“Thanks,” I said. “Thanks for coming.”
She pulled back. “You’re the best, Devon.”
Another patent untruth. But Lindsay was generous enough to believe it.
“So what we were talking about before…” Lindsay looked over to where Ezra stood, talking with Jordan. She then looked back at me, and back at Ezra, and in case I didn’t get it yet, widened her eyes emphatically.
“What about it?”
“I really think you should, you know, give that, uh … soup … a chance.”
“Soup?”
“You know. That soup we were talking about. I think you should give it a shot. It’s a really … good recipe. Highly dependable. And obviously delicious.” Her eyes widened. “Not that I would know. Not that I’ve tasted the soup.”
“This is not a flawless metaphor.”
She grinned. “I’m just saying, the soup obviously likes you; and if you like the soup, too, you should just…”
“Don’t say ‘eat the soup’.”
“That’s not … you’re right. I suck at metaphors. But you know what I mean. You deserve good soup.”
“You do, too.” I glanced over at Ezra and Jordan, and beyond them, to where Cas was lingering. “But, you know, it’s not all about soup. There’s also…” I waved a hand, encompassing her and me. “Grilled cheese and stuff.”
“Yeah.” She bobbed her head. “Yes.” A pause. “We’re the grilled cheese?”
“The grilled cheese is our friendship.”
She smiled. “Good.”
I hugged her again. Maybe she was wearing off on me a little. “Good night, Lindsay.”
“Night, Devon.”
Lindsay moved to say good-bye to Jordan and Ezra, and then with just a glance at Cas, headed off toward her car. Cas watched her for a second and then turned to me.
“You’re good, right? Everything’s … okay?”
I wasn’t sure if he was asking with respect to what had happened this evening or if there was some broader question there. “Sure. I guess.”
“Cool.” He paused. “Maybe you’ll call me tomorrow?”
Maybe I would. It wouldn’t be like it was, though. Curled up under the covers, wanting him to be the last person I spoke to before I fell asleep. Waiting for the final-act reversal. It wasn’t coming, and I knew that now.
“Yeah, maybe,” I said.
He nodded and looked to Jordan. “See you at school, man.” And then he jogged off in Lindsay’s direction.
I could’ve watched them in the distance. Like watching them in the van on the way to Reeding, I could’ve drawn up that sting of the unrequited, that hurt that you’re willing to bear because at least it connects you to the other person in some way. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to anymore.
After Cas’s departure, Jordan slapped Ezra’s hand, kissed me on the cheek, and headed away.
And then Ezra and I were alone.
“Back inside?” he said after a moment.
“Don’t you want to get home?”
He shrugged. “I’m good here.”
I looked up at Ezra Lynley, who was, according to Rachel Woodson’s crap article, one of the best high school running backs in the country. He was also best friend to Foster. He led the charts in generosity and loyalty and honor. At least in my book.
I swallowed and was about to speak, but then I noticed something. Or rather someone, hanging around the big concrete ashtray that stuck unceremoniously out of the ground a couple of parking lot lights down.
“You go inside,” I said to Ezra. “I’ll meet you in a sec.” He raised an eyebrow in question. “I just need a minute to myself.”
Ezra nodded and then headed in.
“Emir?”
The orange tip of his cigarette flared as I stepped into his ring of lamplight. He exhaled, blowing the smoke behind him.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I was at the game. I followed the caravan over.”
“Did you put money down on Foster making it?”
“If I had, would I be happy?”
“Yeah, you’d be happy.”
“Good to hear.”