It's Kind of a Cheesy Love Story

by Lauren Morrill

  Molly smiles and looks into the camera. “If you’d like to contribute to the FundUs campaign, you’ll find the link to Beck’s fund-raiser on our website,” she says, then turns back to me. “Beck, it was wonderful to have you here. We wish you the best.”

  “Thank you, Molly.”

  And then the lights dim and the anchor starts chattering on about football scores before throwing to commercial.

  I did it.

  It’s done.

  My parents rush out from behind the cameras. I’d been so wrapped up in the interview that I forgot they were there. My dad is blinking hard and keeps clearing his throat, but my mom is just full-on crying, tears and mascara streaming down her cheeks.

  “I’m so proud of you, Beck,” she says, her voice muffled by my hair as she pulls me into a hug.

  “You done good, kid,” Dad says, wrapping his arms around both of us.

  I sure hope so.

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  Unfortunately, my interview with WCVB isn’t the end of my publicity tour. As I’d hoped, the video picked up some minor viral steam, and I end up doing a few radio interviews and a feature in the newspaper. Larry from the local paper even gets me to stand in the stall where I was born for a photo, which I have never ever in my life wanted to do. But at this point I’d reenact the whole thing if it meant helping Del.

  And it does.

  Because from the moment the interview aired, donations started rolling in. A lot of people gave small amounts, around twenty-five or fifty dollars. But a few gave a lot. Mac’s dad contributed five thousand dollars from the dealership in exchange for a plaque by the door. An anonymous donor pledged ten thousand, which is absolutely bananas. And the more publicity we did, the more money that came in.

  Two weeks later, Del shows up at our house as I’m icing a dozen stork cookies for a baby shower Mom’s doing the next day.

  “A guy from the credit union called,” he says as he sits down on the couch, a plate of Peanut Blossoms my mom baked on the coffee table in front of him. “They’re going to cover a loan for whatever the insurance won’t cover, and the interest rate is incredible.”

  “Del, that’s wonderful!” Mom cries—literally cries, which she’s been doing a lot lately. But then again, so have I. It must run in the family.

  “Beck, I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “It was nothing, Del,” I say.

  “It wasn’t nothing. I know you turned Molly down for interviews all those years.”

  I blink at him, my mouth agape. “How did you know that?”

  “Because she always called me asking if I could intervene and try to convince you.”

  “But you never said anything to me about it,” I say.

  He shifts on the couch, looking down at his shoes. “No, I didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I respect your decision. You’re not our mascot,” he says, and my eyes widen at the words, which seems to make him a little bit sad. “Beck, I appreciate you doing the annual birthday photo at Hot ’N Crusty every year, but if you ever said to me that you didn’t want to do it anymore, ever came in and asked me to take down all the pictures and the news clippings and never mention your name again, I’d do it. Like you said in the interview, Beck—we’re like family. And family doesn’t put each other in positions that make them uncomfortable.”

  I feel like all the air has been sucked out of me. I spent so long hiding, from my friends and my parents and myself. I spent so long convinced everyone else was the villain, that I had to be someone else to shut it all down. But Del has seen me all along. He knew.

  “So what happens now?” I ask, because if I don’t change the subject, I really will blubber all over my lap.

  “Well, I’m going to the bank tomorrow to sign all the paperwork. The insurance company has already sent the check, and the contractor is ready to go, so it looks like construction will start first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “So it’s real? Hot ’N Crusty is really reopening?”

  “It sure is. And I hope you know that there will be a job waiting for you there. If you want it, of course.”

  “I definitely do,” I say, glancing over at my mom. “No offense.”

  “Oh, none taken. I think it’s about time I hired a professional assistant anyway,” she says. “I’m going to need a staff at the new place.”

  “You signed a lease?” Del asks, his eyes perking up.

  “I sure did,” she replies, the joy bursting out of her. “Downtown next to that salon.”

  “That’s a great location!”

  “Thank you so much for your help, Del.”

  I see a blush creep into his cheeks, running into his bushy mustache. “Well, I’d sure love Hot ’N Crusty to be your first customer. I think your brownies would be a great addition to our menu.”

  * * *

  Construction is both ridiculously slow and incredibly fast. Slow, because I want it done yesterday, and fast because the fact that they can put the wreck of that building back together at all is shocking to me. But Del found a committed and enthusiastic contractor who had his crew working long hours, and the whole project was done in a matter of weeks. It was as unheard of as the donations that continued to roll in. The crew gutted the place practically down to the studs: new walls, new roof, new floor, brand-new kitchen. And by the beginning of Thanksgiving break, the new ovens are being delivered. Del set the grand reopening for the first week in December, but on Thanksgiving Eve, when we’re all still giddy from the half day and the impending long holiday weekend, Del invites us for a friends-and-family soft opening. He’s made all the pizzas and garlic knots and some actually gorgeous salads. And Mom has supplied an enormous cake with the (still very unfortunate) Hot ’N Crusty logo across the top and an OPEN FOR BUSINESS! sign underneath.

  I walk into the new space giddy, both for the reopening and for seeing my friends. All of them. Because Del let me make the guest list, and I included a few extras. Let’s just say I expanded the Hot ’N Crusty family a little bit.

  And everyone comes. Greg quit his job at the movie theater, which paid terribly and never let him see the movies for free, a fact that he’s still salty about and currently grumbling to Eli about.

  “The smell of burnt popcorn is worse than the smell from cleaning the bathrooms here,” he says, and Eli grimaces, since I don’t think he’s ever cleaned a bathroom a day in his life.

  “I’ll remember that the next time we’re handing out jobs,” I say.

  “Like you ever handed out jobs,” Jason says. “You never won the table game.”

  “What’s the table game?” Colin asks, and Jason is more than happy to school him on the finer points of the rules while Julianne begins recounting some of the more colorful finds. Julianne quit her job at the diner as soon as Del called and offered to make her assistant manager. Which will work out great, since she’ll be at the college this fall—a short commute with a good paycheck. And since Julianne is back, of course Frank followed.

  And Jason? Well, he never got another job. He’ll be leaving at the end of the summer for Dartmouth, but that’s still a solid eight months of his dominating the table game and annoying everyone else.

  I’m cutting the crust off a slice of pizza when the new bell on the door jingles. My gaze darts up, hoping for a familiar face, and I get one. Just not the one I was expecting.

  Molly Landau strides in. She’s wearing jeans, which I’m shocked to find out she even owns, and her hair is pulled up in a casual knot at the back of her head. I don’t even think she’s wearing mascara.

  “Molly! I made the Mediterranean you love,” Del booms, pulling out a chair. And she smiles—a genuine smile, not one for TV—and comes over. But before she drops into the chair, she leans over and plants a delicate peck on Del’s lips. He blushes red, and then she sits beside him as he begins fussing over her plate.

  I look over at the rest of the Hot ’N Crusty gang for confirmati
on that I didn’t imagine that, and I see that they’re all as shocked as I am.

  “What in the sixth galaxy of the Luna Universe is that?” Frank asks.

  “I’m sorry, did that just happen? Did Del just kiss a local celebrity? Like, with her permission?” Jason croaks.

  “Oh, they’ve been dating for a couple of weeks now. Ever since she interviewed him for the package,” Julianne says. The heads of the entire HnC crew swivel toward her, and she grins like she did that first night right before she pulled out the stuffed crust pizza. She’s been keeping this one a secret for maximum effect.

  “You didn’t tell me?” Frank squeaks.

  “Isn’t it better as a surprise?” she asks, gesturing toward the new couple. Del has his arm around Molly. It looks like he’s telling one of his abominable jokes, and she’s actually laughing. I couldn’t be more shocked if she sprouted wings and flew around the restaurant.

  “I told you, Del just needed a strong woman,” Lena says. She’s nursing a Coke with a textbook in her lap. Her finals are the week after Thanksgiving, and Del is already planning her graduation and going-away party at the restaurant.

  “And I guess Molly just needed a big cuddly dork to tell her knock-knock jokes so she could relax,” Greg says with a shrug.

  The whole gang’s here, old and new. Well, almost. There’s just one person I’m not sure about.

  The bell jingles again, and there he is. I realize I’ve never seen Tristan come in through the front door before. He’s wearing his denim jacket, his Hot ’N Crusty baseball cap actually on his head, curly hair poking out everywhere.

  “Hey, man! Good to see you,” Mac says, jumping up from where he’s cuddled up next to Tamsin in front of a plate of garlic knots.

  “You, too,” Tristan says, and actually takes Mac’s hand for one of those handshake-slap situations. Their friendly greeting is almost as much of a surprise as Molly and Del’s kiss, but it feels worse, because it just serves to remind me that I haven’t really talked to Tristan in weeks. I have no idea what’s going on in his life. I guess we really did go back to the way things were before, where Tristan is a mystery to me.

  But now here we are in the same room. From his SocialSquare page, I know he’s been busy with orders. There’s a couple of chairs and a beautiful custom dining table that he’s added over the last month and a half. We’ve exchanged waves as he passed through the cafeteria, but that’s it.

  He ambles over to where I’m filling my cup at the shiny new soda dispenser, his hands deep in his pockets.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey,” I reply.

  And then we’re in some kind of weird soda standoff, with Tristan staring at his shoes, me holding a quickly sweating cup of Coke.

  “I’ve missed you,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can slow them down.

  He glances up from beneath the brim of his cap, a quirk of a smile on his lips. “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah,” I say, trying to match his cool grin and failing miserably. Tristan always has seemed to have X-ray glasses for my personality. I couldn’t hide anything from him. “You were right, by the way.”

  “I mean, about a lot of things, I’m sure. But what’s this one?” he asks.

  I roll my eyes at that trademark snark that I’ve missed so much. “I needed to figure myself out,” I say.

  “And did you?”

  I pull open my cardigan to show off my T-shirt, a vintage Apex Galaxy tee depicting the ship from the original series. Dad gave it to me as a congratulatory gift after my TV triumph.

  “Going full geek, I see,” he says with an appraising nod.

  I stick out my hand. “Beck Brix, Hot ’N Crusty Bathroom Baby, at your service,” I say. He takes my hand, his warm and calloused, and gives it a shake.

  “Nice to meet you, Beck Brix,” he says.

  “Also, there’s one other thing you should know,” I say, my heart pounding.

  “Oh?” He cocks an eyebrow at me.

  “The Beatles are good,” I start, and he groans.

  “I don’t think I want to hear this,” he says, covering his face with his hands.

  “Look, I like the Beatles. Saying you don’t like them is like saying you’re not into puppies or chocolate or bacon. Everyone likes puppies and chocolate and bacon—”

  “Except vegetarians,” he says.

  “I think even vegetarians like bacon, they just make the sacrifice for their beliefs.”

  “Fair.”

  “Anyway, what I’m saying is, I like the Beatles fine, but I think I’m more of a Motown girl.”

  A wide grin stretches across his face, then he reaches out and snakes an arm around my waist, pulling me in close. “I can work with that,” he says, his minty breath tickling my nose. Then he tilts my chin up and brushes my lips with his.

  “Oh thank god, finally,” Greg shouts, and I hear Tamsin’s squeal rise above the outbreak of applause, with some whistles joined in. Julianne woo-hoos along with Frank. I hear my dad clearing his throat, his chair shifting around, and my mom laughs. And as much as I want to climb Tristan like a tree and kiss him until the sun rises, I’m not about to do it in front of my parents. Gross.

  Still, I can’t resist one more. And so as I inhale the smell of garlic and marinara, and my feet stick to the brand-spankin’-new floor (what is that?), I lean in and kiss him again.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you to Jackson Pearce, who sat in Jeni’s Ice Cream with me and listened while I said, “I have this idea, but I don’t know what to do with it.” This book wouldn’t exist without you. And thank you to Jeni’s for making the best ice cream on the planet and being okay with two writers parking at your tables for hours talking about plots and characters.

  I was incredibly lucky to have two champions working on this book. Thank you to Joy Peskin for the most encouraging phone calls that always get me back on track, and thank you to Trisha de Guzman for your sharp and thoughtful editorial eye. This book and I are so very lucky to have you both! Thank you to Cassie Gonzales and Agustina Gastaldi for the incredible cover. Thank you also to Starr Baer, Celeste Cass, Patricia McHugh, Hayley Jozwiak, Beth Clark, and the rest of the FSG fam.

  Thank you to Stephen Barbara for keeping me sane and selling my books. You’re the best agent ever. I love that whenever I come to you with new stuff, your answer is always, “Let’s do this.”

  Thank you to Little Shop of Stories for always supporting my books and to Vania Stoyanova and the Not So YA Book Club for being, well, awesome. My book club can beat up your book club. Thank you also to The Mamas Book Club in Macon for reading my book one month, then inviting me to join the next! I love all my glorious book nerds. Thank you to the Cooler Moms. You ladies help me raise my children and lower my blood pressure, all while cheering me on. Your support means the world.

  Thank you to my family for buying my books and gifting my books and telling other people to buy my books. Thank you to Freddie and Leo for learning to navigate Netflix on the iPad all by yourselves so Mama can get work done. And thanks to Adam for believing in me and giving me space to write. I love you I love you I love you.

  Also by Lauren Morrill:

  Better Than the Best Plan

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Lauren Morrill is the author of six YA novels. NPR called her last novel, Better Than the Best Plan, “a perfect summer read.” Mashable called her “one of those rare authors who tweets more about others’ books than her own,” but her publicist would like her to tweet a little bit more about her own books. She’s working on it. Lauren grew up in Maryville, Tennessee, graduated with two degrees from Indiana University, spent four years playing roller derby in Boston, and now lives in Macon, Georgia, with her husband and two sons. Visit her online at laurenmorrill.com, or sign up for email updates here.

  Thank you for buying this

  Farrar, Straus and Giroux ebook.

  To receive special offers, bonus content,

  and info on new r
eleases and other great reads,

  sign up for our newsletters.

  Or visit us online at

  us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

  For email updates on the author, click here.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Lauren Morrill

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2021 by Lauren Morrill

  Farrar Straus Giroux Books for Young Readers

  An imprint of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC

  120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271

  fiercereads.com

  All rights reserved.