Page 4

THREE

ruby

When I walk into Lorenzo’s tidy apartment, he’s leaning over the kitchen counter, squeezing a tube of blue icing onto something.

There’s a gentle scent of clean laundry in the air, undercut by something earthy and distinctly summery—fresh tomatoes?

I slip out of my shoes and set them next to the neat row of sneakers by the front door.

Like much of Shafer’s off-campus housing, Lorenzo’s apartment building is ancient, with a beautifully detailed brick exterior but a cheaply finished interior that hasn’t been updated in three decades.

Still, Lorenzo keeps it impeccably clean.

“Shit,” he mutters when he sees me. He drops the icing tube and comes around the counter, trying to block my view. “You got here fast.”

“Yeah, you know, two-minute walk.” That’s when I notice the pile of orangey-red tomatoes on the laminate counter and the grocery bags printed with Cardini Market , the name of a pricey specialty Italian market in Shafer’s vibrant town center.

“Are those for me?” Then I notice the huge piece of cardboard taped to the wall with a numbered list printed in Lorenzo’s handwriting.

Top Ten Reasons Why Fish Suck is written across the top in red marker.

I look at Lorenzo, who’s watching me closely, an uncertain smile on his face. “What’s that?”

“Surprise!” He takes me by the arm and leads me closer to the sign. There’s a smudge of blue icing on his tanned forearm, smeared right across the tattoo of a pink donut. “Thought you might need a reminder. Check it out.”

He gestures toward the list and I start reading, totally lost as to where this is heading.

“One,” I read. “Can’t cuddle for shit. Two, covered in mucus. Three, won’t even remember your name the next day.” I laugh. “Fish actually have pretty good memories, but we can ignore that. What is this about?”

“Just trying to cheer you up.”

“I’m pretty damn cheery.” I hold up the paper with my work schedule, emblazoned with Shafer’s Red Phantom logo. “Check it out.”

Lorenzo’s smile falters as his eyes go from the folder to me. “Wait, you ... got the job?”

“That’s what this is about?” I throw a playful punch at his broad chest. “You thought I wouldn’t get it!”

“Maybe.” He glances at what I now realize is a cake with blue-icing writing all over it.

“Oh ye of little faith.”

“Sorry, I just assumed because I didn’t hear from you.”

“And because I’m zero for five with job interviews, right?”

“You’re exaggerating. It doesn’t count if you forget to show up to the interviews. So that’s, what, zero for three?”

“Not anymore,” I say proudly. “I start next week.”

“That’s awesome, Ruby! Congrats.” He gives me a hug that envelops me in his clean, familiar scent. “I knew you would.”

“Oh, yeah, right. That’s why you dropped fifty bucks on groceries so I could stress-cook.”

He nods. “Homemade ravioli.”

“Wow, you were really banking on me being depressed tonight.” I love diving into an intricate, complicated recipe when I’m upset.

And Lorenzo loves reaping the carb-heavy benefits—just as long as it’s a sensible portion and there’s a salad and lean protein to go along with it. “And let’s see this pity-party cake.”

Lorenzo follows me into the kitchen, and I squint at the barely legible words scrawled across the grocery-store cake. “ Stay octo ... Huh?”

“ Stay octo-mistic !” he says like it’s obvious. “Octopus pun.”

I stifle a laugh. “You know, if you tell them at the bakery counter you have a friend who’s a total loser, they’ll gladly write out a patronizing message for you.”

“This is better, don’t you think?”

I lean my head against his shoulder. “Actually, it is. Thanks, L.”

“No big deal. I was craving a good Italian meal and a supermarket sheet cake, so I had bad vibes flowing your way all day.” He gives me a wicked grin, and I’m reminded why Lorenzo has girls falling all over themselves before he even has a chance to open his mouth. “So tell me about the job.”

We pull out two forks and attack the cake, standing at the counter while I tell him about my new role between bites of tooth-achingly sweet vanilla frosting.

“Fish facility care assistant” is my official title, which means I’ll be spending my hours feeding fish, testing water quality, and cleaning tanks and equipment.

It’s as unglamorous as it gets, and I’m more excited the more I tell Lorenzo.

I wonder whether this is how other people feel talking about their majors.

I’ve probably been speaking uninterrupted for ten minutes when I notice Lorenzo trying to conceal a smile. “You think the job is a waste of time, don’t you?” I ask.

“For me? Yes, it would be a waste of time. But that’s because experience with aquatic life isn’t really valued in the NFL. I think it’s perfect for you.”

“Because I have a bright future in pet retail?”

“Because you’re excited for it. No matter what you’re doing, you always go into it with enthusiasm.”

Right. Except school. I settled on food science thanks to a short-lived spark of interest, the fact I had a couple of friends in the program, and because it was the path of least resistance based on the credits I already had—the icing on the cake being my parents’ disapproval.

It’s hardly a passion, but as long as I can prove my parents wrong and land a steady job after graduation, it’s good enough for me.

“Is that your nice way of calling me flighty?”

“Pretty much.” He lets the full smile come through, but his voice brims with an admiration I don’t deserve.

It was worth the wait to deliver my good news in person.

I focus on spearing another bite of cake so he won’t see what that smile does to me.

“Besides, the more wacky shit you get yourself into, the better you make me look.” He winks.

I pinch his arm. “Stick with me, kid, and you’ll go far.”

“Have you told your parents yet?”

“Nope. Saving it a little longer.”

“They’re going to hate it.” He smiles.

“Like everything I do.” I shrug. “But they can bitch all summer long and I won’t hear a word because I won’t be there.”

Lorenzo puts me in a gentle headlock and drops a brief kiss on my head. “Proud of you.”

“For?”

“For trying until you got there.”

I flush with pleasure. If I could have one thing for the rest of my life, it would be Lorenzo’s admiration. “So should I start cooking? I need to run home and get my pasta machine.”

“It’s still here from last time.” He bends down to open a battered gray cabinet and pulls out my beast of a pasta machine. “I’ll be your sous-chef.”

I sort through grocery bags, going down my mental checklist of ingredients while Lorenzo sits at the counter, a cutting board, head of garlic, and sharp knife in front of him. “You got fresh Parm?”

“In the fridge.”

“Good boy.”

He picks up the knife. “How many cloves?”

“A lot.”

I’m quiet as I set ingredients on the counter, soothed by the slow, steady rhythm of Lorenzo’s knife thudding against the wooden cutting board.

He’s the best with garlic, producing perfect paper-thin slices in the same patient, meticulous way he does everything.

My style is more smash-and-go. His always tastes better.

“Can I use your phone?” I ask once I’ve taken inventory. “I want to double-check the recipe.”

“Let me guess: Yours is dead?” He slides his phone across the counter, and I cringe when I see the screen.

His phone background is a rotating photo slideshow, and the photo of the moment shows me and him smiling around a campfire sophomore year of high school.

I hate that photo. That was the year I fell in love with Lorenzo. “So I saw Dr. Halpert today.”

I gasp and snap my head up. “Oh shit. I can’t believe I forgot. What did he say?”

My stomach sinks when he doesn’t lift his eyes off the cutting board. “I need surgery.”

“No!” I drop his phone to the counter and go to him. “Oh, Lorenzo, no. I’m so sorry.” I wrap my arms around his neck from behind and hug him.

He returns the gesture with a few pats, tolerating me. “It’s all right.”

“No, it isn’t. You’ve worked months to avoid this.”

He looks like he’s about to argue; then his shoulders slump. “Yeah. I have.”

My heart aches for him. Since he got his Shafer acceptance letter, Lorenzo’s been militant about stretches, warm-ups, cooldowns, and all the other minutiae of staying healthy to avoid just this outcome. And here it is, right before his senior season. “What a bunch of bullshit.”

He nods. “Yeah. Fucking sucks.”

“And you put on your happy face for me and my fish job.” I feel heavy with guilt. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I am happy. Your good news is my good news.”

“Do your parents know?”

“Not yet.” He drops his gaze to the counter so all I can see of his eyes are his thick, dark lashes. “You want to know the sick thing?”

“Obviously.”

“When Dr. Halpert said I needed surgery, you know what my first thought was? Anthony would love this news. ”

I sigh. “Lorenzo.”

“Like I said, it’s sick.”

“Your cousin doesn’t sit around wishing for your downfall.”

“Yeah, but you could see it, couldn’t you? Just for a second, him being glad my career is fucked, just like his.”

“I guess,” I admit grudgingly. His cousin, Anthony, has always held Lorenzo responsible for the accident that changed their lives nearly four years ago. But letting Lorenzo linger in that headspace isn’t healthy. “So what else do we need to know?”

“Surgery next week. I’ll need my mom here for a few days, and then I should be pretty self-sufficient.”

“Next week? Wow, you’re on the fast track. What did your doctor say to expect from there?”

“He said there’s no reason to think this will affect my future. And that if things go according to plan, I’ll see some playing time this year.”

I feel a surge of hope, but when Lorenzo wants a cheerleader, he asks for one. “And what do you think?”

He pauses, lips pressed tight together. “I want to be positive. I don’t want to be disappointed, though.”

“Want to share? I’ll be positive, and you assume the worst?”

I get a small smile out of him. “Maybe just for tonight, let’s both try for positive. Think we can pull it off?”

“Grouchy old man thinking positive? Sounds weird, but okay.” I muss his dark, shiny hair. “Give it a shot. Try to impress me.”

He gets up and digs into the grocery bags. “All right, let’s get this feast going.”

“Please tell me you bought us a couple cannoli.”

“Check the fridge.”

“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 one agriturismo to 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.”