Walker motions to the silver sign like it's a precious gem.

I tilt my head to one side. "And…"

"You didn't like the restaurant?"

"It was amazing." Really. I had no idea ramen was supposed to taste like that and not like ten cents a pack sodium overdose.

"Trust me." He pulls the glass door open and motions after you.

I step into the tiny, crowded store. We're the oldest people here by quite a few years. It's mostly teenagers and just barely not teenagers.

The illuminated menu on the wall promises small, medium, or large teas filled with fruit and sugar. All with or without boba.

I've lived in Southern California for long enough to know that boba means fat tapioca balls soaked in sugar syrup. Boba tea slash bubble tea is sweet, vaguely fruit flavored tea with said tapioca balls.

Back in high school, Lily and I walked forever to get to the nearest boba place. (It was not nearly so trendy back then). She went through a phase where she adored grapefruit green tea. I copied her. I always did.

I take my place in line.

Walker places his body behind mine. Wraps his arms around my waist and brings his mouth to my ear. "We can skip it if you're dead set on coffee."

He's close. It's not I want to tear your clothes off. It's I want to hold you all night. I want to kiss your pain away. I want to give you everything.

But, right now, it doesn't scare me.

I want more of it. All of it.

I lean closer. "No. I'm in."

"Trying a new thing?"

"Please, Beverly Hills Boy. My sophomore year of high school, I devoured a grapefruit green tea nearly every day."

"And here I am thinking I'm rocking your world."

"You are. Just not with this."

His laugh is soft. He pulls me closer. Leans in to whisper. "You have it recently?"

"Not since high school."

"This place is the best. Uses fresh fruit."

"Thank you for the infomercial." There are oranges, limes, and grapefruits all over the store. It does suggest the use of actual fruit. "When are you drinking sugary tea?"

"When I feel like it."

"I don't buy it."

"Buy it." He brushes my hair behind my ear. "I only do shit I feel like."

"Always?"

"Yeah."

"Doesn't that get in the way of work and paying your bills and getting an oil change?"

"No."

"You never wake up and think no fucking way am I moving today?"

"Of course."

"Explain the discrepancy."

"Yeah. I'm not always psyched for leg days. But I know I want to get bigger, stronger. So, I go to the gym. It's for me."

"And the oil change?"

"I take care of my car."

"Cleaning your apartment?"

"Same thing. I want it clean. That's how I want to live. Yeah, there's shitty stuff about being an adult, but, mostly, I love it. I'm in charge of my days. I want bubble tea, I get it. I want to invite a hot grad student to watch a sci-fi classic, I do it."

"What about work?"

"I have days I can't deal with the bullshit, but mostly, I love the shop. And the guys there. Even if they're idiots."

A teenage girl with blond pigtails clears the register.

I move forward, dragging him with me. "How did you get into doing tattoos? Were you one of those kids who had a sleeve planned by middle school?"

"Kinda. I always wanted ink. Maybe it was adolescent rebellion. Maybe it was vanity. Maybe it was the thrill of marking my body. I'm not sure."

"What is it now?"

"I like it."

"That's it?"

"Yeah."

"But it's so… simple."

"Why make shit complicated?"

Because life is complicated. Things are complicated. Making them simple—that's the hard part.

The line moves. Only two customers to go. I have to make up my mind. The smell of citrus brings me back to a hundred afternoons in a similar shop, giggling about boys and complaining about homework with Lily.

Walker presses his palm into my stomach. "You okay?"

"Yeah." I move forward to break his touch. "You still haven't said how you got into tattoos."

"Dean."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. We were friends back in high school."

"You went to the same school?"

"Different ones. But we were in the same scene."

"Scene? Really?"

"People say scene."

"Name one other person."

He pulls me closer. "You like mocking me."

"Yeah. You like mocking me."

He nods. "You're cute when you're flustered. Or needy."

I swallow hard. Sex is appealing. Very appealing. It makes sense. And with Walker, it feels…

It feels like everything.

But I want to have this conversation too. I want to know more about him. "Okay, you were part of the same scene."

He shakes his head kids these days. "We bounced around all the parties… everywhere." He moves closer. "How old are you?"

"No game." I shake my head.

"All right, when did you graduate high school?"

"A long time ago. And that's the same question. You thought you could trick me?"

He laughs. "You're in grad school, so you're at least twenty-two."

Twenty-five. But close enough.

He smiles. "Older."

"Oh my God!"

"Let's say you're twenty-two."

"No. Twenty-two was a horrible year. Let's say… let's just not say."

He laughs. "You gonna be one of those women getting Botox the day she turns thirty?"

"Maybe. What's it to you?"

He laughs. "You're so fucking cute flustered." He leans in to brush his lips against my neck.

Mmm. It's sweet. Soft. Caring.

My heart melts.

My stomach flutters.

I clear my throat. "You have a point."

"You're distracting me."

"You should take responsibility."

"You too." He slides his hand over my ass, pressing my dress into my skin. "What do you call this?"

"A cute outfit."

"And this?" He traces the outline of my thong over my dress.

"Being prepared."

He laughs. "All right. My point. Fuck, what are we even talking about?"

"Your scene."

He nods. "We probably hit the same party once or twice. We'd go out to the valley if we heard the girls were hot."

I shake my head. "I went to three parties all of high school."

"Still."

It's a strange thought, high school Iris and high school Walker meeting. I wouldn't have paid him any attention back then. Even if he was ink free. I didn't go through a bad boy phase. I always liked nice guys. Clean-cut, Captain America types.

On the surface, we'd be a classic good girl bad boy pairing.

But he's a responsible business owner.

And I…

Well, I'm not that old Iris anymore.

The last customer finishes his order and moves aside. I step forward. Turn my back on my true love coffee to order my old favorite. Grapefruit green tea. Half sweet.

Walker orders a lemon black tea. With only twenty-five percent sweetness.

That explains a lot—there's no way he mainlines sugar looking the way he does.

Though twenty-five percent of the sugar in a bubble tea is still a fuckton of sugar.

He leads me to a metal table outside.

I sit in the clear plastic chair. It's that same chair in every single trendy coffee or tea shop. Only it's clear instead of white.

He leans in close. His eyes find mine. They promise to blow my mind.

And to make my stomach flutter.

And to make me feel safe and warm and—

"Fuck." Walker leans back. Pulls his cell from his jeans. "I have to take this."

I shake my head. "No game." But my voice doesn't quite come across as teasing. Frustration is spreading over his expression.

"I know." His voice doesn't hit teasing either.

I motion to the counter. "I'll get the drinks."

He nods. Moves around the corner.

This particular strip mall—the micro-neighborhood Little Osaka is basically three strip malls and a short row of stores—is dead quiet. There are a bunch of empty offices and the restaurant taking up most of the space is an all the drama happens inside place.

I move into the store. The conversations are a quiet buzz. Two teenagers grab beige drinks from the counter. Milk teas. A guy grabs a light pink drink. Something strawberry, I guess.

The barista, tearista, bobarista? sets two massive teas at the counter. He calls my name.

I grab the drinks and straws. Go back to the table. Stab the plastic covering of my beverage with a giant straw and take a long sip.

It brings me back immediately. The way Lily smiled as she gushed over my homecoming dress. The frown when she didn't get into NYU. Her consoling me when I tried to dye my hair blond and ended up with bright orange locks.

She was my best friend all through college. And through the first year or so of everything. Until she realized how bad it was.

She gave me a choice. She confronted me. But I refused to get help. To choose her.

"Hey." Walker slides into his seat. He forces his lips into a smile, but frustration is still written all over his face.

"Everything okay?"

"Okay enough."

I push his drink toward him. "You were right. This place is good."

"You don't look happy."

"You either." I take a long sip. It tastes like love. Like a love I'm desperate to deserve again.

"Yeah." He stabs the plastic with his straw. Brings the drink to his lips. Takes a long sip.

This is getting to be an alarming trend.

What's wrong?

Nothing. Frown. Grunt.

I'm doing the same thing.

I'm going to be a psychologist and I can't talk about my feelings.

It's sad. Really, it is.

I want to be able to do this.

And I want to know him. The parts that hurt. The guy behind the breezy smile.

I play with my straw. "Your sister?"

"Yeah." His eyes go to the shiny silver table.

"What's the situation there?"

He looks to me and raises a brow. "The situation?"

"I don't need details." In theory. "You… you look upset. There's something there."

"Yeah." He leans back. Runs his hand through his hair. "I don't usually talk about it."

"You don't have to. But I… is there anything I can do?"

"I doubt it."

"My sister and I… we stopped talking a few years ago. We didn't really grow apart. We were close. Until we weren't."

"You got into a fight?"

"Yeah. A huge one. She asked me to make a choice, and I didn't make the one she wanted."

He tilts his head to one side. "That's vague."

"And the details about your sister being a thorn in your side?"

"Fair enough."

"That was almost two years ago, that Lily stopped talking to me. It was sudden. She was always that type of person. She did what she wanted. How she wanted. When she wanted it."

"What did she want from you?"

"To…" How do I explain this without explaining it? I have to tell someone about my past eventually. Maybe even Walker. But not yet. I'm not ready to cross that bridge. "To change my life."

"Convert to Scientology?"

"No. She was right. Trust me." I bring my drink to my lips and take another long sip. It still tastes like love, but the sweetness is gone. It's over-steeped, astringent, bitter.

"You ever reach out to her?"

"Not yet. I'm trying to give her space. I stalk her on Instagram, but otherwise I'm not around."

"You stalk your sister?"

"I don't follow her around. Though I could. She's way too free with her location."

"Who isn't these days?"

"You."

"You still follow me?"

"I told you. I love your work." Really, his tattoos are amazing. "You still haven't told me how you got into it."

"Ryan. You saw him. Looks a lot like Dean only with a permanent scowl?"

I nod. That sounds vaguely familiar.

"He was already working at a shop. He got Brendon a job there. Dean got jealous. He wanted to do ink too. When I saw his first piece—everyone starts by doing a tattoo on themselves."

"What did he do?"

"A spade."

"What did you do?"

"A star." He stands, places his foot on his chair, and pulls up his jeans. There's a tiny star under his ankle.

I laugh. "It's so cute."

"I know." He shakes his head. "It's awful. I need to fix it."

"You can't. It's sweet. It's perfect."

"Yeah. It feels like a part of my history. Like a scar almost. Sure, it's ugly—"

"Take it back."

He shakes his head. "It's terrible."

It's lopsided and blurry. But the imperfection only makes me love it more.

"It's ugly and it doesn't suit me anymore, but if I changed it…"

"It would be like erasing the past."

"Exactly." He picks up his drink and takes a long sip. His posture softens as he sits. He's relaxing. Letting his guard down. "My sister… I love her. But she doesn't have her shit together. She's always looking for me to bail her out of trouble."

"Like?"

"Some loser ditching her at a bar. Whatever. Anything. I want to help. But she's at the point…" He shakes his head. "I try to put my foot down, but she always slinks back to our parents, and they let her get away with murder."

"Mine are the same way with me."

"What have you ever done bad enough to deserve that?"

"A lot."

"I don't believe you."

"Well… I have." I'm not going to tell him. But I've done plenty of shitty things. Most of them are a blur, yeah, but a few are fresh enough to sting. "My parents are proud of me for everything. They act like I've never made a mistake. Like this fight between me and Lily will blow over any day now, even though it's been two years that she hasn't spoken to me."

"That must hurt."

"It does. But I deserved it."

"And now?"

"I don't know. I'd understand if she couldn't forgive me."

"For?"

"Lying to her." That's close enough to the truth.

He leans back. Taps the chair with his hand. "It was that bad?"

"Worse."

He raises a brow. "Not sure if I believe you."

"It doesn't matter. It's true. I was miserable after college. I hated my job. I was desperate to go to grad school, but I kept bombing the GRE. I started looking for other things to blame. Or ways to feel better. I lashed out at Lily a lot." When she was trying to help me get sober, but, hey, it's still true. "Said things you can't take back."

"Still. That's your sister."

"You've never considered cutting off your sister?"

His eyes turn down.

"I don't know what she's done. Or any of the details. But whenever you mention her—it's like your whole body goes tense."

"Am I that obvious?"

I nod. "If she makes you that miserable…"

"Yeah." He presses his lips together. "I've considered it." He pushes himself to his feet. "We should go if we want to make the movie."

I nod. "Okay. You know, I'm not trying—"

"I know."

"I just… I do like talking to you. And you can talk to me. If you ever want to talk to someone about things. We are friends."

He nods. "Same goes for you." He offers his hand. "You'll be the first person I discuss this with. I promise."

I believe him.

I'm not sure what he means by this but I believe him.