“Oh.” He pauses. “Is she into guys?”
I think of the guy from the Palisades, the one who showed up looking for her at Dee’s party. “I think so. I know she’s dated a guy and a girl… but just because she’s friends with lesbians doesn’t mean she’s a lesbian.”
“Thanks for stating the obvious, Little. It’s a valid question.” He looks at me. “What about you? You think she’s cute?”
My face is so hot it’s in danger of catching fire. He never would have asked me this before I came out as… whatever I am. I shift in my seat. “She’s okay.”
“Well, she seems cool, right?”
“If you want to ask her out, ask her out.” I look straight ahead, at a faded pickup truck with ten thousand pieces of lawn equipment weighing down the bed.
“It wouldn’t fuck things up at your new job?” He sounds genuinely concerned, and it seems unfair, withholding information from him, but telling him I have a crush on Rafaela seems pointless and a little cruel.
The last girl Lionel dated was shortly before he was diagnosed, and he hasn’t expressed interest in anyone since then. Her name was Grayson and they had loud, passionate discussions about books and we all liked her a lot. He tried to hide it, but I know how upset he was after her family moved to New York the spring of his sophomore year.
So I can’t say anything about Rafaela; I’d feel like I was crushing what little hope he has for normalcy these days. If he knew I was into her in even the smallest way, he’d step aside. He’s good like that.
“You should do what you want. It’s just a summer job.” I shrug, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Lionel smile.
The deli isn’t unreasonably far, but it’s out of the way. Emil’s house is in the same neighborhood as the flower shop; Lionel was nice to drive me. He complained during the trip to the deli and complains that the parking lot is a block away from the building, but he stops grumbling long enough to order a pastrami sandwich to go once we’re inside. I get one, too, along with Emil’s soup, which comes packaged in a tightly sealed mason jar.
Soon we’re back on Sunset, heading up to Emil’s house in the hills of Silver Lake. This stretch of the street isn’t anything like the Sunset Strip, the flashy length of clubs and restaurants in West Hollywood, sunk down below the mansions on the hills. Over by us, on the eastern side of L.A., the street is a blend of bars with dark windows and brightly colored murals and strip malls that house everything from vegan restaurants to specialty sneaker shops.
The sandwiches sit next to me in their takeout containers, snug inside a bag, but I’m balancing the soup on my lap. The warmth against my thighs contrasts with the air conditioner blasting in Lion’s car. But as he makes a right turn and begins chugging up the hill, my legs start sweating, and I wonder if this is a mistake. Showing up at Emil’s unannounced, bringing him food like we do this all the time. I don’t even know what it means that he’s sick from the Ménière’s; he said he needed to stay home, but maybe he doesn’t want to see anyone at all.
Too late now.
The car is crawling along the incline, the houses spreading out farther the higher we go. I pull down the sun visor so I can look in the mirror, realizing only now that I haven’t seen my reflection since before I left work. Does it even matter, once someone has seen you in your pajamas after you just woke up, wrecked with jet lag? I guess it matters to me, because I run my fingers through my dreads and use the tube of peppermint lip balm sitting in Lionel’s console as we near the steep driveway that leads to the Choi home.
“I’m gonna wait out here,” my brother says once we’ve pulled up in front.
“You sure? Catherine will want to see you.” I nod toward Emil’s mom’s car parked in the driveway ahead.
“Nah.” He starts fiddling with his phone. “Catherine knows too much.”
He doesn’t have to say any more. There are no secrets between our family and Emil’s, and while we both like Catherine, it’s easier to deal with that discomfiting fact the less we see her.
She greets me at the front door with a huge hug and a kiss. “Oh, honey, I have missed this face. Emil didn’t tell me you were coming over—I thought he was sleeping.”
“He doesn’t know,” I say, admiring the long, jet-black Senegalese twists that drape over her shoulders. “I’m here to bring by some soup. I probably should’ve called—”
“You should’ve done nothing of the sort, and your mother would be angry with me if she knew how long you’ve been standing on this porch. Come in, honey.” She looks past me to the car. “Is that Lionel?”
I glance behind me, where my brother is now talking on his phone. I wonder if he’s pretending to talk to someone, because he hates being on the phone. Even knowing how much he missed me, I think he barely tolerated our calls when I was at Dinsmore.
“He has to take care of something,” I say, “and I just wanted to drop this off. I shouldn’t bother Emil if he’s sleeping.”
Catherine holds the door wide open.
I step into the foyer and immediately take off my sandals, bending down to place them on the low shelf by the front door. Emil’s dad—Appa, as he sometimes calls him—grew up with parents who emigrated from South Korea, and one of their traditions that’s held strong in Emil’s family is no shoes in the house. “It only makes sense—shoes are filthy,” Mom said after the first time we visited them with Lionel and Saul. She tried to implement the rule in our home, but it wasn’t a week before the Nussbaum men were once again stomping around on the hardwood floors in work boots and dirty sneakers.
Our house is big, but old and kind of rickety beneath all the historic charm. Emil’s house is modern, with concrete floors and white shag rugs thrown around the Eames furniture in the main room. The front wall is enclosed by panels of steel and glass and has a gorgeous view of the houses that sit below the hill.
“Last night was pretty bad for Emil, but he’s been better today. Sleeping, mostly.” Catherine sighs. “He’s been in remission for quite a while.… I hope this doesn’t start happening more frequently.”
“How long does it usually last?” I ask, wondering why, if there are no secrets between our families, nobody told me about Emil’s condition while I was away.
“Oh, it depends,” she says, leading me to the bottom of the stairs. “The episodes can last anywhere from a few hours to a few days. He might have another one next week or be fine for six months. It’s hard to know.”
“Maybe I should go. He can let me know when he’s feeling better.” I try to say it like it’s no big deal, but Catherine sees right through me and my matzo ball soup.