THE BIRCH GROVE STARBUCKS HAS A FLOOR-TO-CEILING fireplace and a cozy-looking nook with two plush sofas. The sofas are both occupied, of course, so Eli and I bring our Frappuccinos to one of the vacant two-person tables.
“What?” he says after we sit down. “Why do you keep checking me out?”
I look away, embarrassed to be caught staring. Though this time, I wasn’t checking him out so much as trying to figure him out. First, I run into him at the Birch Grove supermarket, which I assume means he lives around here. Then, on the way over to Starbucks, we stopped for a second at his car so he could drop off the dishwasher soap, and that car turned out to be a shiny new Jeep Wrangler. Having grown up with my parents, I know enough about cars to know that new Jeeps are expensive. At least more expensive than my four-year-old Civic. Which means his parents clearly have money. Which I never would have guessed when I first met him.
“You sure think a lot of yourself,” I joke, trying to cover up my embarrassment.
“What’s wrong with that? Better than thinking too little of yourself.”
I take a sip of my salted caramel Frap because I can’t think of anything to say to this. Or anything to say at all. I’m not usually this unsure of myself around guys. I’ve dated before but have never been in a long-term relationship. Not that this is a relationship. Or a date, for that matter. Just two new friends getting to know each other over Frappuccinos. Never mind the wobbly feeling I get in my stomach every time one of his long legs grazes mine under the table.
“How do you like working at Reruns?” he asks, stabbing his straw into the mound of whipped cream on his drink.
“It’s fine.” For community service . . . “Rita’s nice.”
“Yeah, she’s something.” He laughs and leans back in his chair. “When my sister and I were little, she used to take us to plays a couple of times a year. All kinds of plays—we saw some pretty weird shit. And she insisted that we dress up for them. Like, she’d make me wear a jacket and tie, the works. I stopped going when I was twelve or so, but I think Meredith still goes with her sometimes.”
“Sounds like fun,” I say, smiling at his story. I barely know Rita, but theater definitely seems like something she’d be into. I wonder if she’s a movie buff too. “Does she have any kids of her own?”
A weird, undecipherable look crosses his face. “No.”
I nod, letting it go. My whipped cream is starting to melt, so I use my straw to stir it into the rest of the liquid. Eli watches me for a moment.
“You remind me of a little fairy,” he says randomly. “Or no . . . maybe a sprite.”
“Excuse me?”
“Because you’re so small,” he adds, like I need an explanation.
“Thanks,” I say, mildly insulted. There are worse things to be compared to than tiny mythical creatures, but still. “And you remind me of the Jolly Green Giant.”
He busts out laughing, causing everyone within earshot to look over at us. I fight the urge to crawl under the table and settle for nudging his foot instead. He moves his leg to the side, evading me, and that’s when I see the scars.
The first two times I saw him, he was wearing jeans. But today he’s wearing shorts, so his legs are mostly visible. Running horizontally down his left kneecap is a thin, dark line about two or three inches long. Several smaller scars bracket either side of his knee. It looks like something attacked him with tiny knives and he had to be sewn back together.
Eli catches me staring again. “I blew out my knee last fall,” he explains, moving his leg under the table again. “Like, completely busted it.”
“How? Football injury?”
“No.” He gives me a surprised look. “Hockey.”
“Oh. Sorry, you just look like you play football.” I make a keep going motion with my hand. “So what happened?”
“I got checked really hard into the boards. Totally shredded my ligaments and cartilage. I needed ACL reconstruction surgery and—are you sure you want to hear this?”
I realize I’m cringing and force my face to relax. Medical stuff freaks me out. I cover my eyes during the surgery scenes on Grey’s Anatomy. “Go on,” I say, taking a fortifying sip of my drink.
He looks at me closely before proceeding, like he’s making sure I can take it. “The surgeon reconstructed my ACL—that’s one of the main ligaments in the knee—using a graft taken from my hamstring. She repaired the cartilage tear at the same time. Are you still with me? You’re not going to pass out, are you?”
I shake my head. His description is making me feel mildly nauseated, but it’s also kind of fascinating how pieces of the body can be rebuilt using other pieces of the body.
“Anyway,” he continues, making condensation circles on the table with his cup, “the damage was so severe that it took me ages to recover. Missed the rest of the season, not to mention weeks of school. I was on crutches for months, and spent a lot of time in physical therapy. I’m still not fully recovered, honestly. My knee is still really stiff, and it hurts if I stand too long.” He pushes his cup away. “Sorry. That sounded whiny.”
“Whiny?” I say, incredulous. “Are you kidding? You must have been in a ridiculous amount of pain.”
“Yeah. I actually heard it pop, when it happened. My knee. The pain was unreal.”
I shudder. “I can’t even imagine. I cry over hangnails.”
He flashes me a smile, but it flickers out just as fast. “And then there’s, you know, the mental part of it. Months of pain and sitting around the house, missing everything. . . . It takes a toll. Luckily, I found something even better than sports.”
“Flowers and grass?”
Eli grins again, and this time it stays. “Flowers and grass. No chance of blowing out a knee while landscaping.”
“Unless you get body checked by a garden gnome or something.”
Laughter erupts out of him again, this time even louder. “You’re a strange girl, Morgan, um— Wait, what’s your last name?”
“Kemper. What’s yours? Are you a Sloan, like Rita?”
“No, she’s my mom’s sister. I’m Elias Randall Jamison.”
“Morgan Hillary Kemper. Nice to formally meet you.”
We shake hands over the table.
Dad and I barely speak to each other for the rest of the week. Well, he tries, but every time he asks me a question or comments on the weather or some other banal thing, I answer as briefly as possible. I know I’m acting bratty, but I can’t seem to help myself. I’m still pissed at him for telling Rachel about the shoplifting, even though he never promised to keep it a secret and I get why he needed to talk about it with someone. But ever since Mom left, it’s like there’s anger simmering inside me all the time, just waiting to boil over into a grudge.
The tension in the apartment is unbearable, so I deal with it by staying out as much as I can. On Saturday, after my one-to-seven shift at Royal Smoothie, I pick up Sophie and drive us over to Alyssa’s house for a girls’ night in.
“Oooh! Little triangles! I love these!” Sophie exclaims. She’s standing in front of the open fridge, snooping through leftovers, while Lyss and I microwave popcorn.
“Tiropitakia,” Alyssa says, reaching around her for a two-liter of Coke. “And I think they’re for brunch tomorrow.”
“Just one? Your mother will never know.”
Alyssa’s eyebrows shoot up. “Have you met my mother?”
Sophie frowns and shuts the fridge. Mrs. Karalis is pretty protective over her cooking. One time she scolded me for swiping a tiny piece of baklava off a tray that was meant for someone’s sick aunt. The weird thing is, she wasn’t even in the room when I did it.
“Tiropitakia,” I mumble, trying to recall the taste. “I don’t think I’ve eaten that since—” Suddenly, I remember exactly when I last ate that dish, and I clamp my lips shut before I can finish my sentence. But Alyssa catches on anyway, and a shadow passes over her face.
“My father’s funeral,” she finishes for me, her eyes on the cupboard as she takes out three glasses. “My aunt Cora brought them to the reception we had here afterward.”
“Right,” I say quietly, remembering that day and the huge assortment of food that took over every square inch of surface in the kitchen. I’d loaded a plate with a sample of everything and brought it outside to Alyssa, who I’d found huddled against the side of the shed, red-eyed and shivering in her thin black dress. It was November and freezing, but we stayed out there for almost an hour, nibbling flaky pastries and watching the dead leaves skim across the grass.
I shove another popcorn bag into the microwave and try to steer us into less depressing territory. “Your mom doesn’t mind us being here while she’s at work, does she?”
The shadow lifts from Alyssa’s face as she pours our drinks. “No. She’d much rather I stay at home than ‘run the streets with my friends,’ as she calls it. She worries when I’m out at night.”
I used to feel bad for her, dealing with such a clingy mother, but now I feel a stab of envy when she talks about her mom’s devotion to her. Mrs. Karalis runs a custom jewelry store downtown—a job she and her husband shared for twenty years before he died—and even with her long hours away from home, she still knows exactly where Alyssa is at all times. My mom was never the overprotective type, but she did use to care about where I was and if I was safe. Now, if I suddenly decided to run away to, say, France, she’d probably just shrug it off.
“What are the guys doing tonight?” I ask once we’re all settled on the living room couch with our snacks, ready to watch Pitch Perfect for the zillionth time. My friends aren’t exactly receptive to my attempts at broadening their movie tastes.
“Video games at someone’s house,” Alyssa says, flicking on the TV.
Sophie props her feet up on the coffee table. “I thought about going to that, but I decided to hang out with you guys instead because, you know, sistas before mistas.”
In an impressive display of timing, my phone dings with a text from Eli. After we left Starbucks the other night, we exchanged numbers in the parking lot before heading to our respective cars. We’ve been texting sporadically ever since, mostly random stuff about our jobs and other mindless chat. He’s the same over text as he is in person—cheerful and open and nice, a fun diversion from all the heavy stuff in my life. I find myself looking forward to his messages, even when he sends me horrible jokes. Like right now.
Have you ever tried to eat a clock?
It’s very time-consuming.
I snort quietly and type a quick response: sigh
He responds with a winking emoji, and I set my phone on the arm of the couch, facedown. When I look over at my friends, they’re both eyeing me suspiciously.
“Who was that?” Alyssa asks.
I lean forward and grab a handful of popcorn from the bowl on the table. “No one.”
“You were smiling,” Sophie says with a sly smile of her own.
“Yeah, I do that once in a while.”
“No, you were smiling like you were texting with a guy.”
Alyssa turns to her. “What does a texting-with-a-guy smile look like, exactly?”
Sophie lowers her eyelids and stretches her lips into a wide, dopey grin.
“Like you’re on drugs, apparently,” I say, then let out a resigned sigh. “It was this guy I met at work. Um, at the thrift shop. Eli.”
“Eli,” Sophie repeats, drawing out the E sound. “Is Thrift Shop Eli hot?”
An image of him from this morning flashes through my mind. Rita sent me outside to ask him if he’d seen the packages of new clothes hangers she’d bought. When I got outside, I found him in front, digging weeds out of the flower bed. At the sound of my approach, he straightened up and used the bottom of his T-shirt to wipe sweat off his forehead, giving me a glimpse of his defined abs. It took me a several seconds to remember what I was supposed to ask him.
“Maybe,” I admit. “In a tall, built jock sort of way.”
“Oh, he’s a sports guy?”
“Not anymore.” I tell them about his knee, and how he took up an interest in horticulture when he realized he wouldn’t be able to play for a while.
“That must’ve sucked for him,” Alyssa says as she flips through Netflix. “I mean, having to change the course of his whole life like that.”
I shrug and scoop up some more popcorn. “He seems happy. Though I barely know him, so that’s just an assumption.”
“Do you like him?”
“Well, yeah,” I say, chewing. “I mean, he’s that type of guy, you know? Impossible not to like.”
“I think he sounds cute,” Sophie says. “A big muscly guy who likes flowers? That’s adorable.”
Alyssa rolls her eyes. “You think everyone is adorable.”
“That’s right.” She makes the dopey face again. “Especially Zach.”
The mention of Zach makes me think of Dawson, which makes me think of my promise to him—that I’d subtly dig for answers from Alyssa and find out why she’s apparently avoiding him. Only I have no idea how to go about it.
We’re ten minutes into the movie before I gather the nerve to bring it up. “Um, Lyss?”
“Yeah?”
“Oooh!” Sophie gasps, like she just thought of something amazing. She leans over Alyssa’s lap to look at me. “If you start dating Thrift Shop Eli, we can double-date. I’ve never done that with either of you guys.” She glances at Alyssa and adds, “And if Alyssa finds someone, we can triple-date. Even better.”
I could kiss her. She just gave me the perfect opening without even trying. “Or if Dawson finds someone,” I put in.
Alyssa nudges Sophie off her lap and stares hard at the TV screen. “Guys, I am not dating Dawson.”
“Why not?” Sophie asks. She holds up a hand and starts counting off on her fingers. “He’s smart. He’s cute. He’s nice. And he likes you.”
I keep quiet so Lyss doesn’t feel like we’re ganging up on her, but in my head I’m thinking Go, Sophie, go.
“Are you not attracted to him?” Sophie presses in her curious-but-pushy way. “Is that it? Are you not attracted to guys?”
“Can we just watch Pitch Perfect?” Alyssa picks up the remote and hits the volume button.
“Or maybe you’re bi, like Jasmine?” She raises her voice to be heard over the movie. “A lot of people are bi, you know. It’s a thing.”
“You know what else is a thing?” Alyssa says, making her eyes wide like she’s about to impart an outrageous truth. “Going through high school without dating. It’s not that uncommon. Some people just don’t want to date.”
“And that’s fine,” I say, though I feel disappointed for Dawson. I’m not surprised, though. Alyssa has never shown any interest in having a relationship, and the few crushes she’s had involved fictional people. It never seemed to matter before. But now there’s Dawson, who I’d hate to see hurt for loving someone who has him securely placed in the Friend Zone.
Sophie stares at her for a moment, then sighs. “I’m sorry. It’s your business, and I shouldn’t push you to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
Alyssa relaxes against the back of the couch. “Thank you.”
“What I should do is go get one of those yummy triangles. I’ll risk your mother’s wrath.” She jumps up and skips out of the room.
“Tiropitakia!” Alyssa yells after her.
I start laughing and, after a moment, Alyssa joins in.