“Hmm” was all my dad had to say about it. “Well, I’ve gotta head to work. Thanks again for helping out with Brad’s bake sale, bud. And say thanks to Levi again. He’s a good kid—wouldn’t even take any money off me for them.”
“I’ll let him know.”
“Well, have a good day at work. And don’t forget I need you to pick Brad up tomorrow from—”
“Yeah, Dad, I know. I’m the one who put the Post-its on the refrigerator, remember?”
After he was gone, I shoved Lee’s head before getting to work. A couple of Tupperware containers were stacked in the kitchen. Three were filled with cupcakes; the fourth had everything we’d need to decorate them. While I set up a workstation, Lee made us both some coffee.
That didn’t stop me being mad at him, though, even just a little.
“Thanks for that,” I huffed. “We don’t fight.”
“I have never known anyone to yell over a toothbrush,” Lee told me, getting out a mixing bowl and some utensils. “A toothbrush, Shelly.”
“It was over toothpaste,” I corrected him, sticking my chin in the air. “And don’t tell me you and Rachel don’t argue about stupid stuff like that.”
“Nope.”
“What do you mean, nope? I’ve heard you guys…” I trailed off as I thought it over. Thinking about it, it wasn’t so much arguing as…“Okay, well, you have disagreements.”
“No, what we have is Rachel pointing out when I’ve done something stupid. Like leaving the toilet seat up or using her journal as a coaster.”
“That’s totally the same thing.”
Lee scrunched up his face in a way that said, Yeah, no, it’s kind of not.
“Shut up,” I told him. “Okay, I’m going to frost these cupcakes here in blue, and you’re going to do those ones in white.”
“Remind me why you didn’t just ask Levi to do this part, too? He loves this kinda thing, and you know his little sister would’ve loved to help out.”
“Because,” I snapped. I was still a little irritated at him for saying I’d been fighting with Noah—and for questioning me on this now.
Because I was trying to prove to myself that I could handle everything this summer. We’d graduated high school now and would be heading off to college soon. We were growing up and I could handle this. I had a job. I was pulling off the epic bucket list of our childhoods to create the perfect summer. I’d gotten into Harvard, dammit.
This was just a bake sale, that was all. A couple dozen cupcakes. No big deal.
Brad woke up just as we were adding sprinkles on top of the frosting. He gasped when he found us in the kitchen, then beamed and cried out, “Lee! I haven’t seen you in forever!”
“Oh, charming,” I scoffed, already abandoning the cupcakes to start getting Brad’s breakfast together.
He noticed. “I can pour my own juice, Elle.” And then: “No! That’s too much milk! You’re messing up the oatmeal!”
“You never complained about the way I made you oatmeal before,” I muttered. He stomped over to scowl at the oatmeal I was making and pouted at me.
I definitely wasn’t this difficult when I was his age.
When I put the milk back in the refrigerator, I noticed a mostly empty bottle of rosé wine chilling in there and my nose wrinkled. Since when did Dad drink rosé? And in the middle of the week? Dad’s idea of a drink was two light beers on a Saturday night or maybe, if he was feeling fancy, a glass of red wine.
And then it hit me.
“Was Linda here this week?” I asked Brad.
“Yeah,” he said, apparently not in the least bit bothered. “Hey, can you add some honey to my oatmeal? She did that the other morning and it was great.”
“Wait, she was here in the morning? Like, she spent the night?”
Brad pulled a face at me, like he didn’t get why it was such a big deal, like I was acting crazy. “Uh, yeah. She, like, passed out on the couch watching a movie.”
Lee hastily turned a chuckle into a cough and waggled his eyebrows at me. I glared back at him. Her wine was in the refrigerator, she was messing with the way we made oatmeal for Brad, she was staying overnight….Wasn’t this all moving way too fast for someone Dad had just been on a date with, like, a week ago?
(Except it wasn’t just a week, was it? It had been going on since, like, spring break, by the sound of it.)
“Sure,” I mumbled, slamming the refrigerator door closed. “I can put some honey in your oatmeal.”
Brad ignored me completely after that, in favor of chatting with Lee (well, at him, really). He kept talking to Lee, barely stopping to say thanks, when I put his breakfast down in front of him.
I left them to it, finishing off the cupcakes and carefully packing them back into the Tupperware—setting a couple containers aside to take back to the beach house, obviously.
“Okay! Do not forget to bring the containers back, okay? They’re Levi’s. If you lose them, they’re coming out of your allowance. Dad said so.”
Brad pulled a box toward him to scrutinize the cupcakes. “You don’t get the frosting as good as Levi,” he grumbled.
“What’s your problem?” I snapped. “Are you still jealous because Dad won’t let you come to the beach house? I told you, maybe you can stay one night. If you’re good.”
Lee clapped Brad on the shoulder. “Psst. Hey, don’t worry, little guy. I got this. We’ll talk them around.”
“Thanks, Lee.”
A little while later, we took Brad to the baseball camp he was spending a few weeks at during the day, and it was still early enough that we decided to pull into the 7-Eleven for Slurpees.
“Howdy there, folks, what can I get you this fine morning?”
I spun around with a grin. “Levi!”
He was stacking boxes of tampons on a shelf and grinned back. Levi was tall and lean, with kind of gangly limbs and curly brown hair, a pointed chin, and warm eyes. He had a wide, friendly smile—the kind that made you feel like you’d just made his day.
Sometimes, though, I got the feeling that he didn’t smile at everybody like that.
(It was still awkward to remember Thanksgiving, when I’d kissed him. But we’d both forgotten all about that by now—or at least put it way behind us.)
“Levi, my friend,” Lee announced, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking on his heels, “put down the tampons! We require ten of your coldest Slurpees.”