We took the corner stools by the window, where sunlight fell across the counter in a warm square. Naomi crossed her legs, and the yellow hem of her dress rode up enough that I had to make a choice between my drink and my dignity. I chose the drink, but only barely, and I made sure she saw me struggle.
The boba tasted the way Naomi had described it in her texts, thick and sweet with burnt brown sugar that coated the back of my throat. The pearls were warm and chewy, and Uncle had absolutely given me extra, because the bottom third of my cup was a tapioca landslide.
"Okay, this is the best thing I've ever had in my mouth," I admitted.
Naomi choked on her straw and slapped my arm with her free hand, and the slap left a sticky brown sugar print on my sleeve.
"You can't say that out loud in Auntie's," she hissed.
"It's a compliment to Uncle."
