by Dahlia Adler
“Some of it definitely is,” she says confidently.
“I assume we’re just not supposed to ask about the rest?” Mase frowns down at the wine glasses. “Maybe we should start here.”
“Solid plan,” says Cait, coming up behind him and snaking an arm around his waist to get a glass. They hand them out to the rest of us. “Should we toast to something?”
“To Lizzie’s cooking skills,” I say quickly before any of them can try to center me and Samara again.
“Hey, just Lizzie’s?” Connor protests.
“Sorry, sorry—to Lizcon,” I amend.
“Lizcon?” Connor wrinkles his nose. “That sounds like a gathering of people who dress up like reptiles.”
“Agreed,” says Lizzie. “Cozzie is a way better portmanteau.”
“Cozzie is a pretty great ship name,” Samara agrees with a nod.
“Ship name?” Mase looks at the rest of us like we’re speaking in tongues.
“You know, like couple names,” says Sam. “Like, y’all are obviously Case.” She gestures between him and Cait with her cider glass. “Or Mait. I guess both work.”
“Ooh, or Claw!” Cait wraps an arm around Mase’s biceps and looks up at him adoringly. “I know I said I’d never get used to people calling you ‘Law,’ but this actually makes it seem worth it.”
“I’m suddenly vastly aware of how much estrogen is in this room,” says Connor.
Lizzie raises her glass. “To my occasionally sexist boyfriend! Who, to his credit, totally cooked and cleaned today.”
“To occasionally sexist Connor,” the rest of us declare over his protests, then drink. I let my gaze stray to Samara’s throat as she swallows her cider, then up to her mouth pursed on the cup. She catches me watching her and bites one of those pink-glossed lips.
Yeah, okay, I can make it through this dinner.
“Okay, sit! Sit! Max designed us place cards,” Lizzie says proudly.
“Max is her youngest brother,” I explain to Samara as we take our seats at the little bistro table, leaving the normal-size seats to Lizzie and the above-five-ten crowd.
Her lips twitch. “Cute.”
“So tell us about what we’re eating,” says Cait as she refills her wineglass. “It smells awesome. Decidedly not like it follows my diet plan, but awesome.”
“Yeah, you’re welcome for not feeding you steamed green beans and a chicken breast exactly the size of a deck of playing cards, or whatever,” says Lizzie as she walks out of the kitchen holding a platter of what look like fried dumplings. “Trust me, pinsec frito are better than whatever kale smoothie you were planning on having for dinner.”
“I believe it,” I murmur. “They smell amazing.”
“They better, seeing as they took forfuckingever.” She puts them down in the middle of the larger table, and Connor places a bowl of dipping sauce next to them. “I was not blessed with dainty chopping hands.”
“Good thing they have other uses,” I say with an obnoxious wink at Connor as the rest of them help themselves. Mase passes me the platter and I hold it out for Sam before helping myself to one of my own, followed by a dollop of the sweet and sour sauce.
“Damn, these are really good,” says Mase. “I gotta admit, I did not know you could cook.”
“She seduced me with bacon mac ’n cheese, in fact,” Connor says warmly.
“Is this crab and pork?” Cait asks. “God, you’re trying to kill me.” Not that it stops her from taking another one.
As everyone gushes over the food—with good reason; it is damn good—I watch Sam take her careful little bites, daintily cut by knife and fork. It honestly didn’t even occur to me to use flatware, but everything she does is controlled, pristine, polite.
What if she’s like that in bed, too?
Fuck.
What if we’re not sexually compatible? What if she insists on eye contact at all times and calling it “making love”? She’s an amazing kisser, and she didn’t exactly seem restrained that night behind the gym, but making out is making out—what if sex is a whole different ball game?
“You okay?” she murmurs in my ear, breaking the anxiety spell. I blink and realize her plate is empty, and everyone else is taking seconds or thirds and listening to Lizzie and Connor talk about their Filipino restaurant tour of the city this past summer. Which gives me a brief flash into my own upcoming NYC trip, with my art history class. I hadn’t thought of bringing Sam with me; hell, I hadn’t thought of being tied down for that trip at all…
I realize she’s still waiting for a response, and I say, “Yeah, fine,” while squeezing her knee, though I’m not sure if it’s to reassure her or myself. Then I join in the conversation like an actual human, and when the pinsec frito platter dwindles to nothing but flakes of gold, I jump up to help Lizzie serve the next course.
At least she doesn’t notice I’m being a total space case; she’s too distracted by her own cooking. “Fuck, I think I burned the garlic in the chicken and pork adobo,” she mutters as she pushes a dish around in a pan. “Does this smell burnt to you?”
It kinda does, but it also looks delicious and I have no doubt she worked her ass off on it, so I just say, “Nah, it smells great.”
She perks up and hands me a huge bowl to put it in, then reaches down into the oven to pull out a platter of what I know from her mother visiting freshman year are lumpia. My mouth waters in Pavlovian response to the sight of them—the ones her mother brought that first Parents Weekend were afuckingmazing—and it makes my heart ache to think about how hard this must be for Lizzie, what kinds of memories this must be bringing back. I put down the bowl of slightly burnt-smelling meat and give Lizzie a quick one-armed squeeze around her shoulders. She responds with a kiss to my forearm, and then she gets back to work, so I do too.
Connor comes in then to spoon steamed rice into bowls, and while the two of them flirt, I let my gaze travel back to the table as I finish filling the bowl.
Sam looks happy. Comfortable. I mean, she should be—she’s just talking to her roommate and said roommate’s boyfriend—but…it’s nice to see her looking so settled with my friends, in my apartment.
Nice and scary.
Cait was clearly born for monogamy. She and Mase had barely been back together two minutes when they decided to spend a month of the summer together at their old camp. And Lizzie just cares that she’s getting laid regularly; that it’s constantly with the same person doesn’t seem to faze her at all.
Could we actually be that, me and Sam?
Do I wanna be?
The thought clings to me as we bring out the rest of the food—the chicken and pork adobo, the platter piled high with lumpia, bowls of steamed rice, and an amazing-smelling vegetable stew Lizzie explains is pinakbet, made with about a hundred substitutions because the produce selection around Radleigh is seriously lacking. I take my seat next to Sam and kiss her smooth cheek, hating myself for having so many conflicting thoughts when she’s being a perfect date at this perfect meal.
“What was that for?”
I shrug. “I like you.” That, at least, I know without a doubt.
That shy smile I know so well spreads across her face, but any response she might have is cut off by the bowl of pinakbet being passed to her. Everyone takes food while Lizzie answers questions about it and accepts compliments, and I take a ton of everything, possibly burnt garlic and all. I’m just lifting a forkful of pork belly to my lips when I notice Cait and Mase out of the corner of my eye—she’s daintily putting okra from her pinakbet on Mase’s plate, while he puts his tomatoes on hers.
Clearly I’m not as subtle as I think, because she catches me watching and laughs. “When you spend a month living out of a camp cafeteria together, you pick up a whole lot about each other’s food habits.”
“I think that’s an automatic thing you pick up when you’ve been dating a while no matter what,” says Connor, then pauses. “Or maybe Lizzie’s just really, really clear on what she doe
sn’t like.”
“Green pepper, red onion, black olives, cottage cheese, and cilantro,” Cait and I chorus, and everyone else cracks up. “Maybe it’s not just a dating thing,” I concede with a grin.
“I can’t think of any foods I know you don’t like,” says Sam, cutting a piece of chicken into even smaller bits.
“That’s because there aren’t any,” Lizzie assures her before I can say a word, and it’s true; I’m not exactly a picky eater. “Unless you count Cait’s healthy shit.”
“Oh my God, must I always be a target?”
“Yes.” Now it’s me and Lizzie who are a chorus. Cait sighs.
“Food tastes is definitely one measure of coupledom,” says Connor, “but I’ve always thought there was something so official about knowing each other’s middle names for some reason.”
“I love how confounding that made it for you that I don’t have one.” Lizzie’s smirk is the dictionary definition of smug.
“Of course you do.”
“Hey, I learned how you take your coffee. That’s a pretty big relationship step,” she counters.
“Yes!” Cait squeezes Mase’s arm. “The first time Mase brought me my exact regular smoothie order in camp, that was totally my ‘oh my God, he is really my boyfriend’ moment.”
Mase laughs and shakes his head. “Man, I wish I could stop ruining these memories for you, but it was that kid who made the smoothies who knew your regular order, not me. You know he had a huge crush on you, right?”
Her affectionate squeeze turns into a whack on his biceps. “Seriously? First the stars and now this? I swear, our whole relationship is a lie.”
“Oh, come on. Isn’t it the thought that counts?”
“It totally is, man,” Connor agrees.
“Thank you.” Mase fist-bumps him across the table, and Lizzie and Cait both roll their eyes.
“Thank you, Frankie,” Lizzie says, looking from me to Samara, “for not adding any more testosterone to this group.”
“I’m guessing the training sessions aren’t helping with that particular problem?”
She snorts, and Connor pouts, earning him a kiss on the cheek.
“Feeling a little left out here,” Samara declares. “There are training sessions available for significant others of the three musketeers? I want in.”
“Oh, it’s just weightlifting,” says Connor. “Nothing remotely as strenuous as dealing with these three all together.”
“Lord, if only there were such a class,” Mase adds, then ducks as I pretend to throw my lumpia at his skull. As if I would waste it. I take a huge bite instead.
So good.
Conversation turns to Mase and the basketball team, and since I know less than nothing about sports, my brain tunes out again. As I stuff my face with chicken, pork, vegetables, and rice, the earlier conversation drifts back to me.
Samara doesn’t like: coffee (too bitter), black licorice (same), Jell-O (the consistency weirds her out), bananas (literally anything about them), or alcohol (doesn’t like feeling fuzzy-brained).
Her middle name is Jane. She doesn’t take coffee at all (see above); green tea is her caffeinated beverage of choice. Tea, period, is probably her favorite thing on earth, and lately she’s taken to drinking it with one orange teabag and one vanilla teabag, because she read it in a book she loved and thought it sounded delicious.
I love that I know all this.
I hate that I know all this.
I hate most that I’m still having these arguments with myself in my head.
Fuck this. I can worry about the future later. I’m here with Samara now, and my friends—our friends—now, and I’m being a selfish asshole, all because…what? Because an incredibly sweet, smart, gorgeous girl and I might like each other too much? Yeah, my life is really terrible.
I turn back to my plate, and realize it’s empty. I’m not usually a stress eater, but it helps that the food was seriously kickass. “Hot damn, Lizzie B. That was good. I really wish I’d known to wear sweatpants to this dinner.”
“Oh, you better not be done, Missy. Any of you.” She glares around the table at everyone’s empty plates. “I busted my ass on dessert.”
“There’s dessert?” Cait groans. “Do you not even care about lacrosse season?” She pauses for a beat. “Wait, don’t answer that.”
“I can’t imagine eating any more this week,” says Mase, which earns him a withering glare from Lizzie. “But, uh, obviously I’m gonna.”
“She’s going to kill me if I don’t, right?” Sam whispers in my ear.
“Oh, yes. Surrender is not an option.”
“I might need to borrow a pair of those sweatpants.”
Fucking A, the image of her swimming in my sweats is so cute. She may be a little taller, but I’m considerably curvier from top to bottom. Much as I love her form-fitting yoga wear, there’s something way too irresistible about the thought of her in my clothes. “You are more than welcome to my pants anytime,” I tell her, my lips close enough to graze her earlobe.
Her responsive flush turns me to liquid. Everywhere.
I need to get up from this table before I say and do things to her Lizzie and Cait have told me repeatedly should not be done in front of others.
Presumably, Samara has the same idea, because we both get up at that moment to clear the table. Everyone pitches in, and in minutes, the sink is full of dishes, and the table’s covered in paper plates and plasticware (we only have so much of the real stuff), awaiting the final course.
Dessert, it turns out, is basically an entire other meal in itself. There are more lumpia—sweet ones this time, filled with banana and dusted with sugar, and apparently called turon—and a pudding of sorts she calls maja blanca, which looks to be coconut and corn, among other things. “There’s also ice cream to go with the turon,” she adds, reaching into the freezer, “but I wasn’t feeling that ambitious, so, you guys better like Ben & Jerry’s.”
“Who doesn’t?” asks Sam, and I know she’ll happily eat scoops of it plain, since there’s no way she’s touching banana. (No pun intended.)
“Will you still kiss me after I eat this?” I ask once we’re all seated with dessert on our plates, tapping the crispy wrapper.
She pretends to think about it while she digs a spoon into the maja blanca. “That might depend on whether I’m even able to move after I finish.”
“Fair point.” Like everything else, dessert is delicious, although Connor was right earlier that it was the toasted coconut that got a little charred. By the time we’re all done, everyone is groaning out their compliments to the chefs, and I’m feeling endlessly grateful that I’m already home and don’t have to roll my ass outside right now.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to offer Samara the same fate, and then I remember: be good. I may think I’m too full to fool around right now but I suspect that can be far too easily fixed by a single flick of her tongue over my bellybutton ring—something I learned the hard way the other night.
Luckily, Mase saves the day. After everyone’s lingered for a while, polishing off the wine and cider and cleaning as much as can possibly be done without actually doing our dishes, he offers to walk Cait and Sam home. I’m surprised when Lizzie sends Connor with them, but then I see her make a subtle head tilt in my direction, and I realize she wants to talk. I cheek-kiss everyone goodbye except Sam, who gets full-on mouth-to-mouth once everyone else is out the door, and head back to the kitchen.
“So?” Lizzie asks.
“So, that was truly excellent. You guys seriously outdid yourselves.”
“Not the food, you dork.” She tosses me a dish towel, then runs the sink and grabs the first plate. “Look, I know you think I’m totally chill about my relationship and everything, but I have moments of terror too.”
That genuinely does surprise me. “Really?”
“Yeah, really.” She scrubs at the first plate hard enough to take off the glaze. “I think…I think Connor’s it for me. Lik
e, I actually think this might be forever. And that scares the shit out of me.”
I exhale deeply. “Oh, thank God. I mean, not about the forever part—I’m just gonna pretend you didn’t say that—but the scared part.”
“You know me, Frank. You really think I planned to find my life partner at nineteen? You don’t think I expected to be sowing my wild oats alongside you until my tits lost their perkiness?” She hands me the dish she just cleaned.
“You do have great tits.”
“Why thank you.” She takes another towel and snaps it at my ass, then picks up another dish to wash. “It’s normal to be nervous. But you seem to really like her. And more importantly, I like her.”
I know she’s joking, but the truth is, it does make me fizzy with happiness to hear that. I know how much it means to me to like Connor and Mase, not just for my best friends but on their own. The fact that Lizzie and Cait like Samara is a pretty big deal.
“I do really like her,” I admit, and it feels good to say it aloud. “I’m pretty fucking crazy about her, in fact. I don’t know why that doesn’t make me feel more settled.”
“You’ll get there,” she says, giving my shoulder a squeeze with a soapy hand, then handing me another plate. “You guys are really good together. The more time you spend with her, the more you’ll realize there isn’t an alternative to being with her that’s better than the reality you have.” The corners of her lips twitch. “Unless the sex sucks.”
My heart thuds. “Do you think it will?”
“Jesus, Frankie, I was kidding.” She pauses. “Wait, do you think it will? Is that why you’re so freaked out?”
“Maybe? I don’t know.” I put the dry dish on the counter and take the next one she hands me. “Judging by the stuff we’ve done so far, hell no; I have zero complaints. But sex changes things. Sex with a virgin definitely changes things. It’s been a long time since I was someone’s first.”
“Well, then, don’t hang too much on the first time. You’ve got as long as you need to get it right. Who has a great first time, anyway?”
