Luck on the Line by Zoraida Cordova

headlights. He told her. I clench my teeth and will him to look at me, but he doesn’t.
    “I’m never telling you anything again, Bradley Thorton!”
    “I’m sorry,” she says, switching to friend mode. For someone who does so much yoga, she seems really tense. “I get it. I worked lots of lousy jobs even with my scholarships. Don’t worry about James. He’s a hot piece of ass. Of course he’s going to act up. He wants attention.”
    I rip the paper in my hands. “He made it clear he wants no attention from me.”
    Bradley holds his hands up in self-defense. “So, hot guys can be dicks and they get a pass? So I should start being a dick, is that what I’m hearing?”
    “Who says you’re hot?” Sky counters playfully, leaning forward and kissing him full on the mouth.
    That’s a kiss. Shame sets my skin on fire for even thinking about kissing Bradley, booze or no booze.
    I shift in my seat and look at the powder blue ceiling, until they unhinge from each other.
    “Do you guys want to come to the tasting and see what the big deal is about?”
    Sky smiles her dazzling smile. “Really?”
    “Yeah.” I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder. “It’s mostly industry people and friends.” Also, it’d be nice to see familiar faces.
    “Can we go?” Sky says, nipping at his cheek.
    Bradley’s all, “You just want a peek at the hot chef.”
    And Sky says, “He’s nothing compared to you.”
    Then they kiss some more and I get up. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
    Bradley grabs my hand, which elicits an annoyed sigh from Sky because he’s stopped kissing her. “Wait, where are you going?”
    “Home. My mom gave me a huge list of things to get done. What has she been doing this whole time?”
    “Let us give you a ride home.”
    I shake my head and smile politely. “The T’s right around the corner.”
    “It’s drizzling,” he says.
    I pat my bag. “Umbrellas. They save lives.”
    “What do we wear?” Sky asks. “To the tasting.”
    I hadn’t thought about that. “I guess cocktail dinner. It’s not super formal, but you know my mom…”
    “Well, what are you going to wear?”
    I scratch my head. “I don’t know yet. I’m sure she’ll give me an approved list of designers beforehand.”
    Bradley smiles back and forth between us. His easy smile is distracting. I need to go shopping with Sky like I need a lobotomy, but I have no clothes, and I don’t mean that in the girly way. I mean it in the “I sold most of my clothes to a thrift shop so I could buy my bus ticket up here” way. If I show up with a band t-shirt and jeans to The Star tasting, my mom might have a conniption.
    Seeing Bradley and Sky’s hands starting to intertwine again, I know I have to make a mad dash for the exit. “See you guys.”
    And then I’m out the door. It’s drizzling. I lied. I don’t have an umbrella. I pull up the hood of my sweatshirt and start to walk down the street, but something is pulling me back. I peer back into the bakery. The warmth of the shop has fogged up the windows, and behind that are Bradley and Sky, intertwined like vines.
    My breath hitches, my chest clenches, aching—not for Bradley, but for someone who would give me that kind of kiss.

Chapter 9
    In this light rain, when the street lamps give the city a deep yellow haze, I find myself wishing for New York. Granted, I was a month behind on my rent, the guy I was dating left me for the Paris runway, and I got my rejection letter to NYU School of Photography. But still…
    I transfer from the orange line to the silver line. The silver line is technically not even a train. The stations here are so anti-NY. The buskers are pleasant, and there isn’t any litter or visible rats to nest in it. Everyone dresses a decade behind. In New York, there’s a fashionable way to dress like you don’t care. In Boston, they genuinely don’t seem to care at all. When I get off at my stop, instead of making a left to the condo, I make a right to