“Like a ninja. I will steal that heart of yours before you even—”
“No, I see it coming,” I interrupt.
“Then it’s working. My evil plan is working. Muaahahaha …”
“Are you a ninja or Count Chocula?”
“Ninja!” he says, with the cuteness of a little boy proudly announcing his Halloween costume.
Forty-five minutes later, Brendan is at my door, announcing that we’re going on a picnic. This is something I haven’t done in a while, and it’s sweet and romantic, I suppose, as long as there’s no ant rebellion.
The conversation in the car is easy. The food smells amazing, and he won’t tell me where he got it from, but I’m ravenous by the time we get to Will Rogers State Park.
We pull up to the park, and Brendan lays out our blanket and pulls out three gigantic bags of food.
“Roscoe’s House of Chicken and Waffles!” he exclaims proudly. “Ever been?”
“I’ve always wanted to,” I say. “But I’ve never made it.”
“Then allow me to Roscoe’s devirginize you.”
“Is it gonna hurt?”
“Only when it’s gone,” he says, and I think to myself how true that is. My mind goes to Ryan, but the scent of fried goodness quickly pulls me back to the present. I take in the scene, the trees, the couple with their new puppy, the family with their new baby, the dirty hippies who for some reason still haven’t received the memo that tie-dye is just not okay. I look back to Brendan, who’s dishing out our food.
“That really smells unreal,” I say.
“Now, I picked Roscoe’s not just because it’s awesome,” he says, “but because they pack one hell of a lucky lunch.”
“Really …” I reply, my curiosity piqued.
“Hell, yes. You are about to have the luckiest meal of your life.”
“That’s quite the proclamation.”
“Behold …” he says as he waves his hand over a container. “Black-eyed peas.” It’s true. Black-eyed peas are supposed to be lucky, especially on New Year’s Day; they’ll bring good fortune for the new year. As he pulls out different containers, it seems he’s put more thought into this picnic than I’d realized. It’s really sweet and quite charming.
“We have collard greens,” he says. “Known to be lucky, as they resemble folded money. Corn bread, which represents wealth because of its golden color. Chicken … which is not necessarily lucky for us, certainly not lucky for the chickens, but is undeniably delicious. Circular foods represent coming full circle and living a full life—we have two of these represented by exhibit A, the waffles, and exhibit B, the sweet-potato pie.”
“You’re too much,” I say as I marvel at the feast before us and all of the good-luck blessings that he’s gone so out of his way to bestow upon us. While I don’t like surprises in general, this meal really is a surprise, both in content and in the character of my date. He definitely gets brownie points for this. Or sweet-potato points, as it were.
“That smells really good,” someone says, and I look up to see that one of the hippies has sauntered over. His jeans are longer than his leg span and, were I to take a wild guess, haven’t been washed since Jerry Garcia died.
“It does indeed,” I say, trying to be polite.
“Looks like you have a lot of food,” the hippie girl now chimes in.
It almost seems like they want some of our food, but we haven’t even started eating yet. “We’re big eaters,” Brendan says, and we make eye contact and share a smile.
“Yeah …” the hippie guy says. “Man, that chicken smells good.”
“Yeah, it does, bro,” Brendan says, in a way that would signal to a normal person that the conversation was over. But we don’t seem to be dealing with normal people. These are hungry, hungry hippies.
“Is that corn bread?” the guy asks.
It doesn’t seem as though these people are going away. Neither of us wants to be rude, but this is awkward—two full-on grown people hovering like vultures.
“Yes,” Brendan says. “It’s corn bread.”
“If you don’t like dark meat, I don’t mind it,” Hippie Boy says.
“Tell you what,” Brendan says. “We do have a lot of food, but we’re also trying to have a date here, so I’m gonna give you a couple drumsticks …”
I know what Brendan was going for. Had he been able to finish his sentence, he’d have said something to the effect of “and you two can be on your merry way.” But that’s not what happens. They sit down on our blanket.
“Thanks, man,” Hippie Boy says as he plops down next to us.
“Yeah,” Hippie Girl says. “Thanks a lot. Really cool of you to share.”
Now we’re screwed.
Brendan and I exchange entire conversations with our eyes as we eat our “lucky” meal. Our hippie friends eat like it’s their last supper, even though that wasn’t exactly what Brendan meant when he offered the drumsticks.
But that’s not what makes this date memorable. Brendan shifts his body closer to me so we can ignore them. He does such a good job that it’s about fifteen minutes before it comes to our attention that our hippie friends are enjoying their own company as well. A lot.
“I’m afraid to turn around,” I say to Brendan. “But is there something going on behind me?”
The look on Brendan’s face tells me that yes, yes, there is indeed something going on behind me. Our lucky meal is working wonders, so much so that our hippie friends are getting lucky right this second. Right beside us. In public. On our blanket.
“This is new,” Brendan says.
“Oh my God,” I say, while I stifle a laugh and am simultaneously in awe and repulsed by their nerve.
“Dude—” Brendan says, shielding his eyes as he turns around. “What are you doing?”
Hippie Boy barely looks up from whatever he’s nuzzling. “I’m loving my lady, man.”
“You just lost your corn-bread privileges” is all Brendan can think to say, and we both burst out in a fit of laughter.
“Should we … leave?” I ask.
“Oh, yeah,” Brendan says. “I think picnic time is over.”
“It’s been a most memorable date,” I say as we stand up and survey the situation.
“We’ll just let them keep the blanket,” Brendan says. Then he calls out to them, “Happy Valentine’s Day … you freaks!”
I can barely catch my breath, I’m laughing so hard on our way back to the car.
“Should I take you home or back to the station?” he asks.
I look at the clock and realize that time did get away from us. “You should probably just take me to the station. I’ll have my friend Nat pick me up when my shift is over.”
“Or I can,” he offers.
“That’s okay,” I say.
“I want to,” he says. “I want to hear about your show … or shows?”
“Show,” I correct. “I’m not doing the show with Ryan anymore.”
“But you’re still gonna do nighttime, right?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “That’s never going to change.”
“Good.”
“Why good?”
“Because music is my life,” he says. “And I like that it’s a big part of yours, too.”
“I like that you like that.”
“There’s a lot that I like about you. And not just the fact that you’re almost exactly like me.”
“You think?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I do. I think we’re more alike than you even realize.”
Life is a shipwreck but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats.
—VOLTAIRE
Chapter Twenty-one
Brendan and I spend the next three weeks together, really together, almost inseparable. We don’t have sex, because for some reason I’m not ready to go there yet, and he doesn’t push me, which makes getting to know him easier. That said, we kiss and grope like teenagers—something about how eerily similar we are really doe
s it for me. It’s like he read a diary that I don’t have and then created himself just for me. And things are great. Until Ryan calls one night when Brendan and I are curled up on the couch, ignoring a movie.
I’m not even entirely sure why I answer the phone. Curious, I guess. We’ve been avoiding each other at the station and certainly haven’t spoken since Valentine’s Day.
“Are you alone?” Ryan asks.
“Yes,” I lie. “Are you okay?”
“No,” he says. “Can you come over?”
This is obviously unexpected. But so is the shakiness in his voice. It doesn’t sound like the Ryan I remember. And there must be something big going on for him to break through the wall of silence after all this time and ask me to come over practically in the same breath.
“Of course,” I say. “I’ll be there in twenty.”
I hang up the phone and tell Brendan that Natalie is having an emergency, my head spinning with why I lied to Brendan, why I lied to Ryan, and why my car can’t go fast enough to get me to him.
Ryan opens the door, and he doesn’t have to say anything for me to see how much pain he’s in. His eyes are completely bloodshot, he’s shaking, and he looks like he’s about to crumble into a heap of himself.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know who else to call.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m glad you called.”
“That’s not true. It’s not that I didn’t know who else to call … more like there was nobody else I wanted to call.”
“Either way,” I say. “What’s going on?”
“Come in,” he says, opening the door for me. The pictures of us are still up in his living room, exactly where they were when I was last here. I wonder if my pajamas are still in “my” drawer? We sit on the couch, and Ryan shakes his head back and forth as he tries to find his words.
I take his hand in mine and squeeze it. “Whatever it is, we’ll get you through it.”
“It’s my mom,” he says. “They found a lump in her breast. They’re doing a biopsy tomorrow morning.”
“Oh my God,” I say. “I’m sorry. That’s terrifying.”
I think back to our impromptu “fancy meeting you here” dinner at Farmers Market and how lovely and genuinely warm Lily was. What a shame it is that Ryan and I broke up before I got to know her and Robert better. I bet they’d be fantastic in-laws. Having met her, however, makes me feel more connected to him right now—especially since she made a point to tell me they never met his girlfriends. I send up my own prayer to the powers that be. Please don’t let Lily have cancer. Please.
“Yeah,” he says, his eyes welling up. “It is. She can’t have cancer. I can’t lose her.”
“Ryan, I know you’re worried. I would be, too. This actually is fairly common. Lots and lots of women have lumps. It could very well be benign.”
“What if it isn’t?” he asks desperately.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. One thing at a time. Let her have the biopsy first.”
“I know,” he says. “You’re right. I need to think positive.”
“You absolutely do.”
“Thanks for coming over.”
“I think I ran almost every red light.”
“Okay, don’t do that,” he says angrily. “I don’t want to worry about both of you.”
“You don’t have to worry about me. I’m an excellent driver when I’m not worrying about you.”
Ryan’s anger fades as quickly as it arrives, and his face falls again. “What if my mom has cancer?”
“We’ll deal with it,” I say. “I know it’s scary, but right now we don’t know that.”
“I know,” he says. “I just get sick every time I think of the possibility.”
“When did you find out?”
“About three seconds before I called you.”
“I’m glad you called.”
“I know you hate me,” he says. “Thanks for coming.”
“You’ve already thanked me like five times. All of which were unnecessary. And I don’t hate you.”
“I hate me.”
“You don’t hate you, either.”
“Well, someone hates me.”
“Probably,” I say, and manage a soft smile. “But nobody in this room.”
“I screwed us up,” he says. “I betrayed your confidence.”
I bite my lip. Yes … he did. But now’s not the time to make him feel bad for it. “It happens.”
“It happens?”
“I’m trying to be nice.”
This gets a smile. I smile back, and he shakes his head. “I promise you, I hate me more than you hate me.”
“Stop with the hating you. Nobody hates you.”
“I’m so worried about my mom,” he says.
“I know,” I say. “What time is her biopsy?”
“Nine a.m. My dad and I are both going.”
“Just stay positive until we know anything else. Right now it’s a lump. Just a lump. Can you do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you can,” I say. “I’ll stay with you tonight. I’ll stay until you have to go take her. We’ll stay positive together. One minute at a time.”
“I’m sorry I screwed us up,” he says, and I know he means it.
“It’s okay,” I say. “You didn’t mean to.”
We sit in silence for a long time. He leans into me, and I run my fingers through his hair. He rests his head on my shoulder, and when he blinks, a tear falls from his eye onto my arm. It breaks my heart. I hate to see him worry. I hate that there’s nothing I can do to help. I hope to God that his mom is okay and that this is just a scare. I know the odds. Terrifying. If not her, it could be my mom. Or me.
I pretend not to notice the tiny drop of water on my arm, but then another falls … and another. He turns and wipes his face on his shoulder and looks up at me with a shrug.
“I know,” I say. “I get it.”
I can feel his stare like a magnet, pulling toward me, pulling me toward him. Before I know what’s happening, our lips meet and we kiss like our lives depend on it. I find tears welling up in my eyes, too, so I keep them closed so they don’t sneak out. He’s the one who pulls away.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Was that not okay?”
“Did it feel not okay?”
“It felt very okay,” he says. “It felt amazing.”
“Agreed,” I say.
“Should we talk about this?” he asks.
“No,” I say, uncharacteristically. “No talking, no thinking.”
“I can get on board with that,” he says, and we’re pulled back together, kissing hungrily.
I feel things I don’t want to feel. My mind is awash in contradictions. “I love you so freakin’ much” wants to come flying out of my mouth, but thankfully my mouth is occupied, because we’re just having a moment. He’s afraid for his mom, and he trusts me, and this is just a moment. At least that’s what I tell myself.
But Ryan’s touch feels like home. I imagine that’s what I feel like to him, too. We’re lost in each other yet somehow found. So even if this is all it is, a moment, one night … it feels right.
Before we know it, it’s five a.m. and Ryan has to get ready for his—formerly our—show. He’s skipping the last hour of on-air to take Lily to the doctor. I think he should take the whole morning off, but he wants to keep busy, and I can understand that, too. I gather my things and pull him to me for a goodbye hug.
“I’m gonna get out of your hair so you can get ready,” I say. “But call me whenever you want, and definitely call me as soon as you hear anything about your mom.”
“Okay,” he says. “I will. And … thanks.”
“Of course,” I say, without looking at him.
I pass a black cat when I’m walking back to my car. I skirt it to avoid giving it any opportunity to cross my path and breathe a sigh of relief. Lily doesn’t need a black cat right now, even if I’m not entirely su
re that bad luck is transferable.
I pull out my cellphone and see four missed calls from Brendan. I quickly dial his number, but I get his voicemail.
“It’s me,” I say. “Sorry I missed your calls. My ringer was off and Nat … was just having a really bad night. Her favorite chef has been stealing, and she’s very upset, and it’s really odd because he steals things like Gouda cheese and … I don’t know … bread—anyway, so she was upset.” At this point I realize I’m rambling, and I speed up my speech to record speed. “So, yeah, just call me whenever and we’ll talk. Okay, bye.”
The guilt.
The guilt!
Should I feel guilty?
I check myself out in my rearview mirror, and wow—my hair looks like it could turn you to stone. Lovely. This is what Ryan was looking at. Medusa on steroids. I shake off my morning humiliation and pull away from the curb. As soon as I do, that idiot black cat runs in front of my car and shoots me a look that says, “That’s right, bitch—I’m crossing your path, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” When technically, yes, there is something I could do. I could run the damn thing over in hopes that a deceased black cat can no longer ooze bad luck, but then I’ll have the whole karma thing to deal with, and of course I would never run over a cat, so this is all a moot point except for the fact that this cat has just totally ruined my morning.
Three yellow lights in a row aren’t making a strong case for the rest of the day. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Too many yellow lights are a warning sign. Something bad is brewing. It’s when I near my fourth yellow light that it hits me: These are all warning signs. Here I have this nice guy who gets me and relates to me, and I lie to him and jump the second my ex calls. Maybe these signs are saying I just made a mistake. Maybe they’re saying I should stay away from Ryan. Maybe I’m being pulled over by a fucking cop right now.
Fuck.
“License and registration, please,” he says as I roll down my window and smile.
“Certainly, Officer,” I say as sweetly as I can muster. “But may I ask why I was pulled over?”
With a Little Luck Page 22
