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Chapter 1
Chapter One: The Shortcut
They always cut through the basketball court even though it added three minutes. It was Rafi’s rule—“shortcuts are a state of mind”—and Wren humored him because she liked the echo of their steps on the asphalt and the way the chain-link fence cast ladder shadows over his jacket. They’d done this walk since they were tall enough to slip their fingers through the diamond holes and peek at the older kids playing. Now they were those older kids, if not in height then in the tired way they joked about rent and taxes and whether scallions counted as vegetables or garnish.
“Scallions are garnish,” Wren said, balanced on the white line like a gymnast. “They’re fancy onions that went to liberal arts college.”
“Incorrect,” Rafi said, fake-offended. “They’re the people’s onion. They show up to everything. Culture bearers.”
“Then why do you only buy one?” Wren hopped down. “You always put exactly one scallion in your cart like it’s a ritual.”
“One is an intention,” he said, bumping her shoulder with his. “An optimism onion.”
Their shoulders brushed again. Neither moved away. It had been like this more lately: the bump and the linger. In the corner store earlier, he’d reached past her for a pack of ramen and his chest pressed into her back and it was nothing, nothing at all, except that her breath had caught, and he’d said “Oops” like an apology in a church.
They shared a building, different floors, same view if you leaned far enough out the fire escape. Wren lived under a widow who listened to opera in the afternoons; Rafi lived next to a guy who raised a python and never said hello. They had a system of tapping radiators when the Wi-Fi went out, and a door code only they knew. When they were kids, their mothers traded secondhand clothes and recipes; now they traded hangovers for coffee and scripts of good luck texts for job interviews.
“Your interview’s at ten, right?” Wren asked as they approached their block. She knew it was at ten. She’d triple-checked her reminder.
Rafi tilted his head, the way he did when he was pretending to be casual. “Ten-fifteen.”
“You’re going to crush it.”
“I’m going to charm it,” he said. “Crushing is aggressive. Graphic designers are not supposed to crush. We are supposed to align, gently.”
She looked at him, at the small wrinkle that the world thought was a dimple but was just where he bit his cheek when he was concentrating. “You always do.”
He slowed at their stoop. “You coming up?”
“I have a deadline. Mrs. Han wants the mural draft by tonight.” Wren had a mural commission at a day care: whales and balloons and children with ridiculous dogs. The kind of job she loved, the kind that made her doubt herself. She didn’t say that last part.
He took the key off his lanyard and held it out. Their fingers brushed. That was happening too: reaching for the same object, their touch a fraction too long.
“Meet for lunch?” he asked.
“Text me.”
He saluted her with the key like a flag and bounded up the steps. Wren stood there a second, watching him fumble the lock. How many doors had they opened for each other? She felt something shift, subtle as a draft, and told herself it was only the weather.
