It's Kind of a Cheesy Love Story

by Lauren Morrill

  “Is there dessert?” Colin calls from an Adirondack chair, where I’m pretty sure he ate his weight in hot dogs.

  “Please tell me you didn’t bring kale cupcakes,” Eli groans at Natalie.

  Cora swats at him. “Be polite,” she says.

  “Actually, I brought dessert this time,” I say, disappearing into the kitchen and coming back out with two boxes of petits fours. Mom finally perfected her recipe, but not until a punishing weekend when she made thirteen dozen of them. I can report that these are delicious, and that I never want to see another petit four ever again. I swear, petits fours are going to haunt my dreams. She was more than happy to pile a few dozen into a box for our cookout.

  “Thank Mrs. Brix for us,” Cora says.

  In a matter of minutes, there’s nothing but crumbs left in the boxes. That’s what happens when you pull out baked goods for a bunch of teenage boys. I swear, they eat like they need to store fuel for a long winter.

  The sun sets, and Colin builds up the fire in the stone pit until it’s crackling. We all settle into chairs, Tamsin draped over Mac’s lap, Cora and Eli squeezed into one of those oversized Adirondack chairs together. I sit in another, with Tristan perched on the wide arm next to me, his arm thrown over the back of the chair. Everything feels right.

  “Oh, Beck, I tried that Galaxy show. The one you watch?” Cora says from across the firepit. “I couldn’t get into it, though. Too many characters. But I’m super into that Roswell reboot, if you’re looking for another alien show.”

  “Babe, that’s not sci-fi, that’s a soap opera,” Eli says, poking her in the ribs.

  “You watch Apex Galaxy?” Colin asks. “Dude, my weird cousin is, like, Illuminati-level deep into that show.”

  “It’s mostly my dad’s thing,” I say, the lie coming out as easy as truth. The words taste sort of sour in my mouth, but I swallow them down. Tristan shifts next to me, and I glance up. “You okay?”

  “Fine,” he says, giving me a look I can’t read in the dark.

  “Hey, so I think we need to pay a visit to Hot ’N Crusty,” Natalie says. “We still haven’t been while you’re working, Beck!”

  “I love those garlic knots,” Tamsin says, and groans like she hasn’t just eaten her weight in sliders and petits fours.

  “We totally need to come in and, like, harass you,” Eli says, laughing.

  “You will do no such thing,” Cora says, swatting at him again. “But we should go in. It would be fun.”

  “Totally. Can you rustle up some free pizzas, Beck?” Colin asks.

  “We’re totally coming. When do you work next week?” Natalie asks.

  “Ugh, please don’t!” I say, covering my face with my hands. “That would be so embarrassing!”

  Now Tristan fully stands up. “I’m going to grab a soda. Anyone want anything?” he asks, and Tamsin and Natalie both ask for fizzy waters. When he gets back, he hands them each a can, and I notice he didn’t get anything for himself.

  “So you’re a senior, right?” Tamsin asks, though she doesn’t need to. We all know. I’m just bracing for the inevitable next question.

  “Yeah,” he replies.

  “What are you doing after you graduate?” she asks. The question is open, leaving room for an answer other than what college he plans to attend, even though she doesn’t ask that directly.

  “I’m going to work with my dad,” he says.

  “What does he do?” Colin asks.

  “He’s a carpenter. He has his own business doing residential stuff, some commercial. I’ll apprentice with him for a bit, but ultimately I want to shift full-time into custom furniture. Stuff that’s more about design and style than repairs.”

  “That’s cool,” Colin says. “I can barely put together an IKEA bookshelf.”

  “He’s going to start his own business,” I add, like I’m his PR rep or something. “Actually, he already has.”

  “So no college plans?” Tamsin asks, and this time the implication is clear, at least to me. I feel my spine wind up like a spring.

  “Nope. Just gonna dive right in,” Tristan replies.

  “That sounds pretty boss,” Eli says.

  “You could do, like, classes, though. I mean, don’t count it out,” I say. Why I reached into a bag of sentences and pulled out the absolute worst ones, I have no idea. But it just comes tumbling out like a reflex.

  “I think I’ve got a solid plan,” Tristan says, an edge in his voice. I know I should stop. Everything inside me tells me to stop, and yet as I glance around this landscaped backyard with the saltwater pool, the waterfall, and the hot tub, in this expensive subdivision surrounded by my friends who are all planning on fancy four-year degrees, I can’t help myself.

  “But getting a business degree could be a huge help,” I say. “Even if you just went part-time.”

  Tristan levels me with an icy stare, and I shut my mouth. I glance around and see my friends all studiously trying to pretend they haven’t noticed this exchange.

  “Hey, did you see Mackenzie Morales’s new car? Her dad made her get a sedan, and she’s next-level pissed,” Tamsin says. I glance over, see her cut her eyes away from me, and I beam her a silent thank-you for saving me from myself.

  The night continues, and it’s fine. Everyone gets along. I mostly forget our tense exchange.

  Okay, that’s a total lie. It keeps running through my head on repeat until we’re walking down the lawn toward Cecilia, and the only thing that interrupts those thoughts is Tristan.

  “What was that back there?” he asks.

  “What?” I say, as if I don’t know exactly what he’s talking about. I’ve been waiting for this shoe to drop all night. Right on my head.

  “You playing college counselor again. Why did you bring that up?”

  I look down at my shoes and don’t say anything. Maybe I’m hoping if I don’t answer, it’ll go away. And it almost does. But we’re halfway home when I realize that it’s not that it’s going away, it’s that Tristan is just going chillingly silent.

  “I didn’t mean—” I start, but he cuts me off.

  “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

  I know it makes me a coward, but I’m thankful for the momentary reprieve. At least, I thought I was thankful. But three days later, when Tristan has been nothing but radio silent, I’m dying. I’ve texted, but he hasn’t replied. And I’m terrified to call, for fear of having him end things on the phone. We’re now on the schedule together for Thursday, so I plan to deal with it then. But it’s the old Tristan who shows up at work on Thursday, the one who tries his level best to avoid all human contact—especially with me. At least back then there was some snark, a few dark looks. Now I don’t even rate eye contact. Every time I try to get near him, he bolts for the back door like an Olympic sprinter.

  Finally, I corner him with half an hour left of shift, just as he’s dropping the empty warming bag on the prep table. I practically had to hide behind a trash can to get the drop on him.

  “Why won’t you talk to me?” I ask.

  He stares at me hard, like he wants to keep the silent treatment going, even when directly confronted. But he finally turns toward the back door, beckoning me with his head to follow. Out on the pavement, he turns and looks me straight in the eye.

  “Why were you giving me shit about college?” he asks.

  “I wasn’t giving you shit,” I say, already trying to figure out a way to spin it in my head. But Tristan won’t let me get away with that.

  “You were. I’ve told you before. I have a plan. I know what I’m doing. And I’m not embarrassed about it. Why are you?”

  “I’m not embarrassed!” I say. And that, at least, has the virtue of being true. I think his furniture is beautiful. I’ve spent the past week stalking his SocialSquare business page all the way to the beginning. I noticed how his likes grew with his skills, and how the comments started to flow in from all over. There were even a few video clips of him working
on various pieces, his hair full of sawdust, his eyes focused on his work behind a pair of goggles. He takes his work seriously, and he’s seriously good. And watching his passion for it only makes me like him more. And it only made me hate myself more for in any way minimizing it.

  “You are! You looked around at your rich friends and thought they were going to judge me for not going to college, which meant they were going to judge you for being with me.”

  “Tristan, I’m not judging you.”

  “You’re right about that. I spent all week thinking about it, and I finally figured it out. You weren’t judging me. You were judging you,” he says. I feel a prickle start up the back of my neck, like the cold tip of a knife point trailing across my skin. “I like you, Beck, but whatever fake personality you’re dragging around is not going to work for me.”

  I pull back like I’ve been slapped. “Excuse me? Fake personality? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about how you brought me to hang out, but just me. Nobody else. Where’s Julianne? Where’s Frank? And how come she’s still sitting alone in the cafeteria? Why, when Eli said he wanted to come in for pizza, why did you practically pull a muscle trying to tell him not to come? You even pretended you didn’t like that sci-fi show you’re obsessed with!”

  “I’m not obsessed,” I say, but the protest is weak. Even I can hear it.

  “I heard you talk about it with everyone else. I’ve seen the way your face lights up when you’re talking about ships and plots. I’ve never seen you more yourself than when you’re duking it out with Jason over that show. What’s wrong with admitting that?”

  “I don’t know,” I whisper, the words coming out small and ragged. I can’t look up from my shoes for fear that the tears that are welling there will spill down my cheeks.

  “It’s because you’re so terrified of being yourself, and you’re worried that isn’t good enough. So instead, you’re playing pretend with this made-up idea of what Beck should be. And the only person who even gives a shit is you.”

  “Stop it.”

  “You stop it. Stop trying to engineer your life. Just fucking live it. Just be you instead of who you think everyone else wants you to be.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  He throws up his hands. “Then I can’t help you.”

  The back door cracks, and Joey calls, “Order up.” He holds the warming bag out the door, studiously avoiding the scene going on outside.

  Tristan takes the bag, scooping it in his arms and heading for Cecilia, parked behind the dumpster.

  “You’re just going to leave?” I ask.

  “I have a delivery,” he says, his voice painfully distant. And then he’s gone. In seconds, I hear the slam of the car door and the chugga chugga of Cecilia leaving the parking lot. I can’t bear to look up and watch the taillights disappear, because then I’ll be crying in earnest.

  Before, I wasn’t sure if we were dating. And now I’m not sure if we’ve just broken up.

  I float through the rest of my shift like a zombie, barely remembering to plaster a smile on my face when I greet customers. More than once I tried to give change to people who paid with a debit card, and Del had to comp two orders because I rang them up wrong. I thought that vegetarian lady was going to fully pass out when I delivered a meat supreme to her table.

  When closing comes around, I don’t even bother to bring anything to the table game. Julianne hands me off to Joey to help him with the closing checklist, a job I’ve never done before because Joey usually does it himself. But apparently he needs to leave early, thus his request for backup tonight.

  “I’m meeting this guy about new rear sets for my motorcycle. He’s over in Middlebury, and the guy refuses to meet me halfway. So let’s do this,” he says, handing me a clipboard that’s splattered with what I suspect may be decades-old marinara.

  I read things off the list as he bustles around the kitchen, me checking off each item and making notes where necessary. Joey calls out the temperatures on all the fridges and expiration dates on bags of shredded mozzarella. He covers and stores leftover metal tubs of toppings and replaces the rubber mats on the tile floor after mopping. He makes sure all the faucets are off and checks the ovens. I move through the list in a daze, my mind on Tristan and our conversation. He never came back after his last delivery.

  When I get to the last item on the list, I pass the clipboard back to Joey and clock out for the night. Julianne asks if I want to go to Stefano’s, but I wave her off. I’ve got Dad’s car tonight, and I want to try to find Tristan. I drive by his house, but Cecilia isn’t parked in the driveway. I even drive up to Look Rock, but he’s not there. I text Julianne to make sure he didn’t go to Stefano’s, but she replies with a no and a sad face.

  He’s a prickly one, but he really likes you. Just wait him out.

  Which is why I’m worried that I really hurt him. And now I have the added guilt of his accusation about Julianne. Just as I hoped, she’s warmed up to me. That text proves it. But have I warmed up to her? Or have I stayed cold?

  I drive home boiling in a stew of misery, sadness, and self-loathing. When I pull into the driveway, it’s nearly midnight, and I haven’t heard a word from Tristan. I even broke down earlier and tried to call him myself, but it just went straight to voice mail. And, honestly, I was a little bit relieved, because as I sat there listening to the ringing, I realized I had no idea what I was going to say to him. I have no explanation, not when it comes to myself. I think that’s going to take more than a few hours of introspection.

  I’m walking into my house when my phone dings with an incoming text. I’ve had my phone clutched in my fist since I walked out of HnC an hour ago, willing it to ring, and now that it has, I nearly drop it. But when I flip it over to look at the illuminated screen, I see it’s not Tristan. It’s Julianne.

  There’s a fire at HNC. It’s bad.

  “Oh my god!” I cry. My parents, who are in the kitchen sharing a tub of cookies-and-cream ice cream with two spoons, glance up.

  “What’s wrong?” Mom asks.

  “There’s a fire at work,” I reply, holding up my phone screen so my parents can read it. My mom gasps, her hand going to her mouth. I turn and start for the door.

  “Where are you going?” Dad asks.

  “I have to go over there.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “But, Dad!”

  “It’s a fire, Beck, and if it’s as bad as Julianne says, it’s not safe. And you’d just end up in the firemen’s way. Besides, no one was inside, right?”

  I shake my head. “We closed up. Joey usually leaves after us, but he had somewhere to be, so Julianne and I were the last ones out.”

  “Okay, then everyone is safe. That’s the most important thing. You need to just stay here and wait to hear from Del.”

  But I’ve stopped listening to my dad, because now a new terror has set up residence in my brain. I was the last one out. I did the closing checklist with Joey, and I was supposed to confirm that the ovens were off. Did I call that out? Did I check the boxes? I rack my brain, but I can’t remember. I close my eyes tight and try to picture the moment. I remember for sure seeing it on the list, but I have no memory of actually marking it off. If I didn’t say it, Joey might not have checked. They might have stayed on. So did I do it? Or do I just not remember? All that I remember thinking is how worried I was that I’d fucked it up with Tristan. If Tristan was right about me, and I’m really nothing but a giant fraud.

  Oh my god, did an oven get left on? Is the fire my fault? Did I burn down Hot ’N Crusty?

  I open my eyes and see tears rolling down my mom’s cheeks. She swipes at them with the heel of her hand.

  “I’m sorry. This is so silly, crying over a pizza place. It’s just … that’s where our family started.”

  “It’s probably fine, Jessie,” Dad says, putting his arm around her and pulling her into his shoulder. “We’re probab
ly all thinking worst-case scenario here, but I’m sure it’s not nearly that bad.”

  Then my parents are both staring at me in horror, and it takes me a few seconds to realize it’s because I’m sobbing. Big, heaving, hiccuping sobs with tears streaming down my face.

  They rush around the counter and both scoop me up in their arms, a parent on either side. I feel my tears soaking into my dad’s State U sweatshirt as my mom strokes the back of my head.

  “It’s okay, Beck. It’s just a building,” Mom says. “That’s all.”

  But it’s not just a building. Mom was right, it’s part of my history. A part of me.

  “I’m sure it’s not that bad,” Dad says again as I sob into his shoulder, not sure if I’ll ever be able to stop.

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  But it was that bad.

  I texted with Julianne late into the night, but I didn’t get any good information. The only reason she knew about the fire was because Del called her to make sure we closed up and no one was inside. Julianne reported that he sounded “like hell.” We frantically googled Hot ’N Crusty all night, but the news didn’t have any information. I finally drifted off close to three in the morning, my mind reeling at the thought of the fire.

  And that I still hadn’t heard from Tristan.

  I’d texted him a bunch, but I couldn’t tell if he’d gotten them because his read receipts were off. Which is so very Tristan. His whole persona screams turned-off read receipts. And when I tried to call him again, it went straight to voice mail. I must have heard his gruff voice saying, “This is Tristan, leave me a message,” twenty or thirty times before I finally gave up and fell into a fitful sleep filled with dreams of Hot ’N Crusty up in flames. I didn’t even know if he’d heard about the fire.

  I wake up with a start to the sound of my phone, fumbling with it from its perch on my bedside table. It clatters to the floor, and I dive after it, landing in a pile of limbs and blankets. But it’s not Tristan, it’s another text from Julianne. I click on it and at first heave a sigh of relief, because it’s a photo of Hot ’N Crusty, and it looks fine.