Page 61 of Sweet and Salty
Rory’s eyes narrow. “I know it was you in tenth grade, and I have to play out all—”
“It wasn’t me; it was Ma.” Even now, decades later, it feels like a betrayal, finally telling him Ma had been the culprit. “She thought it would make you laugh, even though all of us told her it wouldn’t work. No one can crack your hard shell.”
My brother looks like he might, for maybe the third time in his life, lose his temper.
“Can Laura go inside?” Jesse asks. His face is all grimy from the smoke drifting toward us on the wind. His presence should be a comfort, but he stands too far away from me. It sucks. “She must be hungry, and we’ve been out here for a while. I’m happy to answer whatever other questions you have.”
“Fine.” Rory gives me his Stern Dad stare, and it takes every inch of my self-control not to stick my tongue out at him.
“I’ll be in soon,” Jesse says, his expression morose. I’d be morose too if the cabin I was renting—but hadn’t been sleeping in because I’m sleeping with my neighbor—burned down.
Maybe I need to eat something.
I stalk back into the house, Einstein following at my heels, clearly upset by the evening’s events. It had all been going so well too. Typical me. Getting too clingy and messing everything up.
Tears stinging my eyes, I find a plain gray, long cardigan, wrap it around myself, then bustle around the kitchen. Under normal circumstances, I do not make sandwiches with tornado-level fury, but today demands it.
My phone rings as I slam my sandwich plate onto the kitchen table, shocking Einstein, who yelps and flees to the living room.
“Hello,” I growl.
“Wow, that answers my question,” Daphne says through the phone.
“What question?”
“How are you?” She sounds like she’s eating something.
With my phone on speaker, I rest my forehead on the table. “I said I loved him, and he didn’t say it back.”
“Oh. Is this a guy thing? I was calling about the fire.”
Right. Fire. I can still smell smoke on my hair and clothes, carried on the breeze from the burning cabin. Thank heck and the rapidity of the St. Olaf Fire Department that it didn’t cross the tree line. “How did you even hear about it?”
“Opal called me.”
“Why would Opal call you?”
“Please, you know she’s got a whole phone tree for town gossip. A fire burning down a defunct Dryden property? That’s like Packers-winning-the-Super Bowl news.”
“We’re fine.” I sniff and pick at the bread from my sandwich. It’s going stale. I’ll have to either make more or buy it, and I have zero desire to do either. “No one was hurt. The fire department arrived in plenty of time, so the fire was contained to the cabin.”
“Good. Sounds like those F-I-Bs stayed off the road so the fire trucks could do their job.”
“You’re one of those fricking Illinois bastards now, you know.”
“I know. And you can say ‘fucking,’ Laura. It’s the 2020s. Everything is fucked.”
“I wish you could come home.” It sounds plaintive enough that Einstein rests his head on my knee and gives me his I’m-here-for-you puppy eyes. “I miss my friend.” There is silence on the other end of the line, but I have to try. “Can’t you make up with your dad?”
“I’m sorry. I want to be there for you, I do, but I can’t come home, and he knows why.”
Two rejections from two people I love, all in one day. I should bake a special cake. The How to Know Your Life is Over at Thirty-Four cake. It will be bittersweet chocolate with spicy red chili pepper in the batter and filled with sour lemon peel. Topped with airy whipped aquafaba because it doesn’t really have substance or purpose.
Daphne clears her throat. “So… The ‘he’ you mentioned is Jesse, right?”
I rip my sandwich in half, spraying the plate with food debris. Who needs knives anyway? “Way to deflect.”
“Hey, I’m the champ.” She pauses, the line full of the background noise of a busy Chicago street. She must be sitting at an outdoor café, or shopping along the Miracle Mile, or on the beach by Lake Michigan. “Did you ever figure out what he’s hiding?”