“What about music?” Noelle uses a compostable knife to split a pesto pinwheel with Julia. “Am I stating the obvious here, or is there a reason you haven’t considered it?”
“It hasn’t been a hobby for me for a long time.” It’s easier than I thought it would be to admit this to her. Noelle has a very calming presence. “I’ve been playing for years, but it’s been a while since I played for the fun of it. Lately, it’s felt more like a job… which is, I realize, exactly what we’re trying to figure out here. But I’m not ridiculous for wanting to like what I do with the rest of my life, right?”
“You’re talking to the girl going to art school,” Julia says. “So… no.”
“I can’t imagine studying something I’m not passionate about,” Noelle puts in. “There’s basically no guarantee of a job in any field these days, so why not spend all that time and all that money studying something that actually makes you happy?”
I steal a piece of pesto pastry from Julia. “What a novel concept.”
“I took piano lessons for… eleven years?” Noelle continues. “Last year my teacher assigned me all these pieces for a recital because I’d been too busy to pick them myself, and then I was too busy to practice. And I realized that if it was something that mattered to me, I would have made time for it.”
“If only I could quit,” I say with a sigh. “But the harp isn’t the problem, really. Harps aren’t exactly in high demand. What my parents have always wanted is for my sister and me to join the business so they can expand it. And that’s what my sister did, but I don’t know how to tell them it isn’t what I want. I know it sounds privileged, not wanting this ready-made career they’re going to hand to me, but…”
“It’s not your passion,” Noelle finishes. “I get it.”
We sip cups of cider and eat our fruit and bread and cheese in silence for a while, until Julia, who’s been gazing at Noelle with doe eyes, blurts out, “So what do you think about Kristen Stewart?”
I choke on my cider. Julia throws me a panicked look, like she can’t believe what she said either.
Noelle’s brow furrows, like she’s seriously considering the question. “Love her transformation. Respect her artistic choices.”
“And she has great hair,” I put in, trying to be helpful, and Julia kicks me under the table.
“She does.” Noelle looks right at Julia. “Although your hair is pretty great too.”
Julia looks like she might combust. “Mm-hmm,” she squeaks out, and it’s impossible for me to miss the subtle way they lean closer in their chairs.
This is what summer is supposed to feel like, and with a tug of my heart, I realize I’m not sure how many more days I’ll have like this. How many more days I haven’t already promised to my parents.
We spend another hour at the market before Noelle has to go to work. “So,” she says as we sort our trash into the proper receptacles: compost, recycling, landfill. If you don’t have all three, are you even in Seattle? “Do you guys want to do something like this again next week? I mean—I don’t want to intrude if you already have plans, or—”
“Noelle, stop.” I nudge her with my shoulder. “You are a fucking delight. Of course we want you here.”
“What Quinn said,” Julia adds.
She visibly exhales. “Okay. Excellent. Sorry. I have really bad social anxiety. Like… do you ever get home from hanging out with people and immediately start analyzing everything you did and convincing yourself all of it was completely wrong? I’m positive at any given time that eighty percent of my friends don’t actually like me.”
“Try ninety percent,” I counter, and she laughs. “I have anxiety too. I take medication for it, actually, and I’ve been in therapy, too. I don’t go as often anymore, but it helps.”
Noelle nods like talking about therapy is the most normal thing in the world, and it should be. “Me too!” And she holds her hand out for a therapy high five. “I’m not even going to stress about how dorky it was to do a therapy high five.”
“You’re also not allowed to stress about whether we like you or not,” Julia says. “That… should be pretty obvious.”
“Not gonna lie, that’s a huge relief. So I’ll see you both next week?”
“Absolutely,” Julia says.
When Noelle leaves, Julia lets out this long-suffering sigh and drops her head to my shoulder. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing and reach over to rub her back. The market is alive now, bustling with shoppers, local businesses propping up their doors to entice customers inside with the promise of air-conditioning.
“I really like her,” Julia says softly. “It’s not just that I want to hold her hand or make out with her, which I do. It’s that I want to have long conversations with her and collect eggs from our chickens with her and go to fucking brunch with her. I don’t even like brunch. Why is this so hard?”
“Julia Elizabeth Kirschbaum.” I pull her forward so I can place two firm hands on her shoulders. “This is bad if you’re bringing the chickens into it.”
“She’d be so good with them. I can just tell.” She shakes her head. “It’s pointless, though. We’re not going to be living in the same place in a few months. We’d have eight nice weeks of brunch, and then we’d go our separate ways. Fate is a cruel mistress.”
“You’re sabotaging yourself,” I say. “Don’t think about her leaving.”
“I should have said something to her sooner,” she says, “but school was always so busy. How does anyone manage to successfully date
