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He shrugs. “I saw it onDateline, and it freaked me out.” Jesse closes the trunk with athwump.
In the settling silence, I blurt out, “I can anddoactually cook but I just have a tiny little kitchen in my apartment so...”
He nods slowly. “I remember.”
I flush, at the reminder of that date, of reminding him of the reminder. “I didn’t want you to think that my mom cooks for me all the time. Well, she often does but...my parents coddle me.”
Jesse’s eyes travel over my face. “You should let them,” he says and there’s no admonishment in his voice, maybe just an understanding of what it feels like not to be coddled. I want to hug him now, though. Jesse deserves to be coddled, too.
“I’ve been trying to coddlethemactually,” I say. “The storm absolutely annihilated my dad’s garden, and I want to help him fix it up but turns out gardening is way more physical than I thought. It’s going to take me all summer to finish the job.”
“My yard got pretty trashed.” He nods. “But I used to help my grandparents with the landscaping so I’ve been fixing it up.”
“Do you think...” I stop myself. It is entirely too rude to ask that.
“Do I think what?” He shifts his weight, like he wants to get away.
“Nothing. Never mind.”
Jesse pauses and I feel myself flush under his gaze. A streetlight flickers on, the buzz of electricity harmonizing with the buzz of the night bugs swarming it.
Jesse takes a step back, like he’s going to take the out I’m giving him, flipping his keys in his hand. “I had a nice time.”
“You did?” Of course, I liked having company while I did one of the most boring chores on the planet but I don’t have a translation key for Jesse’s face yet. “Me, too,” I say quickly.
His eyebrows jump like he’s also surprised. “Cool. Well. I better let you go.”
I laugh. “Oh yes. I have a busy night of trying to parse meaning from Derrida.”
He frowns and maybe that sounded like a humble brag rather than what it really was, a joke at my own expense. “You haven’t signed up for any events yet,” I say, quickly.
He shrugs. “I’ve been working nights. It’s hard to coordinate sometimes.”
“Are you working tonight?” I ask, my voice high. Asking someone to hang out with you is just as nerve-wracking as asking someone on a date.
“No,” he says slowly.
“Do you think you could help us?” I ask. “Help me? With my dad’s garden.”
He sighs but it’s not a frustrated sound; in fact, maybe it’s not a sigh at all. It might be Jesse’s attempt at laughing. “Not tonight,” he says.
“No,” I say quickly. “Of course not.”
“Text me tomorrow. You have my number, right?”
I nod.
Jesse waits until I pull out before he pushes his cart to his truck. “Friends,” I say over the pop music playing from the radio, gripping the steering wheel with nervous hands. I watch his retreating form in the rearview mirror. “We’re friends.” I’m trying to find my place here, and I can’t do that if I’m harboring unrequited crushes.
Mom comes out to help me unload the groceries, and after a quick shower I slip back into their house. “Hey, Dad.” I knock softly on his office door. He glances up from his book, peering at me through glasses that have fallen low on his nose.
“Hi, Lu.”
I let myself in, settling into the wingback chair across from his desk, my own book on my lap. I read once that heaven was your favorite place on earth, and I think this might be my heaven. Dad’s office exists in a perpetual golden haze, bathing the books, books, and more books, and my parents’ numerous framed degrees in dim light. It smells like leather and coffee and the medicinal scent of my father’s gardening hand cream.
My mom putters around the kitchen, humming to herself while she makes a cup of tea. The tinkle of fine bone china and the whistle of the kettle just reach us here in the back of the house. “What are you reading?”
It’s a good thirty seconds before he replies. It takes a long time for him to get out of his head. His chair creaks as he leans back, pulls his glasses off his nose, and rubs the spot where the pads left marks. “Just reviewing the sections I’ve assigned from Bede’sHistoria Ecclesiasticabefore Monday’s class. All these medieval historians stole from each other so much, I can’t remember who wrote what anymore.” He nods at the book in my lap. “And what are you reading?”
