Liam laughs. “Do you somethingsomething for all her exes?”
I shrug, because yeah, but I’ve never talked about them before.
“You gonna do one of these for me?”
“Why? Are you going to break up with my sister?”
Liam presses his lips together. The harshness of the worklights turns the blue of his eyes the gray of a winter sky. “I wasn’t planning on it, no.”
I kind of wish he’d said yes.
“Well, you were my friend first. So no, I won’t make one, even if you do. Besides, what would it say? ‘He’s too good at swimming’?”
Liam laughs. “I don’t know. ‘People pleaser.’ Or how about ‘too handsy.’ ”
“ ’Cause of the tag thing? I don’t mind that.” I look down to scoop up the rest of my papers so he doesn’t see me blush.
“Okay, how about ‘razor bumps in weird places.’ ”
I snort. “I do not need to know that.”
Liam laughs too, and when I look up at him he’s smiling like I’ve given him some precious gift.
He signs and says, “I’m glad you’re my friend.”
“Me too.”
Even when it aches.
15
Amy drops me off at Bowie’s Saturday night.
“Have fun! Don’t eat too much candy!”
“Love you.”
Bowie’s parents have already gone to a costume party, but they left us a credit card to order pizza. Unlike Dad, who won’t let me have Bowie over if we’re alone, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson are cool with it. Granted, Dad doesn’t know: He’s with Jasmine in St. Louis for the weekend, ostensibly to visit our grandparents, but he’s no doubt going to drag her on a tour of Wash U or SLU while they’re out there.
I feel sorry for Jasmine, but only a little sorry, because her being gone means Liam is free to hang out with us.
Liam beams as he opens the door. He’s in a worn blue T-shirt that matches his eyes, and another pair of those soft black sweatpants he seems to own dozens of. “Hey! You finally made it.”
“Hey.”
Bowie orders our usual: thin crust, with pineapple and bell peppers and pepperoni. It’s a top-tier combination, if a little unorthodox.
I know there are members of the Toxic Pizza Fandom whoreject adding pineapple to pizza, but thankfully Liam isn’t one of them. Besides, it’s delicious: sweet and sour and salty. Maybe I like it so much because that balance is at the heart of so much Iranian cooking.
Pineapple used to be Mom’s favorite too, before she moved out to Colorado toget away from us make a fresh startbe closer to her parents, and started getting pan pizza with honey (honey!) drizzled over it. We still see her a few times a year, for holidays or summers, and despite her now-warped taste in pizza, I do miss hersometimes.
Not as much as Jasmine does. She was always closer to Mom. She took the divorce a lot harder than I did. I think in her mind, love was supposed to be forever. Indestructible. Magical.
Maybe that’s why, despite all the evidence that love is none of those things, Jasmine keeps chasing it with a never-ending list of boys at school. Like she’s trying to capture something that’s long gone.
Granted, I got sent to therapy after the divorce, so it’s not like I was entirely unscathed myself. But at least I don’t cling to the past the way Jasmine does.
We set up in the living room, using the big TV to play someSmash Brossince we have the house to ourselves. Somehow I end up sandwiched between Liam and Bowie, both their shoulders pressing against me, the smell of chlorine hitting me from both sides. They trash-talk each other as we play: Bowie’s legitimately terrible, and Liam’s pretty good. I don’t catch much of what’s said, but I’m not too bothered. Bowie will pause and tell me if it’s something important.
