Free For Keeps by Natasha Friend

abloom.
    OK. I should be happy to see my mother happy. And I am. I am . It’s just, one minute she’s busting out the old Paul Tucci yearbook, and the next—
    “So, I invited him for dinner.”
    “What?” I put down my fork. “When?”
    “Tonight.”
    “But it’s Sunday.”
    “And?”
    “And the Weiss-Longos are coming. It’s our turn to host.”
    “I’m sure the Weiss-Longos won’t mind if Jonathan joins us,” she says.
    “No, it’s just . . . you just met the guy, like three weeks ago. Don’t you think it’s a little soon to be—”
    “What? Excited about someone?” My mom puts down her fork, frowns. “It’s not like this happens to me every day, Josie. It doesn’t. I’ve had—what—six dates in sixteen years?”
    I can see the hurt in her face, and I feel horrible. I tell her that Jonathan seems like a good guy, and I want her to be happy.
    “Thank you,” she says. “He is a good guy. A really decent, what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of person.”
    “Yes,” I say.
    It doesn’t take a genius to read between my mother’s lines: Jonathan is the antithesis of Paul Tucci.Good. Decent. Not a heartbreaker.
    “You deserve it,” I say.
    She nods. Then she says, “I think I’ll make steak. What guy doesn’t like steak, right? And some kind of potato?”
    “Sure,” I say.
    “OK. Steak it is.”
    Her face has smoothed out again. She’s back to normal. For a second I consider telling her about last night—about Matt Rigby and the kiss, and Liv—but she’s already whipping out the cookbooks. She’s starting a shopping list: Filet mignon. Flowers. Wine.
    I go upstairs with a pit in my stomach, and I don’t even know why it’s there, but I’m actually glad the café opening is today, so I can focus my mind on that instead of on my mother’s new boyfriend.

    Fiorello’s looks amazing. Funky art and plush couches, glass-topped tables, ferns. Some little elf has been working overtime, unloading FedEx boxes. And the smell . Bob doesn’t do anything half-assed; he hired two gourmet bakers for the opening. The air smells sugary and yeasty, and the display cases—the ones that used to hold ice cream—are now full of pastries.
    “You need a taste tester,” I tell Bob. I reach for the sliding glass door. “You know, just to make sure . . .”
    “No sampling!” He swats my hand away.
    “Fine.” I shrug. “Poison the customers. See if I care.”
    Bob’s brow crinkles.
    “Kidding,” I say. “I’m kidding.”
    “I’m sorry.” He grabs a towel and begins buffing the already-shiny countertops. “We open in forty-two minutes. I’m nervous.”
    Nervous, obsessive, manic . . .
    “Don’t worry,” I tell him. “Everything will be fine.”

    By Elmherst standards, this place is rocking. Wherever Bob posted those flyers, they worked. There must be twenty customers in here.
    “We need more of those little tube-y things,” I tell Meg, the college student who usually works the shifts I can’t. Bob scheduled everyone to work today, which is making the space behind the counter feel even tighter than normal.
    “Cannoli.” Meg hands me a tray of tube-y things. “ God . These people are like vultures with the free samples.”
    Bob winds his way through the crowd with a platter of biscotti and mini coffees. His cheeks are flushed pink, and the fringe of hair around his bald spot is frizzing out from the humidity.
    “These biscotti are to die for,” a woman says, reaching out for Bob’s arm with her long, manicured fingertips. Bob ducks his head to the side, loving the compliment—also, clearly, trying to avoid the transfer of germs.
    “We need more steamed milk.” Drake, the kid with the zits who works Friday nights, shoves a pitcher in my face.
    “Bob didn’t show you how to do it?”
    Drake rolls his eyes. “He doesn’t like my foam . He says it’s too flat.”
    “Here,” I say. “Take the register. I’ll steam.”
    I sashay past Drake and past the baker who’s