Two short ones:

There is no one else. There never will be. You’re it for me and if that means being just friends, I can live with that. But I cannot live without you.

***

When your boyfriend breaks up with you using a knock knock joke.

You turn to your best friend, a pro hockey player.

He’s the one who always makes you laugh.

But what’s up with those butterflies when he brings you dinner and wraps you up in a blanket burrito?

Maybe you have feelings for him. Perhaps you have all along.

Two long ones:

Grabbing the throw blanket from the back of the loveseat, I wrap it around her and then roll her up, moving away from the food and avoiding table legs, and hollering, “Blanket burrito.”

It’s something that I used to spontaneously do because it’s hilarious, makes Harlow laugh, and is a good excuse for us to be close. Wrapped in the blanket, I have full access to her neck which is ticklish. With her arms tucked in, she can only wiggle and giggle.

I love it. She does too even though it’s the best kind of agony.

Her lowered brow Grumpy Cat seriousness disappears and her expression contorts all giggly and adorable.

“You are the only human on the planet who could get away with this,” she says through laughter.

“I know.”

She adds, “I hate laughing.”

“You don’t. It’s good for you. I consider myself your laughter doctor. This is your daily dose of laughs for medicinal purposes. Take one and call me in the morning.”

This changes the shape of her laughter slightly because the comment genuinely tickles Harlow’s funny bone, as they say.

Snuggled close to me, I peek at her. Our gazes drift together and something twists in my chest. She presses her lips together, probably holding back more laughter. The moment lengthens and then snaps as we burst into another fit of hilarity as I roll us on the floor like a giant, runaway burrito.

“There better be dessert,” she says at last.

“Churro everything,” I say, my voice a bit deeper than usual as I inhale her cinnamon spice scent at close range.

A daring and dangerous thought enters my mind. This could be the norm—closing the distance, cuddling, kissing . . .

But I know better. It would ruin our just friendship. Right then, I do everything in my power to talk myself out of making a play for Harlow.

***

“You still have this, too.” I rub my thumb over the mood ring on her finger. I got it for her when we were in a beach town during spring break our junior year of college.

The omnipresent zing inside when I’m with Harlow gets stronger, louder, warmer.

She twists the ring, revealing the purple stone.

“Let’s see, what did purple mean?” I ask.

“I can’t remember,” Harlow says vaguely.

I use her phone to look it up. I still haven’t turned on mine, mostly because I don’t want to deal with my brother, especially not right now.

“You don’t have to. I’ve had it so long, I don’t think it works anymore.”

I swipe to the search results. “Purple means excited.”

“Who doesn’t get excited about pizza?” She takes a nibble. Where is Harlow’s appetite? She can’t be nervous. The mood ring says she’s happy.

Reading the mood ring decoder for purple, I add, “Happy.”

“It’s been a nice night.” Her voice is floaty.

“Also, passion, love, and romance,” I add in one breath.

“It’s silly—probably just reacting to my body temperature.”

Taking Harlow’s hand in mine, I slide the ring off her finger. “Let’s test it out.”

She clears her throat. “It won’t fit you.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d think she doesn’t want me to find out my mood. I slip it onto the top of my pinkie, which is as far as it’ll go. While I watch to see if the stone turns color, Harlow cleans up our paper pizza plates.

“It’s yellow. No, it changed to blue. Wait. It’s yellow again,” I report.

Harlow puts the leftovers in the fridge.

“Hold up. It’s still changing.” I watch mesmerized as the stone slowly morphs.

She sits down in front of the fire. I shimmy closer, eager to prove the ring still works. Then it turns purple, the same as when she had it on.

Clapping my hand on her knee, I say, “I guess we’re both purple.”

She goes still. Time hangs suspended between us. Our gazes meet. The fire stops crackling. Her eyes shine. Words retreat from my lips because there’s something I want that doesn’t require talking.

Then, remembering we’re just friends, I realize the placement of my hand and shift it to her shoulder, giving an awkward squeeze. That’s not much better because the zings are in full swing, racing through me.

When I give Harlow her ring back, our fingers brush. Her cheeks are pink, but it’s probably because she’s now warm from the fire.