Alex grins, then suddenly steps onto his pedals and rolls out into the bike lane.
“Last one home has to make lunch!” he yells.
As un-Alex as he could ever be, he takes off into the bike lane, sending a thrill through me.
CHAPTER 19THEN
August 16, two summers ago
I have three missed calls from my mom, but no texts, which means it’s not urgent, but it is uncommon enough to put me on edge. I’m annoyed that I’m distracted by this, that she can call a few times, not leave a voicemail, and still tug on my heart, thread it with worry, despite how little connection we share.
The last thing I want to be is distracted tonight. I want to be fully present. Even though tonight is bittersweet.
“Hot Chef did this,” Lauren says over her menu. “Didn’t he?”
I smile at her from across our two-top at Savoureux, shrugging. “What can I say? I’ve got friends in high places.”
She shakes her head. “Of all people to befriend a culinary star, Our Lady of Chef Boyardee.”
“Listen here. I don’tloveeating garbage processed food. I just have to sometimes, so I don’t shrivel into dust.”
“You could,” she throws out, “do this thing called ‘learn to cook’?”
I glare at her. “I’m aware.”
Lauren beams. “I’m teasing.”
“Kind of,” I tell her.
“Kind of,” she admits.
“Sort of like you were ‘joking’ about dragging me into going on runs, then you actually regularly dragged me into going on runs. Or when you were ‘just playing’ about giving me nearly all of your furniture when you moved?”
Lauren breaks first, laughing hard, her chin tucked to her chest, but I’m close behind her, head thrown back, elbows on the table, manners be damned, trying and failing not to snort.
As our laughter fades, the mood turns somber for the first time since we sat down to dinner—her goodbye dinner, before she flies out tomorrow to her first consulting job in Chicago, until the next client takes her somewhere else.
Over the past week, Lauren’s condo has been emptied, too much of its beautiful furnishings and art foisted on me, sticking out like swanky sore thumbs in my dingy shoebox apartment, a few treasures put into storage, left to wait for the day when Lauren’s job isn’t constant travel.
And now, tonight, on our last French Wine and Fried Food Friday until who knows when, it’s time to say goodbye.
I’ve been trying to stay upbeat, and Lauren has been, too. But we both know what’s coming, and the weight of that can’t be entirely ignored.
“I’ve been pushy,” she admits. “I know I’ve heckled you about the shit you eat. And I dragged you on runs. And I foisted a lot of furniture on you.”
“Alot,” I agree. “I’m going to have to plastic-wrap it all so Argos doesn’t destroy it.”
“Ah, he can fuck it up. I don’t care. I don’t want it back—I told you that. It’ll be out of style by the time I own a home or condo again, anyway.”
“Then I graciously accept your generous gift of someday-unfashionable furniture, Lo.”
She smiles, but it’s strained. “I just want you to be okay.”
“I’ll befine, Mom.” I roll my eyes like a moody teenager.
It makes Lauren’s smile deepen before it fades. “I’m not mothering you. I’m best-friending you.”
“Well,” I tell her, “remember I have another BFF food snob now. So don’t worry, okay? He’s already just as pushy as you about making sure I periodically eat better fare than SpaghettiOs and Lean Cuisines.”