Page 41 of When Lemons Give You Life

I glance at my last remaining piece of crackling, and I might be crazy, but I swear I feel my heart shift. Not by much, a millimeter at most—but that’s all it takes. Before my tastebuds can talk me out of it, I’ve offered Scotty my last piece.

25

Lisa

I’m halfway through grooming Droolius Caesar when my phone springs to life, almost resulting in a buzz cut for the poor spaniel. My breath catches. It’s Frank!

“Hello?”

“Hi, Lisa. How are you?”

“I’m good, thanks. Just grooming the pooch.” I cup my hand over my mouth. I don’t think I ever told him what I do for work, so that has to come across as a double entendre!

“Oh! Um . . . I’m sorry. Should I call back later?”

“No, no, it’s all fine, I’m at work.”

Silence.

“I’m a dog groomer,” I add quickly.

“Ah, okay!” He laughs. “Look, I’d love to see you again. I’m wondering if you’d like to get together Sunday?”

My heart does a happy dance. “Yes, I’d love that, thank you.”

“I wanted to offer to cook you a meal, but I’m afraid my kitchen is really tiny; if it’s not too forward of me, I was wondering if I could bring food to cook lunch at your place. Do you like laksa?”

I freeze, picturing the current state of my house. The piles of clothes, books, shoes . . .

“Lisa? Are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Great! How does midday sound?”

What? I just meant yes that I am still here, not that he can come over. If I now say he can’t I’ll sound weird, won’t I?

“Uh . . . fine?” I stutter. Argh!

“Fabulous, I’ll see you then.”

“Okay, thanks, bye.” What on earth have I done? But the thought of seeing him again is glorious. There’s only one other person who ever made my heart race like this.

26

Lisa (age 29)

September 2002

The parked car still smells like spilled ginger beer, thanks to the time I convinced Beau it paired well with hot chips and then promptly dropped the bottle between the seats mid-argument about aioli versus tomato sauce.

He winced and immediately reached for the wet wipes he kept in the glove box “for sticky-fingered emergencies,” which apparently included me. But then he patted the dash of his beloved MG convertible and said, “You’ll survive, darling. Though I’m not sure I can say the same for Lisa.” He winked and kissed the top of my head.

Despite his car obsession, I’ve never met anyone so forgiving.

Beau lounges, idling in the driver’s seat, one leg curled up, brown leather jacket slung behind his head, like he could sleep here without complaint. “Tell me again how we just lost trivia by one point because you thought Keanu Reeves was in Titanic,” he says, faux-solemn.

I groan. “He could have been! You can’t prove he wasn’t hiding below deck.”