“Uh.” The gears in Ramin’s brain ground for a second, making abrrrrrrtsound.
There was no way. How had they wound up at the same restaurant?
Was Noah… asking to join him?
Noah had a family, though. Except where were they?
“Are you, uh, by yourself?”
Noah nodded. “Angela and Jake collapsed. Jet lag.”
“Oh.” Ramin was determined to make it to bedtime without napping. Apparently Noah had the same idea.
Noah. Who was here. Alone. And hungry.
“Uh. Did you want to join me?”
If anything, Noah smiled even brighter, so bright Ramin nearly needed sunglasses. “You don’t mind?”
Ramin shook his head.
Noah glanced around, then hoisted himself over the fence, flexing the cords in his forearms and stretching his jeans with his leg muscles.
Ramin pressed harder at his tattoo. This could not be happening.
Noah settled into his seat and scooted in.
“You’re sure you don’t mind? If you wanted to eat alone…”
“No! I mean, I’m sure. I don’t mind the company.”
“Just like old times, huh?”
Twenty Years Ago
“Mind if I join you?”
Ramin looked up from his homework. Noah Bartlett was standing across the table from him, with his big green sketchbook in one hand and a tray of what Northland High optimistically called “the lunch salad” (really just a pile of shredded lettuce, the same kind that went on the tacos) in the other.
Ramin had already eaten his own lunch, leftover kotlet that Farzan’s dad had made over the weekend. Farzan’s dad was an amazing cook—he and Farzan’s mom owned the only Persian restaurant in town. The kotlet had been amazing: spiced meat patties stuffed in pockets of pita with herbs and onions and pickles. But he was relieved he’d finished before Noah sat down.
It had been a while since any of Ramin’s classmates had made fun of him for bringing Persian food for lunch—why do that when they could call him fat and ugly?—but still.
Noah wore a gray sweatshirt withNHS WRESTLINGacross the front,and his Joe Boxer waistband showed where his jeans sagged a bit around his hips. He must’ve gotten a haircut over the weekend, because his black hair, which usually flopped a bit over his forehead, was now short and stuck straight up. His brown eyes looked right at Ramin, like he was actually happy to see him.
“Ramin?” Noah asked. Ramin realized he hadn’t actually answered.
“Oh. Sure.” Ramin looked around. All the other wrestlers were at another table, halfway across the cafeteria, laughing and shouting. “Don’t you want to sit with your team?”
Noah’s brow scrunched up. “Nah.”
Ramin’s chest gave a weird flutter. Was this a trap? But he didn’t know how to say no. “Okay.”
“Thanks.” Noah plopped down onto the bench, scooted his sketchbook to the side, and frowned at his salad.
“Everything okay?”
Noah sighed and reached for his collar, pulling out a little silver cross necklace. He rubbed at it with his thumb. “Cutting for the meet this weekend. Ihatecutting.”
