“Hmm.” She held up a piece of tomato and I let her feed it to me. “And this is what you came over to tell Gyver? Maybe you should call him.”
I chewed and considered it. “Maybe I’ll just show up and surprise him. I haven’t seen Empty Orchestra in months.”
“You should! It would make his night.” She touched my cheek before adding, “Meagan’s there, too, so you’ll have someone to watch with.”
I shrank away from her hand. “She is?” I had no problem admitting I was wrong to Gyver, but not in the middle of a date. I didn’t want to see Meagan look at him or him look at her. Or both of them look at me with pity. The images wouldn’t leave my head—him on stage and her an adoring fan. Would he play the M.A. song? Would he dedicate one to her? Would his electric eye contact, which always made me feel like I was the only girl in the room, be focused solely on her?
“It’s all right. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”
“You sure?” she asked.
“I’m sure.” I pointed to the ingredients laid across the kitchen’s island. “Can I help?”
“I’m just making sauce. The garlic’s simmering, it’s just chopping and stirring.”
She looked at me. “The wig is good. You can’t even tell. I knew and it took a few minutes to remember.”
“Thanks.” I fiddled with a green pepper and sighed.
“You don’t want to go home.” She placed a cutting board on the counter in front of me. “Why don’t you stay and I’ll teach you to make ravioli.” She handed me a knife and nodded at the pepper.
“I’m sick of pretending all the time,” I admitted. “It’s exhausting, and I’m already exhausted. I can’t do it tonight.”
“Your mother loves you, but she doesn’t give you much room to be human.”
“She just wants me to be happy.”
“You’re allowed to be sad and scared. Cancer’s a sad, scary thing. Experiencing those emotions isn’t going to hurt you.”
I nodded and let the truth of her words sink in as I sliced the pepper into irregular chunks.
It wasn’t easy—even while mixing, kneading, and rolling the ravioli dough and listening to Mrs. Russo explain the secrets to making pasta—to forget that I was wearing a wig and teenage social life was going on without me.
“I’m going to tell my friends I’m sick,” I announced.
“Good.” Mrs. Russo wiped her hands on a towel and hugged me. “I’m proud of you. There are much better ways for you to be spending your energy.”
Suddenly it all seemed possible. Standing in a kitchen that smelled of oregano and acceptance with Mrs. Russo stirring, humming to herself, and holding out spoons for me to taste, I felt hopeful. I felt relieved.
Mr. Russo wandered in from the family room where he’d been watching the History Channel. He took the lid off the saucepan and inhaled, then leaned in and kissed his wife on the cheek. “This is what I like to see: my two favorite ladies making my favorite foods.”
He pinched my cheek and poured himself a glass of milk. Poured me one as well. “How are you doing, mia piccola bambina?”
He hadn’t called me that in years, not since I’d kicked him in the shins and told him I wasn’t “piccola,” I was a “big girl.” I smiled at the memory, at him.
“I’m fine,” I said. For the first time in months, I meant it.
I was asleep, dreaming about ravioli and concerts, when those images were invaded. Replaced by Ryan’s picture and ring tone. “Hello?”
“You sleeping?” There was alcohol heaviness in his voice.
“A little bit.” I pulled myself upright and tucked a pillow between my head and the headboard. My bald head. The day began to trickle back into focus. I wasn’t mad at Ryan, but I was disappointed. We were done with whatever it was we hadn’t officially started.
“Go back to sleep. I’ll come over tomorrow.” He wasn’t drunk, just buzzed-mellow.
“That’s okay, you don’t have to,” I was too tired to give the words a this-isn’t-a-suggestion cadence, but figured hanging up gave the same message.
A car pulled into Gyver’s driveway. I cracked the window to hear Meagan’s voice call good-bye and him whistling under his breath as he headed inside.
Things didn’t seem as shiny anymore, or as easy. I didn’t feel as resolved. I sent Lauren a text: Call me when you get up, then scrunched down under my covers and willed my brain to stop thinking and my eyes to shut.
Chapter 30
I woke up wanting a lazy, kick-around Sunday. I pulled on my oldest cheerleading sweatshirt and a pair of yoga pants. I grabbed Gyver’s hat—Mom had made it clear how she felt about me walking around bareheaded.
“Notice how I let you sleep in?” Gyver asked as I entered my kitchen. “Friends don’t wake up friends before noon.”
“What are you wearing?” Mom asked.
I shrugged. “It’s my lucky sweatshirt. Hi, Gyver.”
“You look homeless. People are going to think we can’t afford to clothe you. That sweatshirt’s going to disappear when it goes down to be washed—I’ll buy you a new one.”
“She looks fine,” said Gyver. “I could lend her much worse if you want.”
Mom ignored him. “What can I get you, kitten? Do you want breakfast or lunch?”
“I’ll get it.”