“Still too sweet,” Josh says after the first bite. “I always told my dad they need a secondary flavor. Some spice or a citrusy note.” Watching him eat his half of the cookie—which, in Ari’s opinion, is the perfect amount of sugary—it occurs to her that their friendship exists in a perfect, fragile bubble of right now. If Josh was five percent less picky, he’d have a rebound girlfriend. If the fog of breakup failure wore off tomorrow…well, Ari probably wouldn’t be “dating” in the same way, but she’d be a functional human who wouldn’t need someone else to talk her to sleep over the phone several nights a week.
She imagines Josh walking into Pearl River Mart—like, the mundane process of pushing through the doors, walking down the stairs, searching through the massive selection of dishes. Looking through all the variations on blue-and-white bowls to find that one.
It stirs this inkling—maybe it’s an ounce too affectionate? Accepting that kind of small but meaningful gesture almost feels like a cheat. A crutch. Why hadn’t she thought to do that for herself? What’s so hard about replacing a bowl or buying furniture or an insulated winter coat? Now she’ll get used to Josh being a person who would do those things, right up until the moment where he’ll get out of his own way just enough to invite a nice woman on a second date.
Then he’ll disappear into the warm embrace of a healthy relationship, never to be heard from again.
Ari kicks at a fresh snow drift—releasing a tiny bit of her frustration—and a rat the size of a calzone bolts out from underneath.
She shrieks and takes off running for half a block, stumbling inside the confines of the too-long coat.
“How long have you lived here?” Josh shouts from behind her as she slows to a stop. “This is why you should never jump in a leaf pile in Central Park. Anything could be under there.”
“I’ll never get used to the rats.”
“Rats are the real New Yorkers,” he says, catching up to her.
“I’ll give the rats credit for being badasses on the subway tracks, but that creature can pry this half-cookie out of my cold dead hands.” Ari defiantly raises her right hand to reveal the remaining black-and-white chunk.
* * *
JOSH NOTICES IT as they walk up Broadway toward Union Square. Maybe it’s the sugar rush from the fondant on the cookie. Maybe solving his New Year’s Eve date problem tweaked one of the default settings in his brain. But he’s suddenly aware that anyone passing Ari and him on the sidewalk would assume that they’re on a date. It’s probably because they’re subtly comfortable with each other in a way that’s impossible to achieve on a first or second date—which is the limit of his recent experiences. He’s not wearing his gloves; her mittens are peeking out of her tote bag. With every other step, the backs of their hands just barely brush against each other. Obviously, if they were, in fact, two random people in a burgeoning love affair, they’d take advantage of the fleeting contact and suddenly intertwine their fingers. It could be a casual gesture or something full of significance.
Since they’re not random people, nor in the early stages of a romance, neither of them grabs the other’s hand.
But they also don’t move farther apart until they approach the entrance to the Strand.
The store is packed with tourists on the ground floor: people milling around the tables of ubiquitous paperback bestsellers, picking out pencil bags and tote books and bookmarks screen-printed with the Strand logo.
“This is the perfect first-date location,” Ari says, as they weave through the crowded aisles. “Because it’s very easy to lose someone on the lower level.”
Josh has never brought a date here. But among the tall shelves and less congested corners, the store feels so steeped in romantic possibility, it’s almost as if he and Ari parachuted into a scene from another couple’s love story. The whole evening has this new, vibrant undercurrent, like their comfortable vibe is stretching into a different shape.
“Whoa.” Ari stares at her phone, as they wait in front of the bookselling desk.
“Is everything okay?”
“I think it’s an elbow?” she squints at the screen. “Or a knee?”
Josh leans over her shoulder, curiosity getting the better of him. “Someone’s sending you unsolicited photos?”
“No, they’re solicited.” She unlocks her device to enlarge the image. “I should have dropped that unicorn into my profile years ago. This is a real game changer. It’s literally impossible for me to get rejected by these couples. So validating.”