“But if you ever make me have this conversation again,” he continues, “I’m telling Eliana about the time you cried duringThe Notebook.”
I cough out a surprised laugh. “I had something in my eye, you little shit.”
“Sure you did.” He grins and picks up his taco again. “A big ol’ tear-shaped something.” Still laughing, he takes an enormous bite and speaks around it. “So does this mean we’re gonna share our feelings more often now? Because I gotta warn you, I charge by the hour for emotional labor. And my rate issteep.”
“Shut up and eat your taco.”
“Aye-aye, captain.” But he’s smiling. We both are.
I’m stuffed, but he’s still going, so I sit back and watch him for a while. This sarcastic, shaggy-haired burden of mine.
Something occurs to me as I watch him plow through his third and fourth tacos with aplomb. “Back in the clinic,” I say, “when we were leaving, what did Lilah give you?”
Sage freezes, cheeks full of taco like a chipmunk. His eyes dart to me, then away. “Nothing.”
“Didn’t look like nothing.”
“It was just—” He shifts in his wheelchair, suddenly very interested in the salsa verde. “She gave me her number. And her Snapchat.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” He’s blushing now, a deep, cherry-red hue creeping up his neck. “We might hang out this weekend or something. I dunno. Maybe. It’s not a big deal.”
“It’s a huge deal,” I correct. “Good for you, man.”
He looks up at me quizzically, then shrugs and says, “Alright. Yeah. Maybe it is.”
He goes back to his taco. I go back to mine. Behind us, cars pass. Between us, something has changed. We don’t talk about it, though. We don’t need to. I can recognize this moment for what it is: not an ending or a beginning, but simply a Tuesday in May when I took my brother for tacos and everything felt, for once, uncomplicated.
51
ELIANA
umami: /o?o'mäme/: noun
1: the fifth taste; a pleasant, savory, or meaty flavor that provides a sense of richness and depth to food.
2: a feeling of profound rightness; a flavor you never knew existed; the missing piece.
Bastian is waiting outside the church when Mom and I emerge into the cool May evening. He’s framed in the shrinking aperture of my vision, leaning against the Range Rover with his hands shoved in his pockets, backlit by the indigo sky.
I pause for a second and admire him. His hair is brassy under the streetlight. The white shirt he wore this morning is rumpled now, sleeves pushed past his elbows to expose those scarred forearms—burn marks and knife nicks, the accumulated damage of a life spent working with heat and edges.
Mom notices him a second after I do. She looks at him, then at me. Then a slow, subtle smile crosses her face.
I take a mental Polaroid of that smile and tuck it away, even though I’m slightly embarrassed that she put two and two together so quickly. Guess I’m not as sneaky as I think I am.
We hug goodbye. She promises to get home safe and I promise to call her tomorrow. Then I walk toward Bastian. My heart does a double-time tempo as I get close, but when he wraps me into a hug and kisses my temple, the ever-present chorus of competing voices in my head smooths out into a blank and beautiful stillness.
This is my safe space. This is my haven. This hug, this kiss, this man, this moment. I can’t see much of the world around us anymore and I don’t have to—because as long as he’s got me, I can close my eyes and know I’m okay.
“Hi,” I say when I finally let him loosen his arms around me.
“Hey.” He studies my face in the streetlight. “How’d it go?”
“Good. Really good, actually. Thanks for coming to get me.”
“Always,” he says simply, and opens the car door for me.
