have the energy in me to argue. With a small nod, I put a hand on my sister’s shoulder and follow her down Third Street.