Page 21

Lola

Something is missing. Basil, crushed tomatoes and garlic all lay on the counter surrounded by everything else I am going to need for Nonna’s recipe. I can’t for the life of me figure out what I am missing.

Tonight is the night. Me versus Byron in a knock-down, drag-out cooking competition. Byron suggested we do it before Fall Fest so we could all carb load before a day of marathon drinking.

“Ah fuck it.” I pick up my phone and dial my grandparents’ phone number. It rings once, then twice and on the fifth ring, panic races through my veins. It never takes them this long to answer.

“Oh, Lola dear, how are you?”

Pure relief floods my body when I hear her thick Italian accent. “Nonno and I were just playing a game of Scrabble.”

It all makes sense. The only time I’ve ever seen my grandparents fight is when they are playing board games. You wouldn’t be wrong if you argued the Adam family’s competitiveness originated with these two.

“You had me worried for a second.”

“Don’t spend time worrying about us,” the chair on the other end of the phone screeches against their old tile floor. “Do you need something sweety?”

“I have that sauce-making competition today. I know I’m missing something but can’t figure it out. ”

You would have thought I was telling her that I wrecked her car by the way her voice pierces through the phone. She’s switched to Italian–a tell tale sign she is pissed off.

I list what I have lying in front of me in her native tongue.

“Peperoncino rosso tritato,” We say in unison. How could I forget the crushed red pepper? We both break into a fit of laughter. When we both are done wheezing, I transition us back into English.

“How could I forget that Nonna?” I pause, trying to frame this next part in a way that won’t have her telling all my business to my parents. “I have kinda been seeing someone, and we went out last night.”

“Oh, that’s nice. But what about Byron? I was hoping you’d get back together when you settled back in this semester.” She says honestly, never one to mince her words.

That right there is the issue with being best friends with your grandparents. They’re old and don’t care who they offend when being honest and I can’t say a thing back because, let me tell you, the last thing I want to do is disrespect my grandparents. They may be small, but they are scary.

Byron and I have got our groove back when it comes to being friends.

It’s easy, it always has been easy between us.

I missed the way we always fell into step with each other.

We’re friends, good friends. There is this spark with Dalton that I’m being pulled to explore.

It’s been difficult to do that since his season started.

The thirty-minute drive between our two campuses doesn’t help things.

When we find time it’s been great. I’ve even cooked for him and his housemates.

It’s like I’m writing my own slow-burn romance and I think we can make it across the finish line.

“We are still good friends, Nonna. I’m just sick of being the only single friend.”

“Well, don’t rush into anything, Lola. Boys don’t know what a good woman looks like.”

“You were pregnant with my mom at my age.”

I know she is flicking her wrist, a dismissive look plastered on her face.

“Well, those were—” I think she finishes her sentence with different times, but I am distracted. Byron walks through my front door wearing a backward-facing baseball cap—why does that look so damn hot— and arms full of grocery bags.

He drops them on the opposite end of the counter and starts unloading them.

“Byron just got here, Nonna. We have to start cooking.”

“Byron is there, well don’t do–” I end the phone call before Byron hears whatever embarrassing thing was about to come out of her mouth.

“Who did you just rush off the phone with?” Byron asks as he bends to hug me. My face gets buried in his chest. Our height difference is exaggerated since I don’t have on my customary heels. Running shoes are better for long hours in the kitchen.

Just a whiff of his masculine cologne makes me feel like I’m being wrapped in my favorite blanket on a cold winter day.

“Just my Nonna. I had a recipe question for her.”

Byron lets out a low laugh. “I called Mrs. Holloway on my way here. She told me I better do the family justice.”

“Why do Italians make it feel like the world is going to end if you do their recipes injustice.” I pull out an extra cutting board and some knives for Byron. “Do you have more bags you need to bring in?”

“No, I have it all here.” He points to the two reusable bags on the counter. “I forgot something in the car. Do you mind going to grab it for me?”

I’m still in my slippers when I get to his car door. It’s a sunny, dry fall day, plus they’re old and I honestly should consider investing in a new pair.

“Mia.” I whisper. She has her face pushed against the window. I’m embarrassed when a few tears escape. I jog to the car and open the door she is pawing at. Puppy kisses scatter my face. If there is one thing I miss about being a pre-vet major, it’s spending my days loving on animals.

I clip on the leash Byron left on the seat and walk her in.

Byron and I first started hanging out right before he found Mia.

We were already friendly but got catapulted into a new level of friendship after Ivy locked herself in Jasper’s bathroom.

After our best friends finally admitted that they liked each other that night, the drama ended, and we all just had fun.

I was having the time of my life sandwiched between strangers on the sticky dance floor.

An All-American Rejects classic was playing just loud enough to drown out my thoughts, when Byron found me on the dance floor.

He came from behind and had to lower his head to my ear so I could hear him and said thank god they figured out their bullshit.

The rest of the night was like my own little comedy show. Non-stop laughter while we tried to dodge the curious eyes of our friends.

I was newly single. I jumped into a relationship with the first guy that showed interest. Freshman year was all about sticking it to my parents.There was no doubt they would hate the six-one bass player with piercings.

In hindsight the relationship was nothing more than a superficial one and the two days it took me to get over him is proof of that.

Byron’s big frame hid mine that whole night. There wasn’t a moment I wasn’t laughing. He’d whisper stories in my ear that he made up about the couples on the dance floor.

One night became two and suddenly we were trying to find as much time as possible to spend with each other.

When I told him I didn’t want to jump into anything serious he said we could go at my pace.

All that to say, I spent a lot of time last year cuddled in Byron’s arms while Mia was cuddled in mine.

She does her business on our front lawn before I scoop her up and carry her like a baby back into the house.

“What’s wrong Lo?”

My bottom lip starts to tremble. I hate crying. It makes me look vulnerable, but Byron didn’t have to bring Mia here. He brought her over because he knew how happy it would make me.

Byron’s face falls when he sees me crying. He drops the spices he has in his hand and rushes over.

“Don’t cry, Pipsqueak,” his voice is just above a whisper as he wipes away my rogue tears.

“These are happy tears. I can’t believe you brought her here.”

“We missed cooking with you,” he says, like that isn’t the sweetest thing anybody has ever said to me.

Mia barks, drawing my attention. When I look back up my hair gets in my eyes.

Byron takes the scrunchie off my wrist and uses it to tie my hair back. Crystal clear blue eyes lock on mine. He slowly starts moving toward me. I freeze. Do I let this happen? I can’t let him kiss me. Things with Dalton aren’t exclusive, so why can’t I?

“You better start cooking because we are starving.”

Indy is walking down the stairs and Byron abruptly pulls away. Mia jumps out of my arms and starts sprinting around the living room. She grabs the attention of our friends.

We turn back to our stations, starting to prepare our meals in silence.

My heart is full. My friends are scattered across my living room watching a preseason NHL game.

Indy is perched on Marcus’ lap. Margo is playing fetch with Mia using the long hallway that leads from the living room to the stairs to our bedrooms as a runway.

Aaron and Josiah are arguing over some college football game that’s happening tomorrow.

“I play football, you idiot. I know what I’m talking about.” Josiah’s voice carries through the house. Byron’s eyes meet mine from the other side of the kitchen.

“Don’t you kinda wish we were out there with them?” I ask when my laughter wains.

He starts rolling out his freshly made pasta.

“No, I’m happy in here with you.”

The words hang between us. I remind myself that Byron is just being a good friend.

“Is the table set? We are just about ready,” I yell. I might be small, but in my large, opinionated Italian family, you learn to be loud if you want to be heard.

“We got it!” Indy jumps off Marcus’ lap, and he groans, his hand flying to the television, I’m assuming, pointing to a pretty good game.

“It’s the preseason. It literally doesn’t matter.” She over-enunciates the last sentence.

We’re college kids so Indy grabs paper plates from the pantry. Everyone quickly takes their seats.

My old school chicken shaped timer dings. I go to grab my prized family heirloom, just nudging out of Byron’s reach.

“Damn, Pip. I didn’t know you had reflexes like that.”

“My brother and I were obsessed with Formula 1 as kids, and we used to practice all the reflex drills they do.”

“That’s why Oliver is such a good goalie.” Byron says under his breath to no one. Turning back to put the final touches on his meal.

“Fuck, Oliver.”

I pull my phone out if my back pocket hastily pulling up my texts. Four of my last seven texts are from my brother, mainly consisting of various ways to ask Where are you? and getting more aggressive as you go down the thread.

Me:

Called you an Uber! I owe you endless alcohol runs until the end of the semester.

That has to get me back into my brother’s good graces. Having a sister who attends the same college as you, and can buy you alcohol when you’re underage is a perk.

“Who else is coming?” Margo’s eyes dart between the two empty seats.

“Oliver,” Byron answers, not looking up from putting the finishing touches on his dish.

“That still leaves one seat.”

I watch the confusion spread on Byron’s face.

“I messaged the group asking if everyone was okay with Dalton, and y’all said you were.”

“No you didn’t.” Byron quickly looks at his phone. “I didn’t get a text.”

I pull up the group message. “I’m so sorry Byron. I never would have invited him if I knew you didn’t want him here.” I say honestly.

The group message was only sent to Indy, Margo, Marcus and Josiah.

I learned at a young age that life loves to kick you when you’re down and this moment could be used to study the theory.

Dalton:

Here ??

“He’s here. Do you want me to tell him there was a mixup?”

Byron shakes his head, “It’s too late to send him home. Go get him.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it.” I’m tempted to hug him but I get stage fright from the prying eyes of our friends.