“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.
(covers link to Goodreads)
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