Starry Eyes(27)

And then there’s Lennon. I wish I could just block him out. While Brett’s presence feels light and capricious—he’s moved on to fake-stabbing Reagan, and she’s laughing in that husky voice of hers—Lennon’s feels . . . solid. Weighty. Like I can’t forget that his leg is a few inches from mine. If Brett is Sirius, brighter than anything else in the night sky, Lennon is the moon: often dark and hidden, but closer than any star. Always there.

One after the other, each table is served the first of four courses, which is some sort of zucchini-and-basil soup. Once it’s on the table, I realize how sorry I am that I’ve only had Lennon’s gifted fudge to eat today, and forget all about the silly tableware and practically inhale the soup. I don’t even care if I’m using the correct spoon. The second course is grilled scallops with some sort of fancy sauce and a tiny salad. The scallops smell amazing. I’m all in.

“Someone’s feeling plucky,” Lennon notes, gesturing toward my plate with his knife. “Hive-wise.”

“Scallops are a shellfish with which I’m compatible,” I tell him stoically. Shrimp and crab are iffy, but anything in the mollusk family is low-risk.

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” he says, nodding slowly.

We both eat in silence for several seconds.

Then he asks, “Remember when we had that shrimp scampi?”

“You never forget a trip to the ER.”

I was fifteen, and at the time, Sunday dinner with the Mackenzies was a regular event. It was just takeout, typically, and a movie in the living room. Sunny is the chef of the Mackenzie family; Mac, not so much. So it was a big deal when Mac decided she’d make something from scratch. It turned out pretty good, but for some reason, I had a major allergic reaction. Face swelling up, throat closing, trouble breathing—the works. Mac freaked out and took all the blame. My parents were out to dinner, so Sunny rushed me to the hospital emergency room in her car.

“Bad shrimp! Bad shrimp!” Lennon says, mocking Sunny in a high-pitched voice.

Sunny had yelled that at the nurse in front of the entire ER waiting room. Loudly. We repeated it for months out of context. It was our inside joke. Anything that went wrong, we blamed it on “bad shrimp.” It never got old.

It’s still funny. I chuckle softly with a mouthful of scallop and nearly choke.

Lennon’s eyes slide toward mine. The corners of his mouth turn up as he struggles with a smile.

Okay, hell has officially frozen over. Pigs flying. Lightning strikes. It’s all happening. Because we are both smiling at each other. Actual smiles!

What’s going on here? First peanut butter fudge, now this?

Just stay calm, I tell myself. It doesn’t mean anything. Enemies share a laugh now and then. I keep my eyes on my plate and try to act normal. But when the third course comes, some kind of braised meat—leg of lamb, I think—and Brett has the rest of the group focused on tracking the location of the bartender, I pick up the next fork in my place setting and accidentally bump his hand. He’s left-handed, so his right hand is propped on the edge of the table. And it stays there, even when I snatch my own hand back.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

He shakes his head dismissively. “So many forks. And why do we need two spoons? I already used one for the soup. Are they backup spoons?”

“One pair of fancy chopsticks would have saved them some major dishwashing,” I say.

“Amen to that.”

My mom taught him how use chopsticks. The Korean kind, made of stainless steel.

“What’s that quote from that martial arts movie Once Upon a Time in China?” I ask. “Jet Li says it when he sees the Western place setting.”

“?‘Why so many swords and daggers on the table?’?” Lennon quotes.

“That’s it. God, you were obsessed with martial arts movies.”

“Jet Li is the king,” he says before taking a sip of water from his glass.

“I thought it was Bruce Lee.”

“Bruce Lee was a god.”

“Oh, that’s right,” I say. “You made me watch so many of those movies.”

“And you liked most of them.”

I did.

Lennon picks at his braised lamb. “I also seem to remember watching an awful lot of old Star Trek episodes, and not even the good ones. All because someone had a crush on a certain Klingon.”

It’s true. Worf was my everything. I still follow the actor who played him, Michael Dorn, online. And I’ve probably seen every Worf meme on the internet. “I’m not ashamed.”

Before I can say anything else, Brett’s arm shoots out in front of me. I’m forced to lean back while he taps Lennon’s shoulder.

“Dude, are you seeing this?” Brett says.

“You know she’s sitting here, right?” Lennon says, slipping back into glum-and-dour mode.

Brett glances at me. “Oh sorry, Zorie.” He chuckles and flashes me a sheepish smile before focusing on Lennon again. “But check it out. The bartender leaves the bar unattended. All of those bottles are just sitting there.”

Lennon’s disinterested stare doesn’t seem to have any effect on Brett.

“For the taking,” Brett elaborates.

“There are a hundred people sitting here,” Lennon says.