Page 5

FOUR

lorenzo

Ruby’s annoyed because 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.”

“Watch The Simpsons ?”

I shrug and sink down on the overstuffed black couch. The Simpsons has 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.”

I laugh. She’s not wrong. I don’t buy into woo-woo shit—and there’ve been a lot of unfulfilled wishes since that night—but if there was ever a time to believe in magic, those nights of holding her hand in the dark are it. “So you still want to play Xbox?” I ask. “Because I don’t.”

“Not really. Watch a movie instead?”

I make a face.

“Fine. You leave me no choice. Liner notes?”

“Let’s do it.”

Once, during a snow day in middle school, we raided my attic and came across a massive tower of dusty CDs that belonged to my parents in the nineties.

We hadn’t known liner notes were a thing that existed and, in our teenage search for cool shit that seemed meaningful, we were totally absorbed in reading the text and poring over the photographs.

Every once in a while, when it’s just us and there’s nothing else to do, we return to it like comfort food.

“Remember this one?” Ruby pulls a cracked CD case from the shoebox on the floor between us—“Rid of Me” by PJ Harvey.

“You were obsessed with that. Remember you wrote some of the lyrics in Sharpie on your backpack and your dad hauled you into his office?”

She stretches her slender legs out in front of her. “Good times.”

I slide a Pearl Jam album back into the box. “So I followed your future husband today.”

“Brad?” She can’t help but smile at his name. “Like on social media?”

“Like in person. I trailed him.”

She barks out a laugh. “Why would you do that?”

“Just sniffing for dirt.”

“You told me he was a nice guy.”

“No, I said he was a white guy. A boring white guy. That’s what I said.”

She chuckles and rolls her eyes. “I don’t get why you dislike him all of a sudden.”

“He’s just not your type.”

“I don’t have a type.”

“Sure you do. Brooding. Unstable. Loves the feel of cold handcuffs clicking into place around his meaty wrists.”

“Gross. Keep your jerk-off fantasies to yourself.”

“I bet Brad has never even smelled the inside of a county jail. You’re really attracted to a kid like that?”

“Maybe if he hangs out with me long enough, he’ll get the chance.” She raises her eyebrows suggestively.

“So are you going to ask if I dug up any dirt on him?”

“No!”

“Glad you asked.”

“I didn’t.” She sorts through the CDs.

“I found something pretty interesting.”

She pauses. “Are you messing with me?”

“Actually, if you want to get technical, what he did was the opposite of interesting. But that’s what you signed up for, so ...”

She crosses her arms. “Okay, tell me.”

I sense a tiny bit of trepidation in her voice, which makes me feel bad for teasing her. Not bad enough to stop, though. “So after my training session, I’m walking out and I see him chatting with a couple soccer girls.” I watch her mouth twitch. “Then he walked away from them.”

She blinks. “This is riveting.”

“I’m getting to the good part. I follow him across the quad and he heads to the student union. You know, the dining hall?”

“I’m familiar with the place where we’ve eaten our meals for the last three years. Do you have a point to make?”

“So he looks around at the food options: sushi, burgers, pasta, salads. All good shit. You know what he eats?” I take a deep breath like I’m breaking some seriously bad news. “A sandwich. From Stacks.”

Ruby blinks in rapid succession. Then she laughs and shoves me. “You are such an asshole.” She shakes her head, returning to the box of CDs.

“What? You need to know this guy has shit taste in sandwiches!” Ruby pretty much nails every food she makes, but she has some kind of dark magic with sandwiches.

I don’t know where she learned it, but the combinations of flavors and textures she comes up with are seriously good enough to serve at a wedding.

And the garbage they serve at Stacks, our campus sandwich shop, has honestly made me long for the smooshed, room-temp tuna sandwiches on white bread my dad used to pack me in kindergarten.

“Maybe he was just in a rush,” Ruby says. “There’s never a line at Stacks.”

“Or maybe he has terrible taste in food.”

“He doesn’t.”

“I just think you deserve to know where his tongue’s been before you?—”

She looks at me sharply.

I can’t help the way my eyes go to her mouth. Ruby has great lips. “You picking up what I’m putting down?”

Her gaze stays flat on me, but I don’t miss the way her mouth quirks.

“So have you?” I ask.

“Have I what?”

I shrug. “You know—put your tongue ...”

“Lorenzo. Gross.” It really is. How did I get here? “Anyway,” she continues, “shouldn’t you know the answer to that?”

“Why would I know?”

“Locker room talk. Whatever. Boys being disgusting.”

“Maybe don’t date him if you think he’s disgusting. And no, I wouldn’t know anything about it. Brad’s at least smart enough not to say shit like that around me.”

“Because why?”

“Because I’d kick his ass.”

She laughs. “You would not! You’re not—” But she catches my eye, and I see her smile fade just before I look away. She’s right. I’m not that type. But I was for one night. For her.

A long silence passes between us.

“Anyway, I happen to know he has good taste in food,” she recovers.

“How?”

“I made him lunch the other day. And he loved it.”

“You cooked for him?” Something flares inside me, and this time I know it’s not wanting better for her. I’m jealous.

She shrugs. “Yeah.”

“What did you make him?”

She pulls a face like this is a weird question. Which it is. “A sandwich.”

“Jeez, is it just me or is this dude weirdly obsessed with sandwiches?”

“It’s just you.”

“So what kind of sandwich did you make?”

“Calm down, it was nothing new. You know you’ll always be my guinea pig.”

This is embarrassingly reassuring. “Good. Anyone who eats at Stacks doesn’t deserve your culinary debuts.”

With that settled, we turn back to the box of CDs between us.

I pick up a cracked R.E.M. case, but I can’t help wondering.

Okay, so it wasn’t a new recipe, but honestly, if she made him the Lorenzo special—arugula, mozzarella, fig spread, and balsamic on ciabatta—I’m gonna have a problem.

I press my lips together. I’m not going to act like a jealous, insecure douchebag over a sandwich.

I open the CD case and slide the liner notes out, but I can’t focus enough to read them.

Ruby’s never mentioned cooking for a guy before.

I get a sinking feeling. What if this time it really is different?

I put the notes back into the case and look at her.

“But seriously, Ruby. What sandwich was it?”