When We Collided(18)

The first bite reveals a bit of balsamic vinegar somewhere and a sprinkle of salt, against the near-sweet tomato and the freshness of the basil. It’s heavenly and hearty and somehow creamy. And I feel . . . cared for. Like part of a family. What a simple need, to eat—and to have someone prepare a meal for me with such care, such love? It’s like I can taste it.

Like it’s not just the meal that fills you up, but the feeling.

On my way home, nearly bursting with that feeling, I stop by the restaurant, which is homey and like seeing another big piece of the Daniels family puzzle. Here, in a well-loved brick building—beautiful but with untapped potential, outdated decor, worn edges—I understand a little better.

“Hello there,” I say, extending my hand to the man making notes behind the host station. “Is Jonah Daniels in?”

The man stares at me for a moment before an amused smile forms. “Sure is. Come on back.”

He leaves me in the hallway outside the kitchen, and I bite at the red lacquer on my nails until Jonah emerges in an apron, over a plain white T-shirt that’s tight around his arms. Teasing voices call out to him from the kitchen, and he glances back at them, grinning, as the door swings shut.

“Sorry about that. Bunch of idiots,” he says. His hands are clearly just washed, wet and held up like a surgeon’s before an operation, and I wonder what I pulled him away from. But he looks happy to see me, more relaxed than at home. “Hey.”

“Hi,” I say, not smiling. “You made me a sandwich. Why?”

“Why? Um. I don’t know. I was packing lunch for Naomi anyway? I thought you might want a sandwich at work? And the shop is on my morning running route?” He studies me, unsure now. “Did it keep okay? Tomato can make the bread a little soggy, I know, but—”

I step into the space between us, grab the neck of his T-shirt, and I plant my lips on his, a kiss that is quick but sure and determined enough to leave a red smudge across his mouth.

“It was perfect,” I say. “See you tomorrow.”

Two faces appear in the kitchen door’s porthole window, making wooing noises. Jonah slaps his hand against the plastic, hard, and smiles at me. “See you tomorrow.”

There’s a flutter in my chest and wet handprints on my shirt where he touched my waist, and this warm, glowing sense that I’m not nearly as in control of this situation as I believed. The feeling rises in tiny champagne bubbles, fizzy and sweet and full.





CHAPTER SIX

Jonah

My mind has been like a cement mixer for the past three days. If I stop thinking about Vivi for too long, my life might harden into the gray slab it’s been for six months. So while I was making lunch for Naomi yesterday, I was thinking about Vivi’s loud laugh. About the way she’s not intimidated by our family or by anything else. The sandwich just happened. Then I spent most of my shift at the restaurant like, Great job, *. Make a girl a packed lunch like she’s off to her first day of kindergarten.

Until she showed up at the restaurant, kissed me, and left.

Movies make it seem like the first kiss is the big deal, and it is. Hell yeah, it is. But they never tell you about the pressure for the second kiss—all that time to think and build up expectations. What it will be like when you see each other again. So, if there’s a second kiss, it’s gotta be me, and it’s gotta be good. I thought about it all through breakfast.

The littles have been fed, and they’re outside playing with some old squirt guns we found in the garage. I scoop out the last bowl of oatmeal and sprinkle it with brown sugar and pecans.

Upstairs, I’m surprised to find my mom out of bed. She’s on the floor, surrounded by a pile of books near her shelves.

“Thanks, pal,” she says as I set the bowl down on her dresser. “I’ve been thinking I should declutter my room a bit. Lots of books that I won’t read again to give away, so I can make room for the ones I have sitting on the floor.”

“Great idea!” I sound too eager. But this could be her breakthrough. There’s a book in her hands, one of her favorites by Gabriel García Márquez, and she examines it. I hear the first hiccup, a repressed cry, a gasp she can’t keep in.

I take the book from her, but not before I see my dad’s handwriting on the inside page. For you, amore mio. Of course. I set it on the shelf and pull my mom up, guiding her toward the bed.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

I leave her curled up on the bed, shoulders shaking as the bowl of oatmeal goes cold. She always seems to feel worse when we see her upset, so it’s better this way. In the kitchen, I sit down on a stool and press my forehead into my hands. I’m not sure how long I’m there before I hear the door, but I don’t bother looking up.

“Hey,” Vivi says. Her voice is a full decibel lower than normal. She already knew something was wrong. So much for the impressive moment of seeing someone after a first kiss.

“Hey.” The word comes out defeated.

She sidles up on the stool next to me. “The littles were playing in the front yard and said you were in here. You okay?”

I want to brush it off. But I’m too tired.

So I shake my head from its place between my hands. I haven’t exactly told her what’s going on with our family because I don’t want anything to change. “My mom’s not feeling well today.”