Beau doesn’t have time to respond before I start pulling out ingredients to make my favorite sandwich: grilled cheese with a fried egg and ham. It’s delicious, unhealthy, and best of all, it only takes a few minutes to whip up. He hovers on the other side of the island, watching me flit around the kitchen. I rush, scared that if I’m not quick enough, he’ll leave. I sense that he wants to decline the sandwich and rush back out onto the back porch, but he doesn’t, at least not yet.
I butter both sides of the bread slices and set them on the hot pan, artfully layering cheese and ham. In another pan, I crack two eggs, then I glance up at Beau—at his tall frame—and crack a third.
We don’t talk as I cook. In fact, there’s no sound other than the pops and crackles from the eggs frying in butter. The smell is heavenly, and I know I have him. No one walks away from a grilled cheese like this, not even to escape your landlord’s emotional daughter.
I set out two plates and finish arranging the sandwiches. He thinks ahead and lays out napkins for us at the table. I’m happy to see he isn’t going to take the food and run.
“Do you have any more of that lemonade you made the other day?” he asks, tugging open a cabinet door to retrieve two glasses.
I made another batch, but my dad already guzzled most of it down. There’s just enough for one glass and though I’d love some, I tell Beau to take it. I’d rather watch him drink it.
It isn’t until I’m sitting across from him at the table that I realize we never turned on the lights. It’s not pitch black, not even close, but the sun is setting outside, and large oak trees block the horizon. What’s left of the golden hour filters in through the windows and leaves us in a shallow darkness, just enough that I pray he can’t tell how splotchy my cheeks are.
I pull my legs up and sit crisscrossed on the seat, watching as he picks up the first half of his sandwich. I overloaded it so much that it’ll be hard to eat, but he doesn’t complain. I wait for him to take his first bite, anticipating his response so much that I find myself leaning toward him across the table. Once he glances up at me and nods, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a napkin, I sit back and smile.
“Bravo,” he says after he swallows.
I pick up my own sandwich and just like that, we’re eating together.
I PROBABLY SHOULDN’T be here with Lauren while her parents aren’t in the house. Her mom offered me casserole, but I doubt she anticipated that I would be sitting here alone with her daughter. I should stand and take my dinner back to my apartment, but I’m already half done and it’s too good to stop now. It’s been a while since I’ve had a grilled cheese, forever since I’ve had one like this.
I feel Lauren watching me as I eat. More than that, I can feel her nervous energy. She can’t just sit still. She’s jittery, unsure of herself. She might as well be wearing a neon sign that reads: PLEASE VALIDATE ME. I wonder if I was like that at her age too.
When I first walked in earlier, she was crying quietly. Her head was tipped against the refrigerator and her shoulders shook from the weight of whatever shitty day she had. Truthfully, I could have turned back for my apartment and she never would have realized I was there. But, it could have been something serious, and my mom raised me better than to slink away.
So here I am, sitting across from a girl who is a total mystery to me.
She plays with her food, picking at it more than anything. I’m so hungry a part of me wants to reach across and finish it for her, but she needs to eat. Unfortunately, I know she won’t be able to until she finishes digesting the big ball of sadness in the pit of her stomach.
I finish my sandwich and scoot back, telling myself it’s not my business if she’s sad or not. I checked to make sure she wasn’t hurt, and now it’s time for me to go.
Lauren hears my chair screech against the wood floor and her head snaps up, blonde curls spilling over her shoulder.
“Oh! You’re done already.” She glances down at her mostly uneaten sandwich. “Do you even chew, or just unhinge your jaw like a snake?”
I smile and tip back the last of the lemonade, mourning the fact that it’s gone before I take my dishes to the sink and rinse them off so I can load them in the dishwasher.
“Thank you for dinner. It was delicious,” I say with a quick tip of my head before I walk around the island toward the back door.
All business.
Her broad smile lights up the room. “Sure. Yeah. No problem!”
Then she turns back and continues picking at her sandwich. The smile disappears.
My hand is on the knob. I tell myself to leave, and then I cave and turn back. So much for boundaries.
“Do you want to talk about what’s wrong?”
Her gaze whips back to me, full of surprise and wonder, and then she looks past me, toward my apartment. Her brows furrow. “Don’t you have law school stuff to do?”
Yes, I do. In fact, I’ll be up most of the night.
I rock back on my heels and tuck my hands back in my pockets. “Nothing that can’t wait.”
Her bottom lip quivers. “Wow. Thanks…that’s”—she looks back at her plate—“really nice of you.”
So she’s not going to open up right away. That’s fine. I’ll treat her like a tight-lipped witness.
“So it’s not about your parents—is it about school?”
“No. School is easy. This is, well…” She shrugs. “A matter of the heart. A crush, I guess.”
Oh Jesus.
Warning bells blare in my head.
Apparently she hears them too because she jumps up and laughs. “Not on you! Oh my god…”
I laugh, relief flooding my veins. I rub the back of my neck and feel safe taking another step back into the kitchen.
“It’s this boy who goes to St. Thomas.” She tips her head to the side like a little bird. “That’s the all-boys—”
I nod and cut her off. “I’m familiar with it.”
Another prep school that probably costs more than my law school tuition.
“Yeah, right, well, Preston goes there…Preston Westcott.”
She hangs his name out on the line like I’ll take the bait, but law school has prepared me for situations like this. Even if I don’t want to practice law after graduating, I’ve still worked to perfect my courtroom persona. Preston Westcott is the mayor’s son and I know she wants me to be impressed with the revelation, but I just nod for her to continue.
And continue she does.
Minutes pass as she spills the details of her afternoon without coming up for air, details like waltzing, dance partners, humiliation. Words are spilling out so quickly, it’s like I broke the floodgate.
The entire time she talks, I push down my instinct to brush her off. This is nothing. She’s not even going to remember it in five years. High school feels like forever, but it’s not. It’s hardly a blip. I want to nudge her shoulder with my fist, tell her to grow a thicker skin and move on, forget about the prick and focus on school.
I know better than that though. She doesn’t need tough love at the moment. She needs to make it through the night, get some rest, and wake up with hope for the next day. So, hope is what I’ll give her.
“You guys were practicing the waltz?” I ask, rounding the island toward her.
She drops her chin on her hand and sighs. “Yes, but I kept stepping on Lincoln’s feet. I’m sure he’s going to tell Preston how bad I was, and worse, I have to go back in two weeks and do it all over again. I should just call in sick, say I have a broken foot or something.”
“Come on,” I say, holding my hand out for her to take. “We’ll practice—if you’re comfortable with it.”
Her mouth drops open. “Really?”
“Yeah. If I can do it, anyone can. You were just flustered because of all the silly drama.”
She clamps her mouth shut and turns away with furrowed brows. “It’s not silly.”
Perspective is everything—another law school lesson.
“You’re right. It’s not.” I step forward, keeping my hand extended. “I can’t fix the Preston stuff, but I can teach you how to dance. That should help a little, right?”