Chapter 10

The dessert shop had a huge floor-to-ceiling window. We sat right by it.

Xavier was talking about his college life when Vance happened to walk by.

Through the glass, he stared at us in shock.

After a stunned moment, he quickly composed himself, entered the shop to pick up the order.

He kept his head down the whole time, pretending not to know me.

I couldn't stand it. I waved him over. "Vance, come sit with us."

He hesitated, clutching the delivery bag. "Sophie, I'm working. I can't—"

"Sit. Down."

He sat.

Xavier—my college friend, handsome in a clean-cut way, the kind of guy mothers loved—looked between us with obvious curiosity.

"So this is the famous Vance?" He extended a hand. "Xavier Chen. Sophie's old classmate."

Vance shook it stiffly. His eyes flickered to the two untouched desserts on the table, the laughter Xavier and I had been sharing, the easy intimacy of old friends.

I watched jealousy dawn on his face in real time.

It was the first time I'd ever seen Vance jealous. When he was rich, he'd been supremely confident. Other men weren't threats—they were background noise.

But now? Broke, in a delivery uniform, with sauce on his sleeve?

"I should go," he said abruptly. "The customer's waiting."

"Vance—"

He was already out the door, the delivery bag swinging.

Xavier raised an eyebrow. "He seems… intense."

"He thinks you're competition."

"Am I?"

"Xavier, you're gay."

"He doesn't know that."

I sighed and grabbed my jacket. "Watch Vivi for ten minutes? She's at the play corner."

I caught up with Vance at the scooter. He was strapping on his helmet with more force than necessary.

"Are you seriously jealous right now?"

"I'm not jealous. I'm late for a delivery."

"You're lying. Your ears are red."

He touched his ear reflexively, then caught himself.

"Sophie, you can have coffee with whoever you want. You're not obligated to—"

"He's gay, Vance."

"…What?"

"Xavier. He's been with his boyfriend for six years. They have a cat named Dumpling."

Vance stared at me. The tension drained from his shoulders like air from a balloon.

"Oh."

"Yeah. 'Oh.'"

A sheepish grin spread across his face. "I might have… overreacted."

"You think?"

He pulled me close by the waist—delivery bag and all—and kissed my forehead. "Sorry."

"You're paying for my dessert."

"Sophie, I have eleven dollars."

"Then you owe me."

He laughed. A real, full, unguarded laugh.

I stored that sound somewhere safe in my memory. Next to bunny pancakes and rooftop confessions.