Relative Strangers

by Paula Garner

  I took a sip and made fake mmmm sounds. Eli snorted.

  Luke wrote: And it was way salty.

  I frowned, then gasped. You didn’t put the seasoning packet in, did you???

  He wrote: YOU DID NOT SAY NOT TO PUT THE PACKET IN.

  I was horrified at how nasty it must have been, but that didn’t stop me from laughing till I cried.

  He wrote: You are terrible at this! Next time give me a foolproof recipe. What else do you have?

  I started naming every halfway successful ramen experiment I could think of. He stopped me at ramen Amatriciana — another abuse of an Italian recipe.

  He wrote: Bacon??? You found a way to get bacon in ramen??

  I wrote: I have two ramen dishes that use bacon. One with tomato sauce and one with eggs and cheese.

  Eli gave up on me and went over to his computer.

  Luke wrote, Okay, maybe I’ll give you another chance one of these days.

  I wrote, If I had known how hopeless in the kitchen you are, I would have given you much clearer instructions. Sheesh!

  He wrote, I told you I was hopeless! Anyway, I learn by doing. You should show me sometime.

  My stomach flipped over. I would love to.

  He wrote, Let me get through this recital and then maybe we can make a plan?

  He added, My mom is going to have to miss my recital, and my dad probably will, too. Which . . . It’s okay, but it upsets her a lot, missing anything, and not being there to cheer me on. You know?

  Not really, I thought, my heart aching for everyone. Everyone except my mom. For Luke, for his devoted parents, and for myself. I had no idea what that kind of cherishing felt like. I’m so sorry, I wrote again. If there’s anything I can do . . .

  Thanks, he wrote. My dad is super excited that you found me, by the way. We haven’t told my mom yet — he thinks we should let her rebuild her strength first — but I know she’ll be over the moon when she finds out. I think she might have missed you even more than I did, if that’s possible.

  I was filled with a rush of warmth and wonder. To have been loved that way — missed that way! How was it possible? As I struggled for words, Luke wrote again. You’ve been on my mind a lot. FYI.

  I would have given anything to be with him. To be able to hug him. I wrote, You’ve been on my mind a lot, too. I took a gulp of my drink for courage. Like, a LOT.

  He sent a smiley back, then wrote, Oh, crap — I lost track of the time. I have to go.

  I frowned, disappointed that he was again leaving when I wasn’t nearly ready to let him go. It felt like I could never get enough of him.

  He wrote, Take care of yourself, okay? I’ll talk to you soon!

  Okay, I wrote. And then, before he disappeared, I started typing kind of desperately: Good luck at your recital! And my thoughts will be with your mom. Keep in touch! And then I stared at my phone until I became aware of Eli muttering dialogue to himself. “‘You’re just like your father.’ No . . . ‘You . . . You and your father are cut from the same cloth . . .’”

  I set my half-full cup on the table and went over to Eli. “How goes the work?” I asked, touching his hair.

  He leaned back into my touch, pushing his head into my hand for petting. He really was like my kitty. “Eh. Not great. How is Bromeo?” he asked.

  I chortled. “Bromeo. You’re so clever.” I sighed, stroking his hair. “I used to call him Duke, apparently.”

  “Duke and Jules.” He grinned, his lip ring glimmering. “Sounds like the title of a bodice ripper.”

  “Stop it,” I said, giving his head a gentle shove. Then I sighed. “He’s sad that his mom is going to miss his recital Saturday.”

  “You should go.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  He spun his chair to face me. “You should go. Then he’d have someone there, and you could watch those magical fingers in action.”

  “Stop projecting.”

  He laughed. “Seriously, though. Why not go?”

  I paused to consider. Why not go? If I could get there? The idea was hard to resist.

  Eli’s fingers flew on his keyboard, then he leaned back and turned the screen to me. “Here it is. It’s Saturday at two. Be there or be square.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, but already I was thinking about it. Could I? Maybe I could! Gab had a car — maybe she’d take me. The more I thought of it, the more right it sounded.

  By the end of the evening and another cup of voodoo juice, I had decided: if Luke’s parents couldn’t be at his recital to support him, his sort-of sister would be.

  Gab was jubilant that I was grabbing life by the proverbial balls. And she was more than happy to drive me.

  I got up Saturday morning, showered, and made some tea and toast. As I pulled out my treasured jar of Oxford marmalade, I thought about the rationing in England during the war. I wondered what breakfast looked like during those years, with tea, sugar, bread, and milk rationed. Meat, too, of course, and even marmalade. How hard the women and cooks must have worked to produce meals in such lean times, depending on cleverness as well as frugality. Sometimes I imagined I could have done a decent job at that myself.

  My mom padded in just as I was finishing my breakfast. We had exchanged few words since I took off for Eli’s Tuesday night. I kept expecting her to demand answers, but she mostly holed up in her studio. Perhaps she realized that demanding answers from me would set her up for the same in reverse. Apparently she was willing to forfeit one to spare herself the other.

  “Hi,” she said. She looked tired. She was still in her robe, and her hair hung in her face.

  “Hi.”

  She leaned against the counter and crossed her arms. “Can we talk about what you said the other day?”

  I stood. “I can’t, it’s too hard to talk about,” I said, bitchily throwing her own words back in her face. I put my plate and cup by the sink and headed for my room. She didn’t follow me. Frankly, I wouldn’t have followed me, either.

  When Gab arrived to pick me up, I called to my mom as I left that I was hanging out with Gab, then immediately closed the door behind me.

  We headed north on 41 in Gab’s Prius, music blaring. My palms were sweaty, and I kept feeling like I needed to pee even though I knew I didn’t. I turned down the music and started spewing my worries so that Gab could talk me down, which she was good at. After a while, Leila messaged. I hope your day is amazing. I’ll be thinking about you. Wish I were there.

  “Leila’s sad she’s not with us,” I told Gab.

  I watched Gab for a moment, observing, as I always did, her sharp, aquiline nose in profile. It suited her. She was the most self-possessed, secure person I knew.

  “Well, she had her cousins’ brunch.”

  Ah, yes, the monthly gathering of the ten thousand cousins on her mom’s side. “I know, but she feels left out.” I bit my thumbnail, staring out at the road ahead, the gray, overcast sky.

  “She’ll get over it.”

  I thought that was kind of cold, but there was that Gab-and-Leila aspect that was hard for me to judge.

  An hour into the trip, Gab spotted a frozen custard place and insisted on stopping. I was anxious to get to Lawrence, but the stop was probably a good thing, because toast wasn’t much of a breakfast and who knew when I’d eat next. We sat at a tiny table by the window, my spoon dipping back and forth between my vanilla and my chocolate. I wondered which Luke preferred. Or if, like me, he just wanted it all.

  We arrived at the campus early, despite the stop. Gab drove slowly around, looking for Harper Hall — the location of the concert, according to the website. We soon discovered that it had been moved to the chapel. The campus wasn’t that big, so Gab just parked in the first spot she found.

  “Oh my God,” she said suddenly, staring out the window. “It’s a sign, Jules.”

  I craned my neck around. “What is? Is it Luke?”

  She pointed, and I started to laugh. Walking on the sidewalk right across from us
was a guy with blond dreadlocks wearing a sweatshirt, Jesus sandals with socks, and . . . a kilt.

  “Come on,” she said, but she paused to take a quick look in her visor mirror. “Oh my God,” she said, trying to flatten her hair on the sides. “Look at this latke lid. Hopeless.” She snapped the visor shut, grabbed the keys, and opened the door, grinning. “Come on!”

  “Gab, no!” I got out of the car and followed her. “What are you going to do?”

  I had to skip to keep up with her — she was striding right toward him. Oh, please God, don’t let her ambush him with an under-kilt inspection.

  I glanced around — I liked the look of the campus, not that I’d seen many. It was small, a mix of old and new, and seemed like a cool place, judging by the wide array of disparate student types I was spotting. It was sort of the Laroche’s of colleges — nothing matched. And although it was windy, the sun was starting to peek out, which made the whole campus look prettier and happier.

  Gab had stopped the guy, who was regarding her with a friendly expression. As I caught up, I could see Gab was disarming him with that down-to-earth, we’re all friends here style she has. He was nodding and eating a muffin. Lemon – poppy seed, by the looks of it. He was probably stoned halfway to Tuesday.

  “Hi,” I said, out of breath.

  “This is Jules,” Gab told the guy.

  “Byron,” he said, switching hands with his muffin, wiping his hand on his shirt, and shaking my hand.

  “So I have three questions for you,” Gab said.

  “All right,” Byron said, his easy smile revealing huge teeth. “I’ll give you three answers.”

  Gab smoothed down her hair, which was futile. “Okay. (A) Why are you wearing a kilt?”

  He nodded. “That’s easy. Comfort.”

  “That’s it?” Gab said. “You just wear one because it’s comfortable? Are you Scottish or anything?”

  “Is that the second question?”

  Gab smiled. “No.”

  He smiled back at her. “All right. Nope, not Scottish. I’ve got German and Viking blood.” He took another bite of his muffin.

  Some kids walking by across the street called out a greeting to Byron — only they called him “B-dog” — and he waved his muffin in response. He was built like a teddy bear: roundish belly, thick, solid limbs.

  “So you just wear it?” Gab asked. “Anytime? Like, instead of pants?”

  “Is that the second question?” he asked, squinting at Gab.

  Gab laughed and shook her head.

  There was flirting going on here.

  “All right, I’ll grant you another freebie.” He tilted his head and rubbed his bristly chin. “I’d say I wear a kilt four or five days a week. I try to keep my pants in the rotation so they don’t feel forgotten.”

  Gab nodded. “I see. Next — and this is the second question, by the way — could we inquire as to what you wear under it?” She raised her eyebrows almost imperceptibly.

  I would have liked to disappear into a hole in the ground. I pushed my hair over my shoulder — the wind kept blowing it in my face — and looked around impatiently.

  “Ayup,” he said, nodding. “People always want to know that. I could be coy and tell you to look for yourselves, but I’ll just give you the straight answer: I wear boxers. Is that good or bad?”

  “It’s fine,” I blurted out. When Gab turned to me, I tapped my wrist and gave her a come on! look.

  Someone walked by in a giraffe costume. This place was a madhouse. I kind of liked it.

  “Last question,” Gab said. “Where’s the chapel?”

  “Ah, the easiest question yet,” he said, turning toward a building across the street and down a little. “You just have to go around to the other side. Someone performing?”

  “Luke Margolis,” Gab said. “You know him?”

  “Oh, sure. I had him in an art history class last year.”

  Do not invite him to come with us or I will kill you!

  She heard my telepathic message. “Well, thanks for all the answers, freebies and all,” Gab said. “We’d better get going.”

  “Hey, we’re having a little get-together at my place later,” he said, never taking his eyes off Gab. “I live in the building right over there —” He turned and pointed. “Plantz Hall. Right next to the chapel.” He turned back to Gab. “Little beer, little tequila, little weed, some tunes . . . you should come.”

  “Maybe,” Gab said, peering over at where he was pointing.

  Maybe not. I let out a breath and looked pointedly across the street.

  So Gab said good-bye to Byron, and we headed to the chapel. My stomach was tying itself into knots that would have stumped a sailor. Why hadn’t I messaged Luke on the drive over, to let him know I was coming? Was I really just going to show up and surprise him? But it was too late to text him now. He was about to perform and I didn’t want to do anything to distract him.

  As we approached the chapel, my attention was momentarily diverted. It was beautiful — large and white, with columns and a steeple. I wondered when it was built. It was not a modern construction — I would have bet it was early twentieth century, 1920s at the latest.

  “Come on,” Gab said softly, pulling me up the steps.

  “I’m getting really nervous about running into him,” I said. “I should have told him I’m coming instead of ambushing him like this. Why didn’t I?”

  Gab pulled the door open.

  “This is gorgeous,” Gab whispered. “Holy cats.”

  It was gorgeous, yes, but I was queasy and starting to shake. Luke had to be here somewhere. What if he spotted me and it jarred him? What if I ruined his performance?

  Right. I’m that important.

  “Where do you want to sit?” Gab asked softly, pulling me out of the way as other people entered.

  “Where he can’t see me,” I said, regretting that I wouldn’t be able to sit up front where I could see him better.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she grumbled.

  We accepted a program from a pretty girl in a short retro plaid dress and cat glasses and found a seat in the back balcony. “Do you think he’ll be able to see us?” I whispered to Gab. The place was so flooded with light from the windows that there was no chance of hiding.

  “No way. Besides, he’s not going to be staring into the audience when he plays.”

  Good point. I glanced down at the program. There were actually five performers — he was the last.

  I took a deep breath and stared at the ceiling, which was coffered with huge octagons. It looked like the bottom of a giant snow boot.

  By 2:00 the center seating area was mostly full, but the balcony areas were sparsely populated. When the performances began, I couldn’t enjoy them. My mind raced in a million directions, and I kept looking at the program, trying to gauge how far we were from Luke’s performance. I didn’t even realize how frenetically my leg was jiggling until Gab laid a hand on my knee.

  Was I going to just walk up to him afterward? Surprise! How did I expect him to react?

  I wished I hadn’t come. Why had this seemed like a good idea? Damn Eli and his voodoo juice and persuasion. When the concert ended, I would sneak out immediately, making sure Luke never saw me, and hit the pavement running.

  Gab jabbed me with her elbow and gestured with her head toward the stage. A violin duet was wrapping up. It was Luke’s turn.

  When he walked out onto the stage, I slid down in my seat and let my hair fall forward, even though I knew he wasn’t likely to spot me way in the back. He looked as perfect in a suit as he did in faded jeans. He gave a smile and a nod to the audience and then sat. He immediately got back up and started twisting the knob on the seat to lower it. Some shorty must have played before him, which I’d know if for the past half hour I’d had the attention span God gave a flea. I glanced at the program. The first piece was Chopin Étude op. 10, no. 12 in C minor, “Revolutionary.”

  He looked up with a grin as he fin
ished adjusting the seat and took his place in front of the piano. A hush settled over the place. He sat stock-still for a long moment, then dove in.

  I couldn’t help tensing up. From the first notes, the piece was intense, fast, and furious. It sounded like there were about fifty-eight hands on those keys. He punctuated his playing with head movements that sent his hair flying. Gab was squeezing my hand so hard it hurt. She jabbed me and gave me an oh my GOD are you freaking kidding me look. Yes. Yes, he was that amazing.

  When he finished the piece, my hands flew from my lap to applaud, but Gab stopped me just in time. I would have been the only sound in the place; clearly, applause was meant to be held to the end of his performance, and everyone knew that except me. I wished I had the faintest clue about music performances. I had missed so much in my life, and I felt so stupid.

  His next piece was Schubert, Piano Sonata in A major, D. 959 Second Movement, which went on forever, and that was fine with me because it was one of the most beautiful things I had ever heard. There were moments where Luke’s hands hovered over the keys, silent, still, taking his time. I glanced over at Gab at one point and she was transfixed. She was also practically breaking my fingers. My hands were wet with sweat, but she either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

  The sound of his playing resonated inside me, filling my chest with feelings I barely understood. I slipped my hand free of Gab’s and dug in my purse for a tissue when the piece ended. The music had moved me deeply, but also I despaired. I was a million miles from his world. I didn’t know a sonata from a hole in the ground. I probably wasn’t nearly interesting or cultured enough to hold his attention. What selling points did I even have? Knowledge of vintage china? Ramen noodle recipes? So stupid.

  His last piece was J. S. Bach, Fantasia in C minor BWV 906. This one, too, sounded impossibly complex. I couldn’t begin to fathom the brain and fingers that could finesse that. Hands crossing over each other, emotions changing on a dime . . . when he played the last note, he paused, hands above the keyboard, and then rested them in his lap.

  The applause was fierce. He stood and smiled modestly. People started standing up in the front, and soon everyone else followed suit. He was the only performer to receive a standing ovation.