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She cleared her throat. “I’m doing…well.” His smile went forced again because the Shira he knew—well, the Shira he’d known—would’ve launched into a list of all her accomplishments. The only reason he could think that she wouldn’t was that she was worried about how hearing them would make him feel. Meaning, she pitied him.

Then again, maybe she’d grown more mature since he’d known her back then. They’d lived basically an entire third of their lives without each other. He’d seen plenty of movies that were one thing early on and then had a twist that changed them into something entirely different. Still, he wanted to make sure she didn’t pity him, so he said, “I hear you’re working at a gallery? An art gallery?” She nodded. “What kind of art?”

Her eyes, still that same dark brown, went wide with animation, and she nearly smacked him in the face with the energetic way she threw her hands in the air. “All kinds! We have painters, sculptors, mixed-media artists, et cetera. There’s a guy who makes sculptures of his ex-girlfriends and ex-hookups out of things they left behind at his place.”

“That’s not illegal?” Leo said without thinking, then winced as he realized he might have accidentally insulted someone she worked with, someone whose art she valued. “I mean, art is art, I guess. I’d just imagine they’d want their stuff back.”

Those eyes lit up, and a spark ran through Leo, making him stand up straight. He’d almost forgotten how much he missed that look of hers, that one where she got fired up about something. “Right? I can’t say anything at work or to any of my art friends in case it gets around, but it makes me so mad. I kind of want to send them anonymous notes to let them know, but I’d probably get fired.”

“Don’t get fired,” Leo said. “There’s got to be another way. Maybe strategically placed advertisements for his shows in their neighborhoods or on accounts they follow.”

“Extra-targeted advertising,” Shira said, and the laugh that bubbled forth was warm and light, exactly as Leo remembered. “How about you? What are you up to these days?”

His face prickled with the feel of her eyes on his skin. He wondered how she saw him right now, if she was categorizing the changes on his face since they’d seen each other last. “I’m okay,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. No need to dump his problems on her. “At least, I don’t think any of my ex-girlfriends are creating art shows about me, which is a positive. It’s nice to be back in New Jersey. I missed this old guy.” Leo gestured at Neptune. “Though I remember him as a fresh-faced little puppy.”

“You’re still just as cute as you were back then,” Shira said to Neptune in a baby voice, though Leo couldn’t help but think, for a split second, that the words were aimed at him. Because, yes, they’d changed, but underneath it all they were still the same people. They had their past together. She knew who he was at the core, something he couldn’t say for his coworkers or college friends.

That reminder emboldened him, made him stand up a little straighter. Because he knew her, too. “I used to run every day, and if there’s something I remember about you, Shira Levinson, it’s that you’d only run if someone was chasing you.”

“Not just someone,” Shira said. “Only someone who made me genuinely fear for my life.”

“Right,” Leo said. He was the runner. She was the fighter. “So why are you running now?”

She wrapped her arms around her chest and squeezed. “Did you hear the deli burned down? Mendel’s?”

“Oh…no?” he said uncertainly.

“Oh no,” she emphasized. “Well, except maybe for all the chickens who will now get to keep their livers. Mendel’s is—was—the only Jewish deli in the area, and they were supposed to cater the big Hanukkah party. There’s no way we’re going to be able to get someone else to do Hanukkah food in time. My mom told me, and I was like, I need to go for a run and try to think about what to do, but all I’ve been able to think about while I’m running is how much I hate running.” She paused. “Everybody in LA does yoga and Pilates, but yoga and Pilates classes are expensive, so I’ve been telling people I’m a runner. I figured maybe I should actually do some running.”

“Well, your form is good,” Leo said without thinking, then felt his cheeks warm. Back when he ran track in school, sometimes he’d purposely run his group by the classroom he knew Shira was staying late in for some activity or another. He’d always made sure to keep his form on point in case she happened to look out the window. He’d wanted her to see him running, fast and sleek, the muscles of his legs flexing, his shoes gliding effortlessly over the pavement or the grass. He felt himself wither a little at the memory, at how she was surely looking at him now. “I mean, for someone who doesn’t actually run. You probably won’t injure yourself.”

“Really?” She sounded almost disappointed, as if she’d been hoping for an injury that would force her to stop. He should’ve shaken his head in disapproval, but instead he felt himself smile, liking that she was okay bringing him in on such a thought. She smiled back a little in return, which made him smile more. “I mean, it’s probably good, because if I was in the hospital, we’d have to cancel the Hanukkah party.”

Right, she’d just been talking about it. The neighborhood Hanukkah party. Leo had almost forgotten that it existed. He’d already planned on skipping the Christmas one (he had exactly zero interest in making forced small talk with people he had nothing in common with aside from the street they lived on, trying as hard as he could not to roll his eyes while they told him their opinions on his life), but he couldn’t skip the Hanukkah one. Not just because he was Jewish—man, he hadn’t thought that in ages, because his dad was Jewish and his mom wasn’t, and he’d been far away from his dad both physically and emotionally; he hadn’t even thought about celebrating the holidays in eight years. Because he still remembered how much joy throwing this party brought Shira, and he couldn’t not be a part of it. “How many people are supposed to come this year?” he asked.

She swiped the sweat off her brow with the back of her hand. Her nails were bare and unpolished, no longer bitten to the quick the way they’d been when she was a kid. “I don’t know. Not everybody in the neighborhood shows up. Others are away. We usually have, what, maybe half of everybody turn out? A hundred people?” She took a deep, shaky breath. “I’m sure I can find somewhere to pick up sandwiches and salads, and fortunately the bakery where we always get the doughnuts didn’t burn down. But no way are we going to find someone to do latkes for a hundred people, and you can’t have a Hanukkah party without latkes!”

He could see the panic bubbling up in her eyes. She’d always been a stress crier. He didn’t want to see her cry. “Oh, that’s nothing,” he said. “Latkes for a hundred people? Not a big deal at all. We can handle that.”

One of her hands rose to her mouth. She nibbled on one nail, then pulled her hand away. “What do you mean, we can handle that? That’s so many latkes!”

“Trader Joe’s and Costco have great frozen latkes,” he said. “We get as many boxes as we can carry and stick them in the—” She was already shaking her head. “Come on, frozen latkes are good.”

“Not good enough,” she said. The finger drifted back between her teeth. She bit down with a sound like a gunshot. “No way am I serving my guests frozen latkes. Supermarket deli sandwiches and salads are bad enough, but latkes are the star attraction. I need fresh latkes. People will think—”

“People will think they’re at a great party, and they’ll enjoy the free food,” he said. Neptune let out a whine; Leo glanced down to see him positively vibrating at a squirrel balanced on a branch above him. He swore the squirrel was smirking. “But fine, no frozen latkes, they’re trash, okay. We’ll do it ourselves. How hard can it be to make some latkes?”

“Really hard,” she said emphatically. “Have you ever made latkes before?”

He…hadn’t. Even when he’d been living with his dad and celebrating all the major Jewish holidays, his dad was a buy-the-frozen-latkes-and-stick-them-in-the-oven-till-they’re-lukewarm kind of guy. “They’re basically hash browns,” Leo non-answered. “I worked fast food for a year in high school. I can make a hash brown.”

Shira had clearly never worked fast food, because if she had, she’d have wrinkled her nose and told him that pulling something from the freezer and heating it up didn’t count as cooking. Instead, she cocked her head, bit her bottom lip, and nodded at him slowly. The sight of her lip between her teeth brought a rush of blood to his head, and for a moment he was fourteen again. “You really think we can do this? When? I don’t really want to spend the party in the kitchen and come out smelling like oil.”

“It wasn’t like the deli was going to come to the party and fry the latkes à la minute,” Leo said. He’d binged way too many seasons of Chef Supreme during his first really depressed months after leaving school (honestly, that was probably helping him out here more than his time in the burger-joint kitchen, where the main thing he’d learned was to be careful putting anything from the freezer directly into the oil, as testified by the big scar on his right arm). “They were going to fry them ahead of time and have you heat them up in the oven. We can do the same thing.”

“You really think so?”

Leo nodded. Neptune whuffed as if in agreement.