Page 31 of Best Year Ever

I meet Sage at the Caf, and she beats me there. I see her as I approach, and she’s looking in a window, so I get a view of her profile. She has amazing posture, which might come from years of music practice. And her hair sort of billows around her like a ginger cloud, curls springing out and dancing in the breeze. She’s got a coat on, and I can see a green scarf tucked around her neck. It’s definitely October now, and Vermont is beginning to get the memo. Trees all over our mountains are showing off their colors, and I realize what a good idea it is to be outside. This season doesn’t last long, and I might have missed it if I stayed inside working and watching football.

I realize I stopped walking, and I’m standing on the sidewalk staring at Sage. Not even pretending to look elsewhere. I’m probably grinning, too. I have zero chill, and anyone who sees me here will know it.

Not that I mind. I am in. All in.

I move toward her, and she must hear me coming, because she turns to face me and I see the smile that rolls over her mouth. It starts on one side with a hint of a dimple, then tugs over her perfectly straight, white teeth until it reaches the other side. If a person studied how to smile for a lifetime, they’d never manage to mimic something so perfect. I could stare at that smile for days.

“Hey,” she says, and reaches out an arm. Is she coming in for a hug? This is good, but what kind? Full frontal? One arm? Tuck into my side? Who knew there were so many ways this reaching gesture could end up?

My arms want to throw themselves around her, but I wait for her to make a move. I’ll wait for her to make every move. She can’t doubt my interest, but wherever this goes, I want her to lead.

She doesn’t hug me. She sort of taps my upper arm with her gloved fist. It’s the least affectionate greeting possible, like what you might do if you ran into someone you almost recognized, but you didn’t know their name. Like,Hey, you. . . arm-tap.

I can’t honestly say I’m not disappointed, but at least I know where we’re starting.

“Ready?” she asks.

“Absolutely,” I say, determined to leave no room for doubt.

“Okay. First, we get drinks. You go inside. Order the perfect drink, but there’s a catch. You’re ordering for me. Then you come out. I’ll go in and order a perfect drink for you.”

“Are you going to give me any hints?” I ask. “I don’t want to get you something you hate. Or that you’re allergic to.”

“As far as my medical team has informed me, I don’t have any food allergies,” she says. “And you might lose a point for not knowing that.” She takes an actual paper notebook, a tiny Moleskine, out of her coat pocket. From the mass of curls behind her ear, she pulls a pen.

Is she really keeping score?

Okay. Cute. “Is this a test?” I ask her.

“Of course.” Her eyes flick up to mine, and a hint of that smile flashes.

I hurry inside and order her a hazelnut hot chocolate, the kind that comes with a Nutella-dipped spoon for extra decadence. If she happens to be a skinny latte person, we can switch. I love this hot chocolate. I ask the kid behind the counter to put an obscene amount of whipped cream on top.

He nods as if this is a normal request. “I’ll have that ready for you in just a minute,” he says.

I go back outside and say, “Your turn.”

She shakes her head. “I already ordered. This way, you know I can’t just go in and say, ‘I’ll take another of whatever the doctor just asked for.’ It’s part of the test.”

“I’m getting a little nervous about the test, to be honest,” I say, mostly because I hope it will make her smile again.

It works. Even though I’m all for honesty and technically I was lying. Becausenervousis not at all what I’m feeling.

She tips her head toward the door. “Let’s get our drinks,” she says, slipping her hand around my bicep, just curling her fingers and resting there. It’s probably not possible to feel her pulse through her gloves, my jacket, my shirt, and my sweater, but I’m pretty sure I can. This is a huge improvement on the arm-tap situation.

Back at the counter, the kid hands over two identical cups, both with towering piles of whipped cream and chocolate shavings, both with telltale long-handled spoons.

Sage takes the one he’s holding out toward her, and I take the other as we thank him. Then she says, “Okay, switch.”

I glance at the kid. He couldn’t possibly be less interested in our game. Test. Whatever it is.

Sage says, “Come on,” and leads me out the door again. The cool evening air hits a little differently with a hot cup in my hands. There is something very cozy about the feeling. I like cozy.

I follow Sage to the nearest tree, where she stands with her back against the bark. She lifts her cup to her face and tilts the drink for a sip. Eyes closed, she savors. I watch her swallow. When she lowers the cocoa, there’s a dollop of whipped cream on her nose. I reach over and slide my finger down the bridge of her nose, carrying the cream away. Can’t help it. It has to be done.

Now what? Every single get-rid-of-the-whipped-cream scenario feels way too sexy. I can’t lick it off my finger. I definitely can’t hold my finger out to her so she can lick it off. The very idea makes my temperature rise dangerously.

Am I blushing?

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