Page 88 of Okay, Cupid

Tonight, though, I slump on the couch, pull out my homework. The last acts of Death of a Salesman need to be reviewed for a test next Friday. And then it hits me that by the time the test arrives, I won’t be a student at Hearst anymore. I’ll no longer be in their system, and Mr. Benson will have entirely forgotten about me, one extra desk situated right behind Huy.

I flip through our streaming services, looking for anything that might help me pick myself up, but every movie seems like the wrong choice. I don’t want to watch the girl get the boy, or the girl get the girl, or the boy get the boy. I don’t want to watch two people fall in love, resisting each other the entire time only for the last fifteen minutes of the movie to come, for them to accept their feelings despite all the odds stacked against them.

Which just means that I should watch My Best Friend’s Wedding, but my attention span doesn’t last past the opening musical number before I’m on my phone, staring at Huy’s Instagram. I wander around the apartment like a ghost, going to my room to listen to music before immediately turning it off. Huy’s Instagram still lingers there on my phone, his story refreshing. So I click on it, embarrassed when I see the Uploaded 1 Min. Ago.

And it’s literally just a shot of his shoes on the black-and-white tiled floor of the bakery, pleading for someone to come and hang out with him because he’s bored.

As the sun begins to set, I make my way into the kitchen and open the cabinets and the fridge. There’s not much to eat—some leftovers, bags of chips, frozen stuff. None of it calls to me, though.

But you know what does?

Curry. For the second time in how many days now?

Is there ever such a thing as too much curry, though?

It’s the first bit of excitement that I feel all evening. I grab my keys and phone, putting on the headphones plugged into Huy’s Walkman while I ride the 29 down to the Sunset to my favorite Japanese curry place.

I confirm that I want the curry katsu, spicy, and wait, taking my bag when it’s brought to the counter, turning up the music when I start my walk back to the apartment. It’s only when I realize that I’m accidentally passing by the back side of Trinh’s Donuts that I dare to look up. God, my timing is awful.

Huy’s coming out the back door, a trash bag at his side. He lifts the black plastic lid of the dumpster without much effort and slings the bag in with ease despite his sling weighing him down.

And before I can decide whether or not I want to see him, he spies me first.

His expression is different now. Where I might expect that grin that’s become all too familiar to me over these last weeks, there’s a … something. He almost looks distant before he waves at me, his arm stiff, and I wave back, correcting my course and turning right to head for the shop despite every single voice in my head telling me that it’s the wrong move.

“What are you doing out?” he asks as I approach.

I show him the bag. “Volcano Curry.”

“Ugh, I’m jealous.”

“Are you closing?” Is it already eight?

“Yeah, just wrapping up,” Huy calls out, averting his gaze for a few precious seconds. “No chance you want to keep me company?” He almost sings the question. I can’t say no to him, despite every bone in my body urging me to reject this offer, to leave Huy standing out here in the cold, confused as to why I don’t want to be around him. I just can’t let him go.

“Sure.”

That’s how I end up helping him clean the tables and counters. Which isn’t even my responsibility, but after watching him struggle with the broom for five minutes, I hop in.

“Are your parents still mad at you?” I ask him. “Over the arm?”

“I get nightly lectures, and my mother prattles on about how right she was.” He sounds so annoyed. “But that happened before the wrist too, so …”

“She really hates you playing soccer that much?”

“They think that it’s irresponsible, that I’m putting myself in danger.” He looks at his arm. “Can’t argue with them now. Five years of playing and the worst injury before this was some friction burn and a bout of athlete’s foot. And the ball to the face, I guess.” He begins to wipe down the front counter. “It’s whatever. It’s not like it’ll matter once I graduate anyway.”

“What does that mean?”

He steals a look at me. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“No. Do you want to talk about it?”

“You don’t have to listen to me, Jude.”

“I don’t have to,” I tell him. “But I want to.”

The look on his face tells me he doesn’t appreciate having his words turned against him. “My parents and I had this big argument last year when I started talking to Coach Thompson about school picks, scholarships, maybe playing pro one day. He thinks that I’m good enough, and I’ve had scouts from colleges come to some of my games.”