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And the kids are doing the cooking.
I’m regretting my choices for the tenth time in the last ten minutes as I stress over the grocery list.
Elijah sends the Frisbee back toward its rightful owner.
“Thanks,” I say.
He throws an arm around my shoulder and pulls me close as we walk through the quad. He’s mastered being able to place a kiss on my head without missing a step.
I transferred to UCLA my sophomore year. And Eljiah is here thriving in the Engineering program. The classes are tough, but he’s the hardest-working person I know. My design classes are challenging too, but they feel like an investment in my future career, and that’s totally worth it.
“They get in around 11:00 a.m. tomorrow. My mom and I are gonna make mandu for the appetizers. And Hee-Jin wanted to do sweet potatoes Korean style.”
“Awesome. That leaves the salad and mashed potatoes for Ella and the desserts for Jason. Turkey, stuffing, and kimchi are on me.”
“Is it too much? I can help with whatever you need. Iamgreat at logistics.” He looks down at me and winks.
I pull us to a stop, guiding his hands around my waist, rocking onto my tippy toes, inviting a kiss.
He bends down a little and meets my lips. We’re both smiling as we start the kiss. But when he pulls my body to his and our hips meet, I feel how much he’s enjoying this and it immediately makes me hungry for more. I open up my mouth and invite his tongue in to taste, to explore.
For all the ways that Elijah can be tender with me physically, when he’s turned on, his kisses turn ravenous.
I’m obsessed with them.
I push myself a little closer till there’s no space left between us. He groans. “Jessica,” he warns, “we’re in public. In the middle of the quad. In broad daylight.”
He’s right. “Okay, fine,” I say, adding an extra pout to my voice so he knows I’d rathernotstop, but I will. “But you started it.”
His mouth pulls at the corner into a wicked smile.
I fight to stay steady on my feet.
I pull back, putting a safe distance between us but wrap my hand into his as we continue to walk down the path. It’s early and I’m starving. We’re heading to our favorite deli shop, famous for their loaded pastrami sandwiches, just off campus in Westwood Village, trying to beat the lunch crowd. This place reminds us both of the little coffee shop where we first met up in New York. Where we made the choice to intertwine our lives together in a harebrained scheme called Operation Name Drop.
“Whose turn is it to pay?” I ask.
“Yours,” he says. “So I may add an extra pickle and a second bag of chips and a large Coke to my order.” He squeezes my hand and picks up his pace, pulling ahead of me by a couple steps, dragging me behind.
It gives me just the perfect view of his cute butt in his worn jeans. He bought this pair from the Gap during our summer in New York. In fact, I think his threadbare T-shirt was also from that time. So much has changed. Gone are his designer clothes and internal calculator of worthiness. Gone also is the massive chip on my shoulder and my need to prove myself in every situation.
“Come on, slowpoke, I’m hungry,” he says, looking over his shoulder. “Wait, are you checking out my ass right now? Is that why you’re walking so slow?”
I laugh. “Busted.”
“Pick it up. You know if we get there past twelve, it’ll be packed,” he says.
We love this place. We go there all the time. They know us. They like us. They’ll save a table for us.
“Well, then we’ll just have to do what we always do,” I say. “Pull the name drop.”
He stops and peers down into my eyes, blocking the sun so I don’t have to squint as I look back up at him.
We both smile and say at the same time... “Lee Yoo-Jin, party of two.”
