“I make a great sauce for those with Greek yogurt and dill,” he told me, adding it to the basket. “For another night. Now that we’re eating healthy.”
“Right,” I said, already picturing it rotting in our fridge.
“Excuse me, but can you point me toward the kumquats? They’re on special right now, correct?” a woman pushing a cart asked William. She had a list in her hand, glasses perched on the tip of her nose.
“Um,” he said. “I don’t work here.”
She flushed instantly. “Oh, sorry!”
“But I do know they are over there, by the persimmons,” he said gallantly, pointing. “On sale, I’m not sure.”
“Thank you,” she said quickly, clearly embarrassed, as she turned her cart and headed that way.
“Five minutes,” I said to him once she was out of earshot. “That’s how long it took.”
“Better than three, I guess,” he replied, picking up a melon and knocking it. “And I was even holding a basket. Honestly.”
For as long as I could remember, no matter where we went in the world of retail, it was a given William would be mistaken for an employee and asked for directions, fitting room access, or, in my favorite situations, advice on purchases. Somehow, he just exuded authority and knowledge, even when he was off the clock. He got annoyed, but personally, I found it hilarious.
We moved on to the meat section, stopping at each of the free sample stations along the way. (Another one of our rituals.) We were standing by the case, him studying the prosciutto, when the guy working came up from the other side. He was dark haired, very muscled, and had tattoos up both arms, as well as a thick gauge in one ear.
“William!” he said, his voice friendly. “Where you been? You never came to report back on that Parma.”
I was looking at a piece of tongue—ugh—and so didn’t see, at first, that William was blushing. It was only when he answered with a stammer that I noticed. “I, um, have been busy. But it was good. A little salty for my taste.”
The guy leaned on top of the case, his massive arms flexing. “Agreed. I cut it with a bit of this new blue we got, a cow’s milk, very silky and tart. The Meridien, have you tried it?”
“No,” William said. “I’m not, um, so I need some prosciutto?”
The guy looked at him, then me, and smiled. “Sure. Quarter pound or half?”
“Half.”
“Great. And I’ll throw in a bit of this new Black Forest I want you to try. You have the Wasilla goat at home still, yes? You’ve got to pair them on a baguette. It’s incredible. Just a sec.”
As the guy opened the case and drew out a huge slab of meat, then walked over to the slicer, I looked pointedly at William. He ignored me, focused instead on the ground sausage display. Finally, I poked him.
“What?”
“Who is that guy?” I asked, my voice low. He blushed again. “He’s cute, William.”
“I barely know him,” he replied, going darker red. “We talked meat and cheese at closing once.”
“I think he likes you.”
“Louna. Stop it.”
“William,” the guy called out over the clanging of the slicer. “You want this thin? Are you making that melon dish we had at dinner that time?”
I gaped at him. “Y-yes,” he stammered. I could literally feel heat coming off his face. “That would, um, be great.”
“Excuse me,” a man carrying a baguette said, coming up to us. “Where is the bulk nut section?”
“Over by the flowers,” William told him, clearly grateful for once for this distraction. “Straight ahead, then left.”
“You had him over for dinner?” I demanded, as the man walked away, taking a wrong turn immediately. “When was this?”
“Hush,” he said, fiddling with the lemons in his basket.
“Here you go,” the meat guy said, dropping two plastic bags on the counter. “The prosciutto you like, with a sample of the Black Forest. You want me to walk over to cheeses with you so you can sample that Meridien?”
“Sure,” I said, smiling at him.
“No,” William told him, at the same time. “I, um . . . we have to go. I’m cooking and the chicken is . . . Next time.”
“Sure thing.” The guy smiled at me and then, wider, at William. “I’ll look forward to it.”
William grabbed the meat, tossing it in his basket, then hustled away, vanishing around a display of flavored popcorn. I turned back to the guy, sticking out my hand. “I’m Louna. And you are?”
“Matt,” he replied. We shook. “You’re William’s . . .”
“Goddaughter,” I said, which was the easy explanation.
“He’s a great guy,” he told me, looking at the popcorn. “And, um . . . still single? Yes?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Good to know,” he said, then knocked the counter between us, smiled, and walked away.
I found William dabbing his brow by the macaroons. “You didn’t tell me you’d had anyone over for a date.”
“It was one time,” he said. I waited. “Look, he’s nice. I’m just . . . not ready for anything.”
“William. You haven’t dated since I was in middle school.”
“Exactly. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“With prosciutto and melon, apparently,” I said. He blushed again. “Look, if I can get back out there dating, so can you.”
He looked at me. “You’re dating again?”
“Kind of. Ambrose and I made a bet. I’m actually meeting the Lumberjack at a party tonight.”
He looked surprised. “Really?”
I nodded. “It’s nothing serious. That’s the whole point. I just have to date, but Ambrose has to commit for seven weeks. Whoever caves first has to get set up by the other with their person of choice.”
“Ambrose gets to set you up?” he asked.
“If he wins,” I said. “Which he won’t.”
“You should hope not. Because he’d pick himself for sure.”
Now my eyes widened. “What? No. That’s not how it works.”
“You said he could pick anyone, correct?” He crossed the aisle, scanning the boxes. “So he says it’s him, and then you have no choice but to go out with him. Pretty genius. I take it that part was his idea?”
Come to think of it, it had been. But that meant nothing, either. “Ambrose does not want to go out with me, William. We barely even like each other.”
“So you say,” he said, picking up a box and putting it in the basket. “I hear a lot of laughing when you two are in the office. And you looked pretty cozy at that photoshoot.”
“Sir, can you help me with the curry sauces?” a woman in a sundress called out from one aisle down. “I need one that’s mild but fragrant.”
“I have to get out of here,” William hissed to me, starting toward the register. Still, he couldn’t help himself, saying to the woman as he passed her, “Tamil’s, in mild. Don’t use too much.”
“Thank you!”
At the registers, I was determined to bring up the Ambrose thing again, demanding why on earth he thought that, of all things, would be the outcome of our bet. Because we looked good pretending to slice a cake? But just as I started to say this, his phone rang: it was my mother, calling about some issue with the photographer of the Elinor Lin Wedding that weekend, serious enough that they kept talking the entire ride back home. As we pulled up in the driveway, I could see Jilly in her backyard, alone for once, waiting for me. No time to ask more questions, which was maybe a good thing after all. But as I said good-bye to him, then crossed the grass to Jilly’s, I couldn’t help but consider the fact that William’s intuition was usually dead on. Then again, everyone can be wrong sometimes.
“There he is,” Jilly said, her voice low. “Act cool.”
This had to be the worst thing to say to a nervous person. I thought about telling her so, but I was too on edge watching Leo make his way across the crowded living room. Instead I asked, “Whose party is this, anyway?”
“Jack from Turbo Taco,” she said, sipping her beer. “His parents have that truck with the racing flames on it? They sell the hottest hot sauce in town. People have been hospitalized.”
“Wow,” I said, as Leo stopped to talk to two girls who had their backs to us. He had on yet another plaid shirt, short sleeved this time, and no apron. Not that he would wear an apron to a party. Okay, I was nervous and crazy. I took another gulp of my beer, which was warm even though I’d only just gotten it. “God, I feel so out of place. Why did I agree to do this again?”
“Because the Lumberjack is cute and you want to beat Ambrose,” she replied cheerfully, adjusting the neckline of her dress. “Speaking of which, there he is. I guess he found it after all.”
I glanced over to where she was looking. Sure enough, there was Ambrose in the kitchen, popping a beer open on the countertop. When he saw us, he waved, pushing that curl from his forehead. Ira was on the deck outside, being petted by a group of girls holding red cups. This time, he had on a polka-dot bandana. Apparently, this was his signature look now. “Found it?” I asked.
“Ambrose hadn’t heard of the neighborhood when I told him about this party.”
Now I turned, giving her my full attention. “You invited him?”
“Yeah, when I gave him that ride the other night.” She was scanning the crowd, not looking at me. When she realized I was staring at her, she blinked. “What?”
“I thought you couldn’t stand him.”
She flipped her hand. “Oh, that was just a first impression. He’s okay.”
Between this and William’s melon-prosciutto date, I suddenly felt like no one was telling me anything. “You gave Ambrose a ride? When?”
“Last week,” she said easily. “I was doing register for my dad downtown, after the bars closed, and I saw him and his dog walking. I couldn’t just drive past them, especially at two a.m.”
“I’m surprised he was alone,” I remarked, as Leo looked up and saw me, waving a hand. I waved back, and the girls he was talking to both turned to look at me. I sucked down more of my beer.
“He said he’d just dodged some girl at a club,” she replied. “Crazy story. Had to run out the back door.”
“I think I heard about that.”
“I’m sure you did.” She took another sip. “Anyway, I just drove him back to his sister’s. He invited me in for a snack, but I said no. Being around food all night in close quarters and all. Plus I felt super greasy.”
“He asked you in?”
“Yeah.” She was looking around again, and took a second to meet my eyes. “Why? Is that weird? You guys are just friends, right?”
“Not even that,” I said quickly. “We just work together.”
“And make bets together.”
“That’s strictly for bragging rights,” I told her, thinking about what William had said.
“That’s what I thought.” She tucked a piece of hair behind one ear. “I don’t think he’s my type anyway. Too loosey-goosey. Not a sport coat in sight.”
“Remember how that worked out last time, though,” I reminded her. “Maybe it’s not the best indicator.”
“True,” she agreed. “I guess you never know.”
Leo had wrapped up his conversation and was now making his way toward us, winding through the growing crowd. My date, even though I wasn’t supposed to call him that, and yet now all I could think about was Jilly and Ambrose, together. It would never happen. Would it?
“Hey there,” Leo said, sliding in beside me. “Where’d you get the beers?”
“Outside,” I told him. “Follow me.”
We cut through the kitchen, which boasted an impressive display of hot sauces stacked on the wide windowsill, and out onto the side deck, where the keg was set up under a tangle of Christmas lights. Ira, tied nearby, saw me immediately and began wagging his tail.
“Hey there, bud,” I said, bending down to scratch his ears. He’d had a haircut and smelled like powder, clearly freshly bathed. “Ten to one Ambrose met a pretty dog groomer,” I said out loud. “Am I right?”
“What?” Leo asked from the keg.
“Nothing,” I said, standing back up and facing him. “Do you want to go back inside? Or—”
“Let’s stay here for a bit,” he replied. “Less chance of bumping into more people from high school.”
We walked over to a bench that ran along the deck, where I took a seat. Ira, now on a diagonal from me, let out a whine and then lay down, his head on his paws. “You’re from here, too?” I said, as Leo leaned on the nearby railing. “I didn’t realize.”
“Born and bred,” he replied. “Class of 2015, Kiffney-Brown.”
I raised my eyebrows. “So you’re smart.”
“By the numbers. I was a big-time math nerd before I started writing.”
More new information. “You write?”
A nod. “I’m in the program at the U. Workshops, independent study, all that stuff. I was doing both tracks, but now I’m strictly fiction.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“The novel I’m working on right now is kind of a stream-of-consciousness take on the dwindling of human contact in society,” he replied, as easily as anyone else might rattle off their birthdate and astrological sign. Clearly, he’d said this before. “It’s futuristic, but also set in present day. I’m playing with time a lot. It’s challenging.”
“Huh,” I said, before realizing this was about the stupidest response I could have offered. I added, “I love to read. But I’ve never been very good at writing if it wasn’t, like, papers for school.”
“Oh, it’s totally different,” he said, taking a sip of his beer as two girls in thick sandals clomped over to the keg. “Anyone can be taught to present a basic argument or summarize information. Fiction is a skill. You either have it, or you don’t.”
“And you do.”
“Well, yeah.” He must have known this sounded arrogant, because he smiled at me, diluting it somewhat. “But I’m still learning. I have this awesome professor, McCallum McClatchy. You ever read his books?”
I shook my head, not exactly wanting to share that the current novel on my bedside table was a fantasy novel about girls put under a spell that made them into tigers. They then had to fight a series of other tigers, also former humans, in order to turn back. I’d once been a big fan of contemporary fiction. Since I lost Ethan, though, real life had been bad enough all around me on a daily basis. Between the covers of a book, I wanted anything else.
“Oh, he’s great,” Leo continued. “Irish born, really sparse in terms of his prose, but with thick language. His whole first book takes place in a potato field over the course of one day, and it’s told from the point of view of the plow.”
“Wow,” I said.
“It’s incredible.” I’d never seen him this excited about coffee. “I’ll loan you one of my copies. If you don’t mind highlights and margin notes.”
“I don’t,” I said.
“Great. I’ll bring it to work tomorrow.” He smiled at me again. “It can be kind of a tough read, with all the footnotes and flashbacks. McCallum is my inspiration when it comes to time shifting on the page. But I can walk you through it.”
I’d said I wasn’t good at writing fiction, not reading it, I thought, but then told myself to stop being so judgmental. When you loved something, you wanted everyone else to love it in the same way. Right? Right.
Just then, my phone rang. With it buried in my bag, which was over my shoulder, it took a second to grab it, during which Leo raised his eyebrows at my ringtone. Who was being judgmental now?
“Hello?
”
“Wave at me,” a voice said.
I glanced at the screen: Ambrose. “What?”
“I’m inside, in the living room. Facing you right now. Wave at me. Make it look urgent.”
“You need an urgent wave?”
“Just do it. Please?” Then he hung up.
I turned, peering over a group of girls huddled in the open sliding-glass door. Ambrose was indeed all the way across the room from me, a red cup now in his hands. A girl with broad shoulders and a high ponytail was facing him, her hands on her hips. He looked like he might be sweating.
“What’s going on?” Leo asked.
“Not sure,” I said, then waved at Ambrose. He looked surprised, then glanced both ways, as if wondering if it was too late to avoid being spotted. I waved again, this time with a bit more arm. The girl in front of him turned around, narrowing her eyes at me.
“What was that, your ringtone?” Leo asked me. “It sounded like . . .”
“It’s nothing,” I told him, as the girl with the ponytail turned back to Ambrose, sticking her finger in his face. I watched as he slid out from in front of her, talking the entire time, then made a beeline across the room, dodging in and out of people, before popping out the door a minute or two later. Ira, spotting him, began wiggling, his tail going crazy.
“Thanks,” he said to me as he slid in beside me, bumping my leg with his. Not only did I not feel awkward, I didn’t even move over. “Melissa was getting a bit clingy.”
I looked back at the living room, where Melissa, with her big shoulders, was now glaring at me. “What did you tell her?”
“That you are my ex-girlfriend and we’ve gotten back together since she and I hung out, and you are very jealous,” he replied smoothly, now scratching a grateful Ira behind his ears.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“It’s fine, our road trip to the mountains was weeks ago.”
“You went to the mountains with that girl?”
“I needed some clear air,” he explained. “Don’t you, sometimes?”