Chapter 9

Her smile seems particularly bright this afternoon.

“I didn’t order—” I start.

“Try it,” she says. “It’s good.” And she is gone.

Before I can open my mouth again to explain that I always order water to drink, and that she must have me mixed up with someone else, she is back at the register, where a new group of customers is waiting.

I pull the glass closer. I catch a whiff of cinnamon and vanilla as I unwrap my straw. It does smell tempting.

The taste is beyond description—heavenly almost. I want to tell her how good it is, and maybe ask what’s in it that makes me want to drink nothing else for the remainder of my life. Horchata and her smiles—wouldn’t that be a way to spend my gap year?

I picture her with the glass of horchata, setting it down in front of me, but this time taking the empty seat across from me. I muster the courage to take her hand, and just like I’ve imagined, it’s warm and inviting. And in my vision, she’s smiling.