“No, I wouldn’t want it to outpace other large parts of my body.” Joking is easier than addressing what she’s just told me.
But I stew on it anyway as we walk to Madison Square Garden to catch Fitz’s game. Along the way, I’m extremely grateful for the noise of Manhattan, for the sardine-packed streets stuffed with tourists and locals, and for the smells of garbage, the scent of buses fuming, the din of phone calls, of cabs honking, of cars stopping.
It keeps my focus on the immediate rather than this brand-new information that’s complicating matters even more.
She liked it too.
A lot.
When we go inside the Garden, it feels like I’m entering a safe zone.
There is no way I will be tempted to kiss her here.
Not a chance.
Especially when we grab nachos and beer. The nachos here are covered in jalapeños, and who would want a jalapeño kiss?
Not this guy.
Not at all.
Not even with Summer.
Then I take a bite of the nachos, and they are spicier than I remembered.
Who am I kidding? I bet she’d taste fiery.
That’s the trouble.
24
Oliver
But a deal is a deal.
That’s what we have. A deal to appear engaged. A deal to look the part.
So we do our best at the game, shouting and cheering and, also, talking.
Like we’ve done for the last seventeen years.
Every year. Every day.
And I can forget the jalapeño desire. I can forget how good she tasted, how fantastic she smells. I can do what I’ve always done—be her friend.
“Have you given any more thought to your gym time frame while you save the rest of the money?”
“No. But my mom texted me again. She offered me the money a second time, but . . .”
“But you’re not going to take it, I trust?”
“It just doesn’t feel right to me.”
“I suppose.” I take another drink of my beer as the good guys chase the puck on the ice and Summer shouts her encouragement.
At the next lull, she picks up the discussion as if we’d only hit pause.
“You get why I turn her down though, right?” she asks earnestly. “I want to do this myself. I already pretty much get off scot-free in the rent department, living with my grandma. I don’t want to be beholden to anyone else.”
“But your mom would give you the money. So would you truly be beholden?”
She reaches for the nachos, scoops one up, and chews. “No, but what if I was? She always talked about how she gave up her job to help support my dad’s business. So what if it became this thing that would hang over us?”
I nod, taking a tortilla chip and eating it as New York attacks the net. But New York misses the shot, and the collective shoulders in the rink slump.
“Your mom’s happy though, don’t you think? At least, she always seemed that way when we were younger.”
“Did she?”
“Happier than my parents. But that’s not hard.”
She sighs, sets a hand on my shoulder, and squeezes. “True. Understandable, but true.”
“It was so much better to be at your house, you know?”
She nods. “I do know, and I also know it’s not simply because I made amazing popcorn.”
I arch a skeptical brow. “‘Made’? More like bought.”
“Hey! I made it. Most of the time,” she says sheepishly.
“And all of the time it was better to be there than with my parents fighting constantly over insurance and treatments, and on and on.” Ironic that they moved to America for jobs with supposedly better health benefits but wound up arguing with insurance for hours every day, it seemed.
Summer winces. “I sound like I’m complaining about my mom wanting to support me. I’m a dick, huh?”
I laugh, loop an arm around her shoulders, and draw her near. “Only a little.”
“I’m a little dick. Even better.”
I laugh, knowing I’d miss these moments if I lost her to a stupid decision like giving in to lust. “All I’m saying is you’re remembering it a certain way. You remember her being resentful, but I remember her being happy.”
“And I remember your parents trying really hard every second to keep it together, and you remember them fighting,” she says softly.
I mull that over as I drink my beer. She has a point, but also maybe not. “But isn’t it our recollections, more than the reality, that informs our outlook?”
“Possibly. But what if our recollections are wrong?”
“Speaking of wrong, sometimes I worry that Logan is too caught up in what went wrong with his marriage. On wanting to beat that guy who cheated with his wife,” I say.
“I think that too. But I’ve said it to him, and he doesn’t seem ready to hear it.”
“Maybe we only hear things when we’re ready.” My attention swings back to the ice, where Fitz slams the puck, sending it to the forward, who lobs it straight into the net. Setting my beer down, I thrust my arms in the air, cheering.
