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“You’re amazing.”

“Hey, check this out.” He holds up a jar of pasta sauce. “There’s a recipe on the back for lasagna, but it’s in Italian. Think you can translate it?”

I don’t bother looking at the jar. “Oh, I quit Italian club.”

“After a month?” He raises his right eyebrow, the one with the white scar running through it.

“It was six weeks. Anyway, it moves so slowly, I’d have to do it for years to be able to read a recipe, let alone speak to the locals in Italy.” Last winter I came across a cookbook written in Italian in the library’s one-dollar sale bin, which launched me into a fantasy about cooking from real Italian recipes, traveling to Italy and going from oneagriturismoto the next, maybe even attending an Italian cooking school. I’m over it now.

“What about all those meals you promised to make me?”

“Google Translate isn’t going anywhere. I just couldn’t handle one more meeting with these asshole Shafer kids who’ve been visiting Italy every year since they were born and like to wax poetic about how Rome is so pedestrian and the true Italian experience can only be found in the towns Americans have never heard of.” I shrug. “So I quit.”

“Of course you did.” He gives me an affectionate smile.

“And now I have more time to spend dirtying your kitchen.”

His dark eyes sparkle. “Just the way it should be.”

FOUR

lorenzo

Ruby’s annoyedbecause the ravioli wasn’t her best, and I know she wanted it to be perfect after seeing me bummed about surgery. So I’m pretending it was her best, which annoys her even more.

“Want to play Xbox?” she asks after we’ve put away the leftovers and demolished the cannoli.

I shake my head. “I played for like two hours this morning at Cash’s.”

“WatchThe Simpsons?”

I shrug and sink down on the overstuffed black couch.The Simpsonshas been our go-to show since middle school, but I don’t feel like turning on the TV. The reality of what my summer is going to look like hit me halfway through dessert, and I’m having a hard time not being grouchy about it.

“Do I need to turn on ‘Con Calma’?” she threatens, pulling out her ponytail and shaking out her blond waves. That’s the song we danced to together at prom, and it’s always guaranteed to get Ruby doing some hilariously bad dance moves.

I can’t help smiling a little. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Then talk to me. And don’t do the Pollyanna shit.”

“Fine,” I say, grateful for permission. “It just fucking sucks. This summer was supposed to look totally different. I was on track to be in the best shape of my life for the Combine, and now I’m moving backward.” The Combine is an annual event where college football players showcase their skills for NFL scouts, and it’s by invitation only. Which means I need to prove myself worthy of an invite long before the event itself.

“I know, you did everything right. But your doctor knows what he’s talking about. You’ll play this season. Besides, everybody knows Lorenzo always gets what he wants in the end.”

“I just wish I could fast-forward through recovery.”

“If only Labor Day weekend wasn’t months away.” She makes her eyes round and hopeful and presses her palms together like she’s praying.

Labor Day weekend is a big deal in Lakeside, the town Ruby and I grew up in ninety minutes east of Shafer: block parties all along the lake, street games, and a big fireworks display over the water. And then there’s our secret tradition.

The summer before fifth grade, Ruby’s parents separated. That Labor Day, she’d witnessed a screaming match and was sure a divorce announcement was coming any day. We spent the block party hiding out in the trees along the lake, Ruby determined not to let anyone but me see the tears that wouldn’t stop sliding down her cheeks. I don’t remember whose idea it was, but we decided fireworks were like a million falling stars, and if we ever wanted a wish to come true, this was the best opportunity we’d ever have. So when the fireworks rippled through the sky that night, we held hands and wished for her parents to fall in love again. Days later they announced they were moving back in together. And every year since, we’ve made a wish together under the fireworks.

“You would waste your wish on my recovery?” I ask her.

She looks indignant. “Waste?”

“We only get one a year. Time travel is a big ask for the fireworks gods,” I tease. Ruby loves superstition, so she’s an enthusiastic believer that something powerful happens when we hold hands on the dock under the exploding light of fireworks.

“Don’t mock. If you really think it’s BS, I dare you to wish for a nice cold beer instead. We’ll see how much you believe then.”