Page 30 of The Perfect Rom-Com

Abruptly, she turns to him, nacho in hand. “What, Albrecht? What is it now?”

“You are bad with logic,” he says, staring at her. “You eat nachos, then complain every week your stomach hurts. You should keep me near to remind you.”

I bite at a smile tugging my lips. Gloria does, in fact, eat nachos every week, and every week complains about a stomachache afterward.

“I like stomachaches.” Gloria thrusts the entire nacho in her mouth. “In fact,” she says through a mouthful, “I vove them.”

“You were also late today. You make people worry.”

“Three minutes does not count as being late in America, Albrecht.”

“Perhaps you should let me call and remind you because you are so forgetful.”

And cue the next hour of backhanded compliments and Gloria-Albrecht bickering.

“Abdallah, you’re up anytime,” I call over my shoulder, pretending not to see him flirting with the girl in the pinstriped top and skirt holding a platter of cheeseburgers and fries. Which I have to hand it to him is bold—flirting in a second language when you’re only four months in is not for the weak of heart.

I wait thirty seconds and, when he hasn’t moved, call louder, “Ab-dall-ah.”

“Hold your horses,” Abdallah calls, then flashes me an unsteady grin.

I flash a tight smile right back. “Correct usage. Wrong time. Get over here.”

As Abdallah shuffles over, he says, “You know, Teacher, I use that to the police today at the airport.”

“What?”

“They want me to move out of the line, the, uh—” He hesitates, motioning with his hands something undiscernible.

I wait patiently. I’m used to waiting.

Giving my students time to fight the battle to find the word is essential in helping them win the war of language learning. It’s a simple process: giving them confidence in the classroom to raise their hands and use words gives them confidence to step out of the classroom and order a meal, which gives them confidence to step out into the world and get their license, and a job, and make friendships with coworkers and neighbors. And have big, beautiful lives.

This is the goal.

Patience is key.

“Parking zone,” he says at last, with a little glint in his eyes. He’s proud of himself for calling up the words, and I smile, proud of him for remembering them—at four months in no less.

“And?” I say.

“And I say what you teach us. I say”—he enunciates the following words with a broad smile—“hold . . . your . . . horses.”

Oof. All proud feelings gone.

I squeeze the bridge of my nose. “Oh, Abdallah. And how did they respond?”

He laughs. Replies with a jilted, “They did not like it.”

Abdallah is one of my newest students, a nineteen-year-old Middle Eastern refugee who, despite the kidnapping of his uncle that led to a threat upon his family’s life, carries a zest for life that makes him able to pretty much charm his way out of most things. Oh, and a fondness for using my idioms of the day in inappropriate situations and later bragging about it in class. Always, I’m pretty sure, to rile me up.

“That’s not—” I shake my head. “No, we’ll talk about it tomorrow. C’mon. It’s your turn.”

As I look back, my eyes catch a glimpse of Jack over by the jukebox, his brows furrowed. He stands in the middle of the crowd, staring at his phone.

A work frown, of the more significantly displeased type. Last time I saw him so engrossed and unhappy, I asked what it was with a laugh, thinking it was nothing more than a bad manuscript, and he told me his client had died.

I can’t help wondering over what it is this time.