Page 84 of Spiced!

Brendan

Nobody knew what I had planned. This was, in itself, an achievement.

Alan had texted four times in the past week with variations on the same question, which was essentially, “Why are you so calm?” delivered with different punctuation.

Tasha called Tuesday and said I sounded different. When I told her I was fine, she replied, “I know you’re fine. That’s what’s different,” which was the most Tasha sentence she had ever produced.

The group chat generated seventeen messages speculating about my general demeanor. Marcus had apparently added a new tab to the document. I read all of it and said nothing.

I had been planning for eight days.

The depth of my preparation began while driving home from the clinic, thinking about something Adrian had said weeks earlier, something about his abuela’s kitchen. He’d mentioned the specific smell of sofrito and something sweet. He’d told me about being eight years old and the way a place could hold him and make him feel safe even when everything else around him changed. I’d been thinking about that, and somewhere on Dale Mabry Highway, I’d made a decision.

I called my mother on that Monday morning.

“Mom,” I said, “I need a favor.”

There was a pause.

My mother’s pauses were different from other people’s pauses. Sometimes, they were terrifying. Sometimes, they contained mountains of information.

“What kind of favor?”

“I’m bringing someone to Tarpon Springs. I’m not sure what day, but I’ll need a table at Stavros’s.”

Another pause, longer, with far more information woven throughout it.

“One day soon, but you don’t know when?”

“Right.”

“Stavros’s doesn’t take reservations on Saturdays. If it’s a Saturday—”

“I know. That’s why I’m calling you. I need a sort of floating reservation.”

She was quiet for another moment. I heard her set something down.

“Who is this person?”

“Someone I’d like you to meet eventually, though not when we do this dinner. This is for me to—” I stopped. “I’m . . . working on something.”

“You’re working on something,” she repeated in the tone of a mother who had raised this particular son for thirty-three years and was now receiving unexpected data. “Brendan?”

“Mom.”

“Are you nervous?”

“No.”

“Your voice does a thing when you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“It gets very level, like you’re reading from a card.” She clucked her tongue, something she’d done since I was a boy. A clucking meant she didn’t believe a word I was telling her, and we both knew it.

“I’ll call Stavros myself—”

“I’ll call Stavros,” she said. “What time? And do you have any idea which day?”