“Zero and all,” he says. Before I can offer congratulations, he adds, “Zero wins, to be clear.” I laugh, and he takes it well. “We’re underdogs, but we’re getting better.”
I’m prevented from replying because Simran appears at my side, considerably more buzzed. She snakes an arm around my waist.
“Raniii,” she says into my ear. “There’s someone here to meet you!”
She steps aside, and it’s Steve, in the flesh. He’s skinnier in person, his tank top baggy on his frame. He extends a hand to shake mine, and I take it after a moment, nonplussed at the formality. His palm is damp to the touch.
“Great to meet you, Rani, I’ve heard so much about you.” His words blend together, anxious.
“Likewise,” I say, fighting the urge to laugh.
“He took a break from his set to come say hi,” Simran whispers in my ear, and it’s clear from her tone that she sees this as an enormous sacrifice.
“Wow,” I say.
“So how have you been liking the mixes?” Steve asks.
There’s no other way to respond to such a question but to lie. “They’re amazing,” I say. “Frank and I have been really enjoying ourselves,” I say. In my periphery, I see Frank smile.
Some of Steve’s nerves visibly dissipate. “That’s what I’m talking about!” he says. He nudges Frank. “Aren’t you glad you ended up coming?”
Frank’s eyes meet mine. “Yeah,” he says, and a funny, warm sensation rises in my chest. “I am.”
Steve and Simran mill around for a few more minutes, until it’s clear Steve is jonesing to get back to the DJ booth. He leaves me with an unfortunate promise to hang out before his trip is up, and then I’m alone with Frank again.
“Do you want to play pong?” he suggests, tilting his head at the table that just opened up.
My brows furrow. “Aren’t you sober?”
“Water works fine,” he says. “I play for the love of the game.”
“Soberanda basketball coach,” I say. “Unfair advantage.”
“So you think you’ll lose?” he says with a grin, and now my pride’s involved, so I have to play.
“Not at all,” I say. “Call me Caitlin Clark, that’s how good I am.”
Though of course I do lose, and very badly. Frank doubles over in laughter when he lets me have a second try at game point, then a third and a fourth, and I fail to make a single shot.
“Were you thinking of a different Caitlin Clark?” he says, still laughing, and I give him a look.
“We all have bad days, Francisco,” I say. He gasps at the fullname usage as he moves around the table to join me at my side. “You should know, you haven’t won a game all season.”
“That changes tomorrow,” he says. He halts when we’re next to each other, not quite touching but almost. His shirt has dried over the last hour or so, the front is tinted a comical baby pink. I’m tipsy enough to maintain eye contact so close. “What do I get for winning tonight?”
It’s such a line, but I wanted him to say it, and it’s been building all night, so I can’t fault him. I keep my tone as neutral as possible. “You can get my number,” I suggest.
It’s the right response. He hands me his phone, gaze dark and pleased, and I type in my info. I’m a little jittery when I pass his phone back, but any tension is cut with a blaring announcement on the speaker: “SIMON SAYS… IT’S TIME FOR A BIRTHDAY TOAST!”
Cheers and wolf whistles rise from the crowd. Frank laughs. “You won’t want to miss this,” he says to me. “It gets worse with each party, but maybe third time’s the charm.”
“Doubtful,” I say, and we make our way to the center together.
Chapter Fourteen
For the first time all month, Baba isn’t on call with the hospital this weekend. Naturally, this means I’m elbow-deep in soil before noon on Saturday.
We’re planting Brandywine tomatoes. Baba picked up a starter crop from one of his coworkers yesterday, eager to branch out from his floral niche into a true home gardener. Aside from a lone, mostly barren mango tree, our backyard has been reserved for Baba’s blooming roses and zinnias and hydrangeas for as long as I can recall. This morning’s visit to Home Depot for a vegetable planter bed marked the start of a new chapter.
