This Is What Happy Looks Like(69)
Author: Jennifer E. Smith

“Even though it’s not on the menu?”

She nodded, though a little less certainly. “Even though it’s not on the menu.”

“Okay,” he said, putting his elbows on the table and giving her a long look. “Then I’ll bet you a thousand dollars.”

For a moment, Ellie didn’t move. She simply stared at him, her eyes wide.

“Deal?”

“No,” she said, her voice hoarse. She set the menu back on the table in front of her, shaking her head. “Graham…”

He was still smiling. “It’s just a bet.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” he said quietly, the candlelight flickering against his face.

She knew what he was doing; of course she did. And all of a sudden, she understood that it had happened, all of it; that he’d figured out a place to buy whoopie pies, had them sent to the Lobster Pot; he must have talked it all out with Joe ahead of time, orchestrated the whole thing so that she’d bet the right way. And he’d done it all for her.

Her heart was loud in her ears as she looked at him across the table, and she didn’t notice that Joe was at her side again until he cleared his throat.

“And what will we be having?” he asked, ready with a pen and a notepad. But neither of them answered. Graham was still focused on Ellie.

“Deal?” he said again, and she found the word no was lodged in her throat so that all she could do was blink back at him. Taking this as a sign, he turned back to Joe, beaming. “I think we’re gonna skip right to dessert.”

“Of course,” Joe said, and Ellie saw his mustache twitch. “Anything in particular?”

Graham could hardly contain his enthusiasm. “We’ll have two whoopie pies,” he said a bit too loudly, and all Ellie could do was watch with slightly widened eyes as Joe bobbed his head, snapped his notepad shut, and whisked the menus away from them.

When he was gone, Graham turned back to Ellie. “Well, look at that,” he said with an expression of mock despair. “I guess I must have lost.”

She shook her head. “You’re a horrible actor.”

“Hey,” he said, but he was grinning. “I’m just trying to be a good sport.”

“Graham,” Ellie said, looking down at her plate. “I can’t.”

“You can’t eat a whoopie pie?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t, actually,” he said. “I have the money. You need the money. It’s as simple as that.”

“I can’t let you do that,” she said, shaking her head.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “Throw in a poem and we’ve got a deal.”

She looked at him blankly.

“At the end of the course, I want one of your poems.”

“I don’t write poetry,” she said. “I just like to read it.”

“Okay,” he said cheerfully. “Then I’ll take one by a dead guy. In one of those frames. How’s that?”

“Graham,” she said, her voice cracking. “This isn’t your problem.”

“It’s about you,” he said with a little smile, as if that were reason enough, as if that explained everything.

She felt a rush of gratitude then, a slow yielding of the most stubborn parts of her. No matter how hard she tried to steer her thoughts elsewhere, they kept circling back to the pictures she’d seen of Harvard, the redbrick buildings and leafy sidewalks, the classrooms where she’d learn about her favorite poets. It was easy, in a way, to imagine herself there, and she could feel herself giving in to the pull of it.

“And a bet’s a bet,” Graham was saying, “so it’s only fair.”

Once again, Joe arrived at the table, but this time, he was carrying two plates. On each one, there were three whoopie pies stacked in artistic fashion, and Ellie sat up in her chair to get a better view. They were like oversize Oreos, two enormous chocolate cookies sandwiched on either side of a layer of thick white frosting. As Joe set a plate down in front of each of them, Ellie tried to imagine the lengths to which Graham must have gone to get them here. He’d made her a promise, and he’d delivered. Just as he said he would.

“So,” Joe asked. “Who won the bet?”

“She did,” Graham said, and Joe gave Ellie’s shoulder a little squeeze before heading back toward the kitchen. When he was gone, she glanced up again.

“Graham,” she said, and he looked back at her with such intensity that she felt her breath catch in her throat.

“It’s already done,” he said. “I had it all arranged this morning.”

“You did?”

“I did,” he said. “You’re going to Harvard.”

She smiled. “For a couple of weeks anyway.”

“At least to start.”

“Thank you,” she said, feeling that the words weren’t big enough to contain all that she really wanted to say. But it seemed to her right then that he understood, and that somehow, it was enough.

“Now eat,” he said, picking up one of his whoopie pies. “You can’t properly call yourself a Mainer until you’ve at least sampled the state treat.”

Afterward, they stepped out of the restaurant and into the darkened street together. It wasn’t yet nine, but the sidewalks were mostly empty, everyone still worn out from last night’s celebration. Even so, it was unexpectedly thrilling, being out in public together, and when Graham extended his hand, Ellie took it in hers, and they began to walk.

“I bet you’ll be happy to get back to Middle-of-Everything, California,” she said as they wove across the green.

“Maybe a little,” he said. “But I’ll miss Middle-of-Nowhere, Maine.”

“Maybe you’ll come back one day,” she said, looking at him sideways. She half expected him to make some kind of joke, but he seemed to consider this for a moment before nodding, his face serious.

“Maybe,” he said. They passed the spot where they’d been sitting last night, watching each other as if there were nothing else around them, no exploding lights or booming music. “Or maybe we’ll see each other somewhere else.”

“Any chance your world tour is taking you to Boston?”

“It would probably help if I actually checked my schedule,” he said. “But it’s possible.”

“I’m sure there’s plenty of trouble we could get into down there.”