by Paula Garner
“That depends on Drools,” Eli said, giving me a lazy, evil grin. “She causes some supply-and-demand problems.”
I’d kill him.
Luke gave me a puzzled glance.
“She thought ahead, though,” Eli said, reaching for the plate.
As he poured Luke’s coffee, I wondered how I had failed to consider how embarrassing it would be for Luke to know I’d reserved two chocolate croissants for us. My cheeks burned.
Eli put Luke’s coffee on the counter by the plate of croissants, eyeing Luke up and down and giving me a not bad nod that made me want to kick him.
I grabbed the plate to be sure I didn’t end up carrying Luke’s coffee with my shaking hands. His hands, I saw when we sat back down and he picked up his coffee, were steady. He had pianist’s fingers, too, long and lovely.
“A friend of yours, I take it?” he asked, nodding toward Eli.
“Something like that,” I mumbled. A friend I’d like to karate kick in the tenders at the moment . . . “Nice scarf,” I said to Luke, smiling. I twisted around to pull mine out of my coat, which was hanging on the back of my chair.
His mouth curved into a smile.
That smile . . . I had never seen a more adorable smile on any human, ever. And he had dimples, the left one a little deeper than the right.
He unwound the scarf around his neck and found its tag, then held it out to me.
jules, it said. That’s all. “Did you know my last name?” I asked.
He nodded. “I think my mom was thinking about the possibility that your last name could change . . .” He draped the scarf over the back of his chair. “Okay, let’s see if these measure up to the hype,” he said, picking up a croissant and pulling a piece off, golden flakes scattering. He lifted the bite to smell it, then gave me an oh, come on look. When he popped it in his mouth, he rolled his eyes. “Butter! So much butter.”
“Right? I’m kind of obsessed with them.” I pulled a little piece off of mine and put it in my mouth, trying not to get pastry shards stuck in my lip gloss. “So, um. Your parents. What are they like?”
He glanced up at me, then turned his eyes to his plate. Had I done something wrong? “They’re the best,” he said softly.
“Oh,” I said weakly. I mean, I could have guessed that they were great people, taking in a foster child, but it still hit me, somehow, hearing him affirm how good they were. “That’s great.”
“Your mom is really okay?” Luke’s voice stayed soft. “We never stopped worrying.”
I nodded, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. How much did he know about my mother? Apart from Leila and Gab, no one knew my mother was a recovering addict. It was strange to meet someone with whom information about my private life was not entirely in my control. “Yeah, she’s fine. Really.”
His relief was clear to see, and it made my heart swell, despite my confused feelings. This guy, this family, had been worrying about me for sixteen years! And I might never have known. I guess if it were up to my mother, I wouldn’t have ever known.
He sat back and watched me for a moment, till I ducked my head in embarrassment. “Sorry for staring. It’s just . . . man. I’d know you anywhere,” he said, shaking his head. “Those big brown eyes. That angelic face.”
A thrill ran through me. Before I could come up with a response, the door made its racket and a pack of tweens crashed in, their volume dials set on “clueless.” Poor Eli. But now Susan-the-flaky-part-timer had returned from her break, so in theory he’d have some help.
The kids argued about what the best drinks were, their voices crowding the place. Luke went back to his croissant, and I scrambled for something to say. “How did your audition go?”
“Good, I think.” He wiped his fingers on a napkin. “I did about as well as I could have hoped. You know — there’s always something you could have done better.”
“So you’re graduating this year?” When he nodded, I said, “How old are you? Twenty-two?” I played with a bit of croissant. That I still had some on my plate after this length of time was a testament to just how nervous and overwhelmed I was.
“Twenty-three. I took a gap year after high school. And you,” he said with a gleam in his eye, “are eighteen as of New Year’s Day.”
My eyes widened. “You remember my birthday?”
He laughed. “It’s not a hard one to remember, but yes, of course I do. I helped make your first birthday cake.”
I blinked, struggling for words. “You did?”
“Well,” he said, pulling off another bit of croissant, “mostly I licked the bowls, but you know. It’s important work.”
I smiled. “The most important. What kind was it?”
He regarded me as if I’d asked something ridiculous. “Chocolate. We’re not heathens.”
I laughed. I wondered if that’s why I loved chocolate so much. That would have been the first time I had tasted it — with Luke and his family.
“So what about you?” he said. “What are you into? What are your college plans?”
The part of small-talk conversations I hated most: Tell me about yourself. There was nothing to tell. I was uninteresting, limited in talent, and even more limited in experience.
I skipped straight to the college stuff, which was only marginally easier to answer. “I’d like to go to small liberal arts school, but . . . have to see how financial aid and scholarships pan out.”
“What are you thinking of studying?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I like English.”
He nodded encouragingly. “Do you like to write?”
“I like to read. And I like history, but not, like, politics and war and stuff. I like small-life history. What the furniture looked like. What the kitchens were like. What people were cooking.” I shrugged again.
“That’s really cool. How did you get interested in that?” He did the cutest mini – head toss when his hair tickled his eyes.
I tilted my head, thinking. “I’ve always liked old things — antiques and stuff like that. But I think the real spark was probably the Thorne miniatures at the Art Institute. Have you seen them?”
His face lit up. “The little models of rooms? Downstairs?”
“Yes! I love those. My mom took me to the Art Institute when I was a kid, and I couldn’t tear myself away from the Thorne miniatures.”
That was a pretty whitewashed version of what was actually not the happiest memory. Yes, my mother took me to the AIC, but instead of enjoying the miniatures with me, she lost her patience because all she wanted to see were the painting exhibitions, and I wasn’t old enough that she’d leave me alone and come back for me, so I didn’t even get to see them all. I was barely through eighteenth-century England when she dragged me off to stare at twentieth-century paintings of flowers that looked like psychedelic exploding vaginas. It was years before I was able to go back and take my time with the miniatures. And that was with the Wassermans, not my mother.
“What did you love about them?” he asked, leaning forward and propping his chin on his hand.
“Everything.” I struggled to articulate the magic of the little rooms. “The way they capture a place and time. The light pouring in from outside. The views of gardens out the windows. Staircases that lead somewhere you can’t see. All the tiny details — copper pots, crockery, place settings. Just imagining life in those rooms, pretending I’m there. Everything.”
He looked absolutely riveted. I wanted more of that like I wanted air.
I gestured at our dishes. “And then this. The china at Laroche’s.”
He glanced down at his cup and saucer. “These don’t match,” he observed, picking up the cup.
“Nothing here matches.” I looked at my own duo — English cup with a pastel cottage scene, Lenox saucer with a gold border. “It’s sort of a theme.” I hesitated. I wanted to show off a little. “I probably can identify every piece of china they have here.”
He made an I’m impressed face. “Okay,”
he said, sitting back and gesturing at his cup. “Let’s hear it.”
“Okay,” I said, tossing my hair back over my shoulders. “Your cup is English — Royal Albert. It’s the Snowdrops one from the Flower of the Month series, introduced in the nineteen fifties.”
He squinted at me, skeptical. “So how do I know you’re not making this up?”
“Check the bottom.” Obviously I wouldn’t have named this as a skill if I didn’t have a good handle on the china on our table. Madame V. was shuttling in new pieces all the time — their fragility meant a high rate of attrition — so I couldn’t always bat a thousand.
He held the cup aloft so he could see. He smiled and mouthed, “Holy shit.” His teeth were pretty. Straight on top and slightly crooked on bottom. And his eyelashes were ridiculous.
“The saucer,” I continued, “is also English, but older. Royal Crown Derby. The pattern is called ‘Vine.’”
He checked my work, shaking his head. “Okay, do yours.”
I complied, loving the intensity in his expression as he verified my answers.
“Okay,” he said, folding his fingers together, “so you’re a china savant. I’m not sure there’s a major in that.”
I laughed. “I wish.”
He pushed the cup and saucer aside and leaned toward me. “What else do you like?”
I dared to mirror his position, putting our faces about a foot apart. “Food.”
At this he smiled, hypnotizing me with his dimples and his lips and his teeth. “You always did.”
I blushed. “Oh, God. Was I a pig?”
“No!” He gave me a chastising look. “You were adorable, and you just . . .” He considered, obviously struggling for diplomacy. “You were enthusiastic about all things edible.” He smiled. “All right, what else?”
“Am I good at? Um . . . cooking.”
This was a wee stretch.
He raised his eyebrows. “That’s awesome. What do you like to cook?”
I wanted to name classic French recipes, dishes suggestive of complexity and sophistication, but I was way over my depth. “I have bastardized ramen noodles a hundred ways to Tuesday.”
That laugh again. “Okay, let’s hear your top ramen perversion.”
I thought for a moment. “My ultimate ramen dirty pleasure is probably cacio e pepe. It’s a Roman dish — pasta with lots of Romano cheese and black pepper. It’s really sharp and creamy and intense. I like to make it with ramen. Faster that way.”
His eyes were wide. “That sounds awesome.”
“I could tell you how to make it.” I shrugged. “It’s easy. Takes like five minutes.”
“It takes you five minutes. I’m a disaster in the kitchen.”
I couldn’t help smiling. Even his flaws were charming. “I’m telling you, a trained chimp could do it.”
“Trained chimps are pretty high level,” he objected. “Opposable thumbs? Plus training?”
I laughed. He was so funny! “You could do it. Sometimes I throw a fried egg on top. With a runny yolk.”
“Okay, now you’re making me drool.”
Eli suddenly appeared with coffee. “That’s why they call her Drools.”
I glared at him as he refilled our cups. How had he handled all those kids already? “Nobody calls me Drools,” I told Luke after Eli walked away. “Except Eli.”
“You used to call me Duke.” He laughed kind of sadly.
“I did?”
He nodded. “You couldn’t say your l’s. You’d say, like, wight for light. You mixed up letters a lot. You called pancakes tanpakes.”
Good God. So many things about myself that I might never have known, so many specific details. He held keys to my past — keys nobody else had. Not even my own mother.
“We still call them that at home,” he said. “And we still call cookies tookies.”
The idea that I had added permanent vocabulary words to a family I didn’t even know about was more than I could get my mind around.
“I’m sorry.” He reached forward as if to touch my hand but stopped short. “You know, we’ve thought of you all these years, but for you, it’s new and probably overwhelming. Is it too much?”
“No, it’s okay.” I tried to give him a reassuring smile. “I mean, yes, it’s overwhelming, but . . . it’s good. I just can’t believe there are people out there who have been thinking about me my whole life, and I never even knew. And if I hadn’t found my baby album, and if you hadn’t left me your scarf, I might still never know.”
He nodded. “Actually, your timing is . . .” He trailed off and glanced down. After a pause, he took a deep breath. “Look, there’s something you should know. And I don’t want to pressure you or anything, but . . .” He looked at me. “The thing is . . . my mom is sick.”
My stomach dropped. “Sick?”
He nodded, his brow furrowed. “Yeah, she . . . she has cancer.”
“Oh,” I said in a tiny voice. “Is she . . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
“It’s not great.” He scooted his chair in closer so he didn’t have to shout over the increasing din of customers. “She’s just had another round of chemo, so she’s pretty weak right now, but we’ll see if it makes a difference.”
I took a breath, stunned. This woman I didn’t even know about until now, this woman who had been an actual mother to me, might be dying. And my God, poor Luke. To face losing a mother like that?
“Jules,” he said softly. “My mom’s always hoped to see you again. Do you think you’d want to . . .”
“Of course!” I said. “Of course I want to meet her. My God.”
He tried to smile. “Let’s hope she rallies. I have a recital next Saturday and . . . well, I hope she can be there. She’s had to miss too many of them already, and . . .” He lifted a shoulder. “She’s the kind of mom who always is there for everything, you know?”
I nodded. I knew what that was like, but only because Leila had a mom like that and Gab had a mom like that.
He glanced at his watch. “Shoot, I have to hit the road.” He gave me a regretful look. “I have a lesson. Now I wish I’d canceled it.”
I did, too. It seemed like he’d just gotten there.
“I’m so glad this happened,” he said. “Seeing you again . . . It’s literally a dream come true.”
A bright, warm ache filled my chest. That someone felt this way about me . . . it was everything. “It’s like a dream for me, too,” I said.
He grinned and shook his head. “I still can’t believe it’s you.” He stood up and pulled on his coat. “Hey! Should we get a picture together?”
“Oh! Okay. Sure.”
He put an arm around me and aimed his phone at us. I hoped I’d look good in it. What if it came out badly and he kept looking at it, thinking, Meh? I smiled shyly and he took the picture.
“Here, I’ll send it to you, too,” he said, poking at his phone. When he finished, he grinned and said, “I’ll text you later, okay? Maybe you can walk me through making your Roman ramen.”
“I’d be happy to! But yeah . . .” I trailed off with a sad shrug. “Yeah, let me know how your mom is doing. I hope . . .”
He nodded. “I will.” He smiled and reached for me.
The hug. It was warm and safe, unhurried and amazing. Plus, I couldn’t help noticing, he smelled good. Not like men’s cologne or anything obvious, but fresh and shampoo-y and something a little new age-y — sort of like a clean-smelling kind of incense or a high-priced natural soap from Whole Foods. I didn’t want to let go. When we pulled away, he reached behind me for his scarf, the one with his name sewn on it.
“Oh,” I said, surprised.
“You want to keep each other’s?” He laughed at my surprise that he knew exactly what I was thinking.
We traded and I held his close to my chest.
His gaze held mine for a long moment. “Man, those eyes.” He took a few steps backward. “See you, Jules.”
“See you,” I said, a
lthough what I wanted was to stop him. I wanted to talk all day. I wanted another hug. I wanted him to not go away.
As he left, he turned to glance at me one more time. He smiled and shook his head as he pushed the door open. And my stomach flipped over.
It was such a thrill, this whole Luke thing. Having something like a brother would be amazing — an impossible gift falling out of nowhere.
But, man . . . if I met him under any other circumstances, I was pretty sure it would be me doing the falling.
Back at home, I googled the drive time from Laroche’s to Appleton, Wisconsin, so I would know when to reasonably start hoping to hear from him. While I waited, I had a long call with Gab and Leila, telling them every last detail I could remember. Their excitement meant the world to me — as did their admiration of the photo I’d forwarded them. “That is one happy dude,” Gab said. And Leila had chimed in, “Well, sure. He’s waited her whole life to find her.”
But there was a wistful tone to her voice, if I wasn’t imagining it, that gave me a pang. Something wonderful was happening to me that would probably never happen to Leila. And I ached over it.
They invited me to come over for a movie at Gab’s that night, but I passed. If I ended up talking to Luke later, as I hoped, I wanted my evening clear.
While I waited to hear from him, I made my ramen cacio e pepe to make sure my instructions would be perfect, in case he actually tried to make it. I devoured it, not worrying about spoiling my appetite for dinner, since my mom was out for the evening yet again. More meetings, more friends . . . I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved she was getting support and had a social network, or worried she was struggling with wanting to drink and hanging out where people might be doing just that.
Apart from that, I stared a lot at the picture Luke took of us. We looked pretty sweet together — Luke nearly a head taller than me, and smiling so big, eyebrows up as if to say, Can you believe this?
He did look happy. And it filled me up.
But by well into the evening, hours past any reasonable drive time, I still hadn’t heard from him. I was tempted to text something like Hope you’re out buying ramen and Romano, but I didn’t want to seem like a pest. Still, it seemed reasonable to message him that I was happy to meet him. So I sent a message to that effect, then watched my phone obsessively for about half an hour, at which point it stopped seeming likely that a response was about to arrive any second.
