Page 38 of Given Our History

If anything, my elusiveness only stokes her curiosity. “What, like a date?”

“Sure.” Actually, I’m meeting with potential caterers for the gala, but she doesn’t need to know that. If she thinks I’m going on a date, maybe she—and Izzy, for that matter—will get off my case for a little while.

“It’s with Teddy, isn’t it?”

“Do you want to get squashed again?”

“You only won because this hangover is a bitch.”

I bow my way out of the room. “I’ll leave you to your recovery, then.”

“Say hi to Professor Hottison for me,” she calls, just as I shut the door behind me.

We’ll see who wins round two, once she’s good and sober.

I don’t have much to offer local caterers in exchange for donating their food, time, and hospitality to the gala, save my gratitude—which, let’s be real, doesn’t amount to much in the world of business. My first stop is Lucretia’s, a family-owned Italian restaurant in one of the old brickwork buildings. I’m greeted by a teenaged hostess, who—after I explain why I’m here—goes to fetch the owner, poking her head into the kitchen and shouting for Nonna. A white-haired woman with a beauty mark on her chin emerges from the back, wiping her hands on an apron and already shaking her head.

After a polite but firm rejection, I cross Lucretia’s off the list in my notepad. And then I scratch the local seafood place out, too, when I walk a couple doors down and discover the C sanitary inspection grade taped in the window. The Falconer’s food menu is limited and I doubt they’re staffed for catering, so I skip the bars in favor of popping into Subway. The assistant manager is pleasant—a college-aged kid with his blond man bun wrapped in a hairnet. He nods along with everything I’m saying and expresses enthusiasm in the idea before reluctantly explaining that I would have to reach out to the franchise owner … who’s on vacation in Cabo San Lucas for the next three weeks and won’t be taking any business calls until he gets back to the States. I jot down a name and phone number on the back of receipt paper, but I leave feeling less than hopeful.

The last stop on my list is Bucky’s Burgers and Dogs. The owner comes out from around the counter and introduces himself as Mack, shaking my hand like he’s trying to strangle a python and ushering me outside. He insists that he likes to do business “in the great outdoors”—better known as the Bucky’s parking lot, overlooking an overfilled dumpster, the O’Reilly Auto Parts across the road, and a Dodge Ram parked in the handicapped space with a vanity plate that reads TAILG8R. Mack is a little older than me, his sparse hairline half-hidden beneath a red Phillies cap, and he chain-smokes Camel Crushes while I pitch the gala to him at one of the steel mesh tables.

“All right, I’ll do it,” he says, snuffing out a cigarette in the ashtray and cracking the filter on a fresh one before pinching it between his lips. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to roll out the new food truck. Got a couple conditions, though.” The cigarette bobs as he talks and he pauses to light it, taking a few puffs and emitting a cloud of pungent, minty smoke before continuing. “I want a banner put up at the event. A big one.”

I waft the smoke away with a hand. “Done.” That’s almost too easy, considering we already had plans to print banners listing all the major donors and participants. “Anything else?”

“A scholarship,” he says. “Named after Bucky.”

I ignore the more interesting question—if this guy is Mack, then who, precisely, is Bucky?—in favor of a practical approach to his demand. “A scholarship is dependent on funding,” I explain. “An endowment, usually, or maybe a yearly cash donation.”

He arches a wiry brow. “You’re putting on this whole thing to raise money, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

We’re interrupted by a teenaged employee poking his head out the door, disheveled red hair sprouting up from his visor. “There’s a customer on the phone about a to-go order,” he says, looking on the verge of tears. “She found an onion ring in her fries and says she’s allergic to onions and now she’s threatening to sue.”

Mack sighs, stabs his half-finished cigarette in the ashtray, and rises to his feet. “Wait here. This’ll just be a minute.”

I do as I’m told, waiting with my hands folded on the table until Mack’s hoarse shouting carries through the front door. Not knowing what else to do with myself, I grab my phone out of my messenger bag and flick through my unread texts. I have a habit of neglecting them for days on end—mostly because I don’t really get texts from anyone I actually care about. Izzy prefers her phone calls, Mom has never quite learned to text, and while Reagan sometimes messages me to meet up for lunch, we have plenty of opportunity to talk in person. But I do get plenty of texts asking me who I’m voting for, or letting me know that it’s 40 percent off on custom framing this week at Michaels.

Except today, there’s another contact gracing my inbox. At the sight of his name, my stomach swoops like I’ve hit a dip in the road while driving—an uncomfortable, lurching sensation.

Teddy: Home safe?

When I got home last night, I collapsed face-first into my pillow, so I must’ve been asleep when the text came in: it’s timestamped 1:36 A.M.

Clara: Yes

Clara: Thank you again for the help last night.

Clara: Sorry about Reagan.

Teddy: No problem

Teddy: I actually thought she was sort of funny

Not the word I’d use, but better that he thinks the situation is funny than being awkward about it, I guess.

Clara: She’s a handful when she’s drunk.