“It’s the dictionary.”
“Even better.” She got to her feet, walking over to the closet, where Bean was now trying to chew on one of my shoes. Picking her up, she said, “Let’s just work with what we have. He’s off at seven. Now, you absolutely can’t go to his work and meet him there—”
“Why not?” I asked. “Isn’t that why he told me that?”
“Because that looks even more desperate! You never meet anyone halfway, you make them come to you. He’s already had ‘sure.’ You need to call the rest of the shots.”
“This is insane,” I said. “I refuse to believe everyone strategizes at this level when it comes to a simple date.”
“Don’t call it a date,” she corrected me. “Too formal. You’re hanging out at a party. With a group.”
There was a bang outside my door as KitKat entered, each carrying a bag of pretzels. “What are you guys doing?” Jilly demanded. “Did you let yourselves in?”
“No, William did,” Kat told her. “And he offered snacks.”
“No fair,” Crawford said. “I’m hungry.”
“Mom says you need to drive us to the truck so Dad can take us to gymnastics,” Kit told Jilly, popping a pretzel in her mouth.
“I thought she was doing that. I have a party to get to.”
“She’s tired. She said she needs to lie down.”
Jilly and I exchanged a look. Her mom went nonstop. When she got tired, it usually meant something. As in, another Baker something. “I am going to East U in August,” she said to me, under her breath. “Baby or no baby.”
“Who’s having a baby?” Crawford asked.
“Nobody,” we said in unison. Jilly shifted Bean to her other hip, then looked at KitKat, now sitting on the bed together, crunching. “Fine. I’ll drive you guys, then circle back and get ready. Louna, let’s meet at six forty-five at my house. In the meantime, text the Lumberjack again but only give the party address I gave you. Nothing else. You have to have hand. It’s important.”
“Louna knows a real lumberjack?” Crawford asked.
“No,” I told him,
“I want more pretzels,” Kit announced, crumpling up the bag. “Can I go ask William?”
“No,” Jilly replied. “We’re leaving. All of us. Now! Let’s go.”
Crawford put the dictionary back, the twins got to their feet, and Jilly followed, Bean squirming for me as she passed. I patted her chubby hand, giving it a kiss, and she laughed.
“Why would anyone want to add to this?” Jilly said, once everyone else had thumped down the stairs. “It’s madness already.”
“Love makes people do crazy things, I guess.”
At this, she harrumphed, then waved over her shoulder as she left. As usual after a Baker departure, the room felt bigger and quieter. I sat down on my bed, looking over the text exchanges with Leo. To me, they were just words, all the nuances and meanings Jilly saw invisible. Was this really how it worked, when you were seeking? It seemed so complicated. Regardless, I did as she’d said and sent the address of the party, nothing else. A moment later, he texted back with just a K. From sentences to words to just letters. It was hard to see this as progress and not the other way around.
CHAPTER
15
BY THE time I’d gotten ready—changing my shirt twice, redoing makeup once—I still had nearly an hour before I was set to meet Jilly. So I went downstairs to look for William.
He was in the kitchen. William loved to cook, had even toyed with going to culinary school at one point after college. But he hated the small kitchen at his otherwise perfect-for-him high-rise, modern apartment, preferring to keep it pristine at all times and not smelling of garlic. So when he felt like cooking, he always came over to our house, where he could spread out across the island and counters and know whatever he made would be enthusiastically welcomed. (My mom and I were Lean Cuisine and takeout types: about all she could make was toast, and my strength was chocolate chip cookies. These were great staples, don’t get me wrong. But you couldn’t exactly eat them every night.) There was no set schedule when William would cook, though, which added a surprise element.
“What’s the occasion?” I asked him as I came in.
He glanced over his shoulder, chopping at something. “Your mother read another article about clean eating and getting in shape. She’s inspired and requested a home-cooked, healthy meal.”
“Again?”
“We could both do with a lifestyle change,” he replied, the knife banging as he made more cuts. “We’re going to start cooking more, and walking every night, as well.”
Sure you are, I thought. They made these diet and exercise pledges every few months, proclaiming it the Start of a New Era. It was usually only a week at best before I found them once again on the couch after work splitting a bucket of chicken and watching Big New York or Big Chicago, their favorite reality shows. I knew better than to point this out, though. “Sounds great. What are you making?”
“Chicken paillard with asparagus and shaved parmesan and a pear salad,” he replied. “I’m just hoping you guys have lemons. It’s the one thing I forgot.”
“William. You know we don’t have lemons. We don’t even have bread right now.”
“What?” He looked aghast. Wiping his hands on his apron—a plain linen one he always brought from home—he went over to the fridge, pulling it open. “Dear God, there is nothing in these produce drawers. Not even a bag of spinach!”
“I’d be less surprised to find a live animal,” I told him.
He shut the door, shaking his head. “I always wonder how you managed to get to eighteen without scurvy.”
“Hey, we order salads from Tossed almost every night,” I said, defending myself. “Just because it’s not here doesn’t mean I don’t eat it.”
“Well, thank God for that.” He sighed, looking at the onion and chicken breasts out on the island. “I need lemons, though. They’re key to the dish.”
“I can run and get you some,” I said. “Farmer Fred’s is, like, two seconds away.”
“Farmer Fred’s?” he repeated. “No. I don’t cook enough to lower myself to that kind of standard. I’m going to Spice and Thyme. While I’m there, I’ll grab some prosciutto and melon, as we do need an appetizer. And maybe some of those Belgian macaroons for dessert.”
“What happened to healthy eating?”
“They’re Belgian and organic, Louna. Are you coming or what?”
Fifteen minutes later, we were at Spice and Thyme, the gourmet market, where the fragrant notes of expensive coffee hit you the second you stepped through the sliding doors. It was practically required that you pause just to inhale. We both did.
“I want heaven to smell just like this,” William said.
“And movie popcorn,” I added.
“Well, of course.”