“Oh, yeah. My mom was an amazing baker.” Grief lunges up into my throat. “She was amazing at everything, really.” It pains me that I didn’t inherit that from her. I’m not automatically skilled at everything I set my mind to. Honestly, there’s very little I excel at, and because she’s not here, the voice in my head is allowed to manipulate me into thinking she wouldn’t be proud of me.
But if I winMadcap Market, I know with one-hundred-percent certainty that she’ll be smiling down on me. That’s enough of a reason to go through with this harebrained scheme. The money to pay off my loans and be independent are the icing on the rainbow cake.
When I look over at Leo, he’s writing on his notepad again. “What are you jotting down?”
“Stuff about your mom.” He pauses, looks at me with deer-in-the-headlights eyes. “That sounded wrong. I just don’t have the best memory, and if we’re going to fake date then I need to study up on Holden James.”
A warmth stretches inside my chest. The fact that he not only suggested this, but he’s taking it seriously and listening to me and looking like that. His relaxed, sprawled-out posture and earnestness are almost too much to handle, but then he asks, “What else should I know?”
“What else do you want to know?” Buckley never really asked me questions. I retreated inward after Mom passed. College was the place where I was not only supposed to come out of my shell, but shed that shell entirely. Chuck it into the wind. Instead, I built a second shell on top of the original—one made of iron—to keep out any potential upset.
On the plane here, I was certain I was bulletproof. Leo, in two short days, has proven that wrong as he continues to lob shots in my direction, causing tiny cracks in the armor that spill light inside.
“Maybe let’s start at the beginning. Tell me about what young Holden was like.”
“Neurotic,” I say without thinking.
“So nothing’s changed, then. Got it.” Leo pretends to write that down.
I throw a discarded sock at him. His or mine? Who’s to say at this point? We’ve spent all day holed up in this room, ordering food, watching TV, strategizing, and growing more comfortable with one another, as if we’ve known each other for ages. “I only mean that I was an intense kid. I was an only child with two working parents. I had to be creative and resourceful, which also meant I had to grow up quickly so I could take care of myself when my grandparents couldn’t babysit. I made a lot of toaster oven chicken nuggets.”
“Dinosaur-shaped?”
“Of course.”
We share a smile that goes on for a beat too long, but I like it. I like it a lot. And now I’m craving chicken nuggets.
“I’m guessing you grew up even quicker when your mom died.” Leo’s words are careful. I appreciate that. He makes it known, just through his tone, that he’ll drop the topic immediately if I ask. But having shared this show with him now, I’m open to the idea of unloading some of the emotional groceries Buckley never had room for in the pantry of our relationship.
I nod. “My dad is a ray-of-sunshine person. Always optimistic and a little too lenient. I had to play the storm cloud for a while—yelling at the phone company when they refused to close Mom’s line and playing defense between my dad and my grandma when they fought over who would get to keep the ashes. It was taxing, especially when I was trying to make it to graduation in one piece. The only saving grace was being excused from finals and already having committed to a college.”
“Nobody suggested you take a year off or go to community college for a bit?”
“No, I wanted things to remain as normal as possible. My mom was so excited when I got into that school, so I was going.” I recall the restlessness inside me that made every outing without Mom somehow seem like a betrayal of her memory, even if I refused to lock myself away in my room and rip my way through a box of tissues. “Life got so hectic. I don’t think the grief really caught up to me until a few years into college.”
It was chicken parm night in the dining hall. Mom used to love cooking chicken parm for Dad and me on the nights we were all home for family dinner. The missing-her I had tucked inside a secret chamber of my heart escaped, and suddenly I was crying in a corner at a table all by myself.
Until Buckley passed by, noticed me, and said, “I relate. The food here is pretty bad.”
I surprised myself by laughing, then surprised myself even more by asking him to sit.
My universe shifted then. I threw myself headfirst into a whirlwind relationship with that Buckley.
Where did that Buckley go? The one who talked to me for hours about cardboard-flavored pizza and torturous lectures until I forgot I had even cried at all. Surely, he didn’t do a one-eighty in that restaurant in Manhattan. I must’ve lost that version of Buckley long before.
Great. Yet another loss to add to my list.
“You know what,” I say to Leo, noticing this room is feeling claustrophobic thanks to that unwelcome memory. “Let’s save the biography for later. Any chance you’d be up for a field trip?”
Nine
Leo drives us to the nearest grocery store for a crash course.
His car is a Honda Civic in an orange color that reminds me of bruised tangerines in a discount farmer’s market. The inside is a mess of receipts and ripped bags. Every time I move my feet, I’m greeted with another crunch. I start a game of: Is it In-N-Out or Chipotle?
He’s playing Rina Sawayama at a low roar, but singing along at full volume. His voice can only be described as couch upholstery being ripped apart at warp speed, yet he’s so committed that I can’t help but be charmed by it. The smorgasbord of sounds in this car is overwhelming, but it’s a nice break from my own swirling thoughts about how we’re going to make this work when all I know about him is his full name, his unemployment status, and that he’s in desperate need of a car wash.
“You like Taylor Swift and Rina Sawayama.” I file this in my things-to-know-about-Leo bank. “I take it you’re a pop music fan?”
