Later, Adam comes into the cafe and has lunch with me over at the corner table, pretending we’re just friends, like always, because it’s easier. I’m used to hiding the things I really want anyway.

“So,” Adam says, “I’d like to spend Christmas with you. If you want to.”

We spent Thanksgiving together, but mostly we ignored that it was Thanksgiving, because it was all new and awkward. I worked at Decadence that morning and brought home turkey sandwiches and we watched a couple movies on TV. But even though it’s not like I had anywhere else to go for Christmas, this feels official. With plans and a tree and making a fuss.

“Yeah,” I say, staring into my bowl of beef barley soup, making work of picking out all the carrots. “I mean, we’re already getting a tree.”

I actually like carrots, but building a pile of them on the side of my coffee saucer is easier than having to look in Adam’s eyes. I could scare him with how much I want. Everything good could slip away, like when I used to try to bring sand home from the playground in my tightly closed fist.

Around four o’clock, Adam’s client, Anna, comes in by herself. I’m replacing the register tape, so I say, “I’ll be right with you.”

Anna sighs like having to wait is the biggest inconvenience of her entire life. And, of course, because everyone else who changes the tape smashes the roll of paper in without paying attention, the slot you have to feed the paper through is beat up and bent and the process kind of reminds me of the open heart surgery Matty and I watched on TV after his dad put up the satellite dish. My first three tries fail and I have to go get scissors to cut the paper to a point and try again.

Bodie comes out for a refill on his hot chocolate. His fingers are black, which means he’s been in the kitchen sketching instead of washing dishes. When he sees Anna, he tucks the red stirrer straw he’s always chewing behind his ear, leans on the counter so he’s totally in her face, and says, “Can I help you?” in this completely gross fake-manly voice.

“Half-caff skim latte with sugar-free vanilla, please,” she says.

Bodie stares at her perfectly painted Valentine mouth and bites his bottom lip. “Large?”

“Small.”

He wipes his charcoal fingers on his jeans and makes her a medium, looking over to smile at her more than he’s watching what he’s doing. I worry he’ll burn himself again, like he did last week when some girl with blond dreadlocks and big boobs whispered her order in his ear like it was a secret only he could know.