Imaginary Lines

Page 47

  But then he dealt me a firm, we-need-to-have-a-discussion look. “Okay. What are we going to do about our parents?”

  I smeared the cream cheese across my poppy-seed halves. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I talked to my mom last night. ”

  “Yeah?”

  “She wanted to set me up with Jenna Perlman’s cousin. ”

  “Jenna Perlman from schul? No way. She used to hog all the cookies. ”

  He sounded amused. “Well, it would be her cousin, not her. ”

  “If she’s anything like Jenna, you wouldn’t get along. ” I noticed the pointed look he aimed my way. “What?”

  “You have to tell your mom, or I’m telling mine. ”

  The idea of telling my mother hit me like an impossibility to be avoided at all costs. “Abe. ”

  “I know. But we have to. ”

  “We do not. ”

  He raised his brows. “We’re just never going to tell them?”

  “Abraham. They will have the temple booked and the invitations out within the week. Worse, my mom is going to have opinions. ”

  He laughed down at me. “What does that mean?”

  I waved a hand expressively. “You know. About how we interact. She’ll be like, ‘Well, Abe never empties the dishwasher, so be prepared to empty it for the rest of your life. ’”

  His brow scrunched up. “What does that even mean? I do too empty the dishwasher. ”

  “No. ” I shook my head emphatically. “You don’t. Never have. I know it. Your mother knows it. My mother knows it. ”

  His eyes widened and flickered in thought. “I don’t believe you. I. . . do do the dishes. ”

  I placed an appeasing hand on his. “That is true. You simply don’t empty it. It’s okay, I don’t mind. Yet. I just mind hearing about it from my mother. ”

  He groaned. “Well, my mom’s going to want to know if you’re pregnant, so there’s that. ”

  “Mazel tov,” I muttered.

  He leaned in and braced his elbows on the table. I mirrored him, and our knees bumped each other, our foreheads bent close. “Okay. We gotta have a plan. ”

  “I have a plan. ”

  “Yeah?” His brows rose. “Which is. . . ?”

  “We wait at least one week. ”

  “And why’s that?”

  Boys. “You do realize that for the next several days we will be at the mercy of our families. ” I stretched my arms above my head. “And I can’t think of much worse than the combined forces of our mothers in matrimonial fever. ”

  * * *

  We landed in SFX at three-fifteen, Pacific Time. I liked the Millbrae airport because there were always dogs in it. And, okay, those dogs were German Shepherds trained to sniff out bombs and stuff, but still. Giant puppies! It always felt calmer in SFX than it did in JFK.

  Also, we had palm trees.

  Abe lifted my carry-on down from storage, and then shouldered his duffel bag. We slowly started shambling down the aisle and then up the connector. I summoned my sternest look. “Okay. From here on out, we play it safe. ”

  He delivered an absolutely bone-melting grin. “I never make safe plays. ”

  That alarmed me slightly. “Now you do. ”

  “Oh, I think we have it good until we’re on the other side of security. Until then, I don’t think I have to play it safe at all. ”

  I frowned at his mischievous expression. “Abraham—”

  His duffel bag landed on the floor with a resounding thump. Streams of people parted and closed around us as he stopped and took my face in his hands. His eyes were light and heat and all the stars so far away. “Unless you want safe?”

  Mutely, I shook my head. My eyes drifted shut.

  He kissed me until the heat had spiraled out of control, and then, when I thought I might spontaneously combust—or that the airport guards might wrench us apart before we crossed the line of public decency—he raised his hands from my body and stepped back. A satisfied grin crossed his face. “There. Now I won’t touch you for the rest of the week. ”

  I tried to swallow, so turned on I found it difficult to think. “Well. . . I’m not sure. . . ”

  He laughed, scooped up his duffel and started on his way.

  Damn him. With my carry-on trailing behind me, I followed. We passed through the security gate and out into the open, and headed down to baggage claim. We hadn’t checked any luggage, so we stepped outside.

  I sucked in a breath at the familiar balmy weather. It was somewhere in the mid-sixties, which wasn’t unheard of in New York this time of year—but seemed to be a rare and somewhat miraculous occurrence. Here, our weather stayed level—sane, if you will—and every afternoon the fog would burn off and leave the skies sunny.

  Since my dad was scheduled to pick us up, I shot him a text, and felt warmth grow in my chest when the familiar old Prius rounded the corner. We crossed the lane to the passenger car pickup line, and it came to a pause before us.

  To my surprise, the passenger door opened and Abe’s dad came out. Abe let out a whoop and hugged him. They were about the same height, though Abe had more hair and muscle.

  Mr. Krasner let go of his son after a moment and smiled my way, folding me into a softer embrace. “Hi, Tammy. How’s it going?”

  “I’m good, thanks. ” Still surprised at this turn of events, I blinked and smiled in befuddlement for a moment before my own dad came out from around the driver’s side. “Daddy!”

  He hugged me tightly, and I could’ve sworn I saw a hint of tears in his eyes. “How’s my tough New Yorker?”

  “I’m great. I missed you. ” I hadn’t really realized it until now, but there it was.

  Dad opened up the back and loaded in our things, while Mr. Krasner smiled at us. “So. Surprise! We thought we’d all go out for dinner. Your mothers have all gone ahead. ”

  We sat in the backseat of the car. I felt like I’d fallen through time and we were teenagers all over again, except this time Abe really didn’t fit in the backseat.

  We headed to Green’s for dinner. Located on the waterfront, it served some of the best fare in San Francisco, and God, I was glad to have it.

  Don’t get me wrong. I liked New York food. New York food was fine. I didn’t even have a problem with their pizza, despite them having some overplayed grievance with ours. (I figured it was part of the New York mentality to enjoy having grievances. ) But there was nothing like sitting down at one of Alice Waters’s restaurants, and the delicate, fresh tastes of her entrees. Butternut squash and goat cheese and quinoa, pumpkin seed cilantro salsa. . . Mom had mesquite-grilled brochettes, and we all split polenta with herb butter. My taste buds could die and leave my tongue senseless, and I would be happy.

  Of course, after my mom finished grilling me about every new roommate and job development, she had to go and ask, “Met any interesting boys?”

  Abe turned to me brightly with brows lifted. The corners of his lips rose with ill-concealed entertainment.

  I directed disapproval at my mother. “Mom. ”

  She gestured widely with her fork. “What? They don’t mind. ”

  Abe propped his chin in his hand and gave me Bambi-eyes. “Well. ”