I don’t like sweet things. I’ve always hated the way the sugar melted onto my tongue and zapped my taste buds, so little yet so bold. But she was never like that.
Delilah had a sweet tooth stronger than anyone I’d ever known. She made a half-effort to hide it, but it was so obvious, the way she’d steal sugar packets and always keep candy in her pockets like a little kid. But the one thing that made it truly obvious was the way she’d drink her lemonade.
It was the middle of winter and I was at my favorite coffee shop studying for an exam. I was tired and the two coffees I’d ordered weren’t strong enough to keep me awake. My eyelids felt like weights, and my vision began to blur with each second I forced myself to stare at the computer. Just as I finally allowed my head to drop, I heard the bustle and squeak of a wooden chair against the shiny mahogany floors. My head sprung up to find a girl not much shorter than me sitting in the chair across from mine and setting her small yellow backpack on the floor. Of course I was confused, but something about her seemed to wake me up. Her hair was the color of dark honey, and her voice was smooth like it too.
“Can I sit here?”
She seemed happy just to be asking, and maybe I was too. I sat up and allowed my eyes to adjust to the dimmed lights, shocked to see her before me. Her very face was a comforting sight. “Sure,” I said softly, fighting the urge to once again shut my eyes. “Um, did you need something?”
I rubbed my eyes, and it felt like I cleared my mind as well as my vision.
“Oh, I’m sorry, that sounded rude. I didn’t mean to offend you, I’ve just been studying for so long it feels like I haven’t slept for weeks.”
“No, please don’t be sorry!” She exclaimed. “I totally get it. That’s actually the reason I came over. I saw you trying not to fall asleep, so I thought I could help you study. If that’s okay with you, of course.”
I said yes without even thinking, and she settled in and leaned over to peer at the papers before me.
“Again, not to sound rude, but why are you helping me? I’m sure you’ve got something else you’d rather be doing than studying with strangers.”
She looked back up and flashed a sweet smile. “I don’t, actually. I just assumed we’re in the same grade considering this is what I was studying a few days ago. I’m here almost all the time.”
“Oh? I haven’t noticed you before.” I don’t know why, but I really wish I had.
“That’s probably because I come pretty early. I like to start my day with a glass of lemonade, and exactly one teaspoon of honey. This place has the best lemonade, but the honey is all me. I bring it with me every day to add a bit of sweetness to my morning.”
I could hardly believe what she said. Just the thought of so much sugar made me gag.
“Seriously? I could never have so much sugar in one sitting. Lemonade already has so much, how could you possibly drink that?”
She laughed at my remark and shrugged her shoulders, placing her hands beside her collarbones.
“I don’t know, I’ve always loved sugar. I’ll have it in any way, but honey lemonade is my favorite for sure. You know, you’re pretty strange. I’ve never met anyone who hates sugar,” she said with a glint in her amber eyes.
“So are you, stranger. Oh, that reminds me, I’m Spencer Rosen. I don’t think I know your name.”
She firmly offered her hand to me and I took it politely.
“I’m Delilah Hartwell.”
“Wait, Hartwell? I recognize that name from somewhere. What school do you go to?”
“I’m homeschooled, and I only moved here a week ago. But I did recently start volunteering at a food bank, so I’ve met lots of people in a short amount of time.”
“Oh, I remember now, that’s where I’ve seen that name! I also volunteer at a food bank every once in a while. I must’ve seen it a few days ago when I was helping out.”
I suddenly remembered the sheet of paper with a single new slot at the bottom. Hartwell. It was so vivid in my head, the look of the ink curving on the paper and spelling out Delilah’s name. Pretty, I thought.
“Well, I’m glad you moved here, Delilah,” I said softly.
“I am too,” she echoed.
I kept meeting her in that same coffee shop every day and stopped going at night so that my schedule would match hers. It wasn’t long before we developed a familiar routine.
Even on the days we had nothing to study, we still showed up for the sake of talking to one another. The only word I could think of to describe the way she made me feel was sweet. It’s ironic, how I enjoyed the way her words would melt into my ears and her smile would zap my cheeks to a rosy pink like a candied sun. This – the one thing I truly couldn’t stand – was the one thing I loved most about Delilah.
I was just grateful to talk to her. And so I did. Over, and over, and over again. And each time, Delilah would always bring a teaspoon of honey in little jars to put in her lemonade.
I never got used to it, but I did stop asking. And not once did she tire of offering me my own no matter how many times I declined.
“Good morning, Spencer! Would you like some honey lemonade? I brought an extra jar of honey in case you did. I can even buy you a glass if you’d like.” I was flustered at the thought. Sometimes, she was so kind it made me jealous.
“Oh, you didn’t have to do that. I’m alright, but thanks for asking. You know how much I hate sugar. Plus, it’s the middle of winter. Lemonade isn’t a ‘winter drink’.”
“Alright, but don’t come crying to me when you’re stuck in class with no energy.”
I hold up the cup in front of me and shake it gently, steam rising through the small hole in its edge.
“Coffee tastes better than any lemonade I’ve ever had. Even better if it’s black.”
“But that’s so boring. Plus, what’s the harm in trying something new?” Delilah places her arms across her chest and smiles smugly.
I shrug my shoulders sharply.
“Agree to disagree.”
We both laughed shortly. A waitress arrived at our table soon after and placed a tall, humid glass of lemonade in front of Delilah. She thanked the woman and pulled out the small jar of honey. As she began to mix it in, her eyes would glow beside the dark stream. The lemonade matched the color of her soft eyes and hair; the perfect addition to her perfect features.
As weeks passed, we started feeling more comfortable with each other. I told her everything I thought was interesting about my life and she’d tell me everything she thought was interesting about hers.
That spring was the same as the winter, only missing the cool chill in the air that came with those short days. It was nice to finally have a little light shining through the windows on cold mornings, always just bright enough to see the buds blooming in the cracked stone through the glass.
“You know, lemonade isn’t really a ‘spring drink’ either. It’s really only meant for summer when people want something sugary and cold to drink.”
The words felt so familiar in my mouth, like a sweet memory I repeat hoping to find myself in that place once more. I told her something similar in the winter, and she responded the same way. She’d dismiss my criticism and ask me if I’d like any knowing I’d never accept. I couldn’t tell if I loved or hated that she thought of me so diligently.
That May was the best in years. I wasn’t a social person, but you wouldn’t be able to tell from the way I spoke to Delilah. I would talk to her forever, taking every word that leaves her lips to the smallest box in my heart. It felt like I could’ve sat there forever, letting beams of sunlight warm my skin as she spoke.
Then, after thousands of conversations passed us by in what seemed like moments later, it was summer. June stole the calendar page and took the heat into its rugged hands. The cafe was cool, but the air outside was warm and humid.
“It’s finally summer, Delilah,” I said, leaning back in my chair. We’d started hanging out outside of our hour in the coffee shop, though most of the time was spent just working in the foodbank. Other than that, we’d get food whenever we were both in the mood for something different or if she’d run out of sugar packets from the previous trip.
“Maybe you’ll look a bit less weird now,” I said jokingly.
“Maybe I will,” she said wisely. “But it makes no difference to me. Life’s too short to worry about how weird I look.”
I rubbed my palms down my face and shrugged. “Ugh, I guess I should’ve expected that. I don’t understand how you’re so carefree. I’m actually kind of jealous of how little you care.”
“I guess after starting over so many times, it’s easy to stop caring. But please, it’s nothing to feel bad over. You just have the time to care, and that’s no one’s fault.”
The look in her eyes was so sincere, it did nothing but make me a bit more irritated that I wasn’t more like her. Every time she grinned, all I saw was a perfection I knew I’d never find in myself. But I don’t think what I felt was jealousy. More like admiration of something I accepted would never belong to me.
“Thanks, Delilah.”
I said it casually like it meant less than it did. She said there was no need to thank her, but there really was. I think just being around her made me a better person, but I’m sure everyone who knew her must’ve thought the same.
Like every other morning, she took the glass from before her, poured the honey, and began to stir.
Then came autumn. The leaves began to curl and shift hues, nearly matching the color of honey. The flowers that bloomed within the cracked sidewalk wilted with the trees, leaving nothing but brown petals that were once golden and sickly stems.
Finally, the air was cool again. Not as cool as the day I met her, but cool nonetheless. Some days were so packed with wind that the tree branches outside the windows would tap on the glass, and howl as wind flowed through the gaps between leaves. But some were just right, with air warm enough to finally take off my scarf and take a real breath.
This fall felt different from the last, but it wasn’t clear whether the change was for better or worse. Just different.
Delilah wasn’t acting like herself, and it was clear she was trying to hide it. When she smiled, the edges of her lips didn’t curl like they usually did, and she didn’t squint her eyes as if she was staring into the sun.
“For some reason I expected you to stop after the summer passed,” I said, pointing to the glass of darkened lemonade she mindlessly stirred with her straw. “I’m not really sure why; almost a year of tireless routine, and I somehow expected change.”
She kept her eyes fixed on the glass, but I could tell what I said only made things worse, the smallest glint of sadness cracking her focus.
She finally looked up, and sighed, almost ashamed. “Um, there’s actually something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.” She looked into my eyes solemnly. “I’m moving, Spencer. Too far for us to meet up in person.”
At that moment, I forgot how to breathe. It felt like my heart skipped a thousand beats, only to pick back up faster than it ever had.
“Are you serious? But you always tell me how much you love it here, so why would you leave now?
My voice sounded as if it was going to spill over or crack.
“It’s not my choice! I want more than anything to stay here with you. I really do love everything about this town, but my dad finally found work somewhere far away, and this is a chance we can’t afford to miss. I’m sorry, Spencer. I’m sorry.”
For a minute I could do nothing but stare at the table. I’d never felt so helpless in all my life. She couldn’t truly be leaving. Or at least this is what I told myself in a desperate effort to numb whatever pain my heart was pressing into me.
After a moment of silence, I finally blurted, “When is it happening? Is it any time soon?”
She hesitated and stared at her lemonade, straw in hand as she slowly said, “No. Not soon, so don’t worry yet, alright? I’ll tell you when it’s time.”
I felt relief, but it hardly felt real. How could I truly feel relief when all I could do was watch as my light was ripped away from me?
“Good. Then I’ll treasure every moment. I promise.”
I kept my promise to the very end, and she ended up being the one who told the first lie. Within four days of that shattering conversation, she was gone. She stopped showing up at the cafe, and she stopped leaving me sticky notes on the table each day she couldn’t be there. She left nothing but a small sheet of paper with a note longer than any other I’d been given.
The memory is fuzzied by tears, but the one thing I remember about the note is the reason she lied about when things would really end.
She was scared. Scared to see my reaction, and too scared to bare the pain of saying goodbye. I was also scared, but I still wish I got the chance to really say goodbye. I wanted to feel the pain of her leaving and finally accept the burn, not let it linger like smoke I never wanted to rise.
But she really is gone, and the smoke is really all that’s left. But her memory still tastes like honey, like a sweet summer breeze and icy lemonade. It sometimes feels like she never left at all.
I never did like sweet things, yet the taste of honey lemonade is truly the one thing I love most.