I couldn’t have answered her texts and voicemail any sooner even if I’d wanted to . . . but now I want to see how far she’ll go. I want to know whether reconciling with me is important enough to finally show herself.
I clear the notifications without responding.
Finally, I hold the camera above me and lean back across the bed, playfully seductive, before texting it to Cherish with the message, Waitin’ on you in the bedroom like . . .
I only have to wait a few minutes to see that she’s read it.
A few minutes later, she still hasn’t replied. No undulating dots to signify a message being composed, either. It just quietly changes from Delivered to Read, and that’s it.
I’ve been out of commission for days at a time, cutting the end of school short for both of us and probably trapping my poor Cherish in the sick, stale bedroom with me out of worry, and the first sign I’m back to my normal self gets nothing?
It’ll make sense if she’s waiting for me downstairs, with Jerry and Brianne, anxious to see my transformation with their own eyes. Ready to celebrate having me entirely back.
I head down to an empty kitchen whose island counter is the width and length of my parents’ whole dining table. There’s evidence of a recent presence, a mountain of cubed watermelon, half a lemon, its rind scrubbed off on one side by the nearby zester, a sprig of cilantro, and a few wayward blackberries left on a cutting board, knife unattended.
Even spills and messes know better than to disrupt the photogenic calm of the Whitman home. Various juices had dripped from the board and half seeped underneath, the rest forming a well-behaved puddle to the side of it. It almost looks staged. Like a delightful cookbook spread that tells a whole story in a picture—that this food was prepared with love, by a family member, which is always more impressive when there was the option of leaving it to the hired help. You know the family is somewhere just out of frame, literally enjoying the fruit of their labor, and now I can actually hear that taking place.
Brianne and Jerry Whitman’s voices are faint, but I can hear them through the open door off the kitchen and I follow them to the outdoor great room.
A second dining table resides there, this one topped by thick glass and weatherproofed. Overhead, there’s a canopy of large canvas squares outlined by sun and sky, the metal frame they’re fastened to also home to unshaded light bulbs. Cushions adorn every seat, a host of them residing on the indoor/outdoor bench large enough for the entire family.
“Well, look who’s up and operating on two legs!”
I offer Jerry a sheepish smile. It’s such a dad thing to say, complete with mock awe and arms waving, barbecue tongs in one hand and his thick gold wedding band glinting on the other.
“I hope your appetite is as healthy as you look,” he says, turning back to the stationary grill, beside which there’s a metal countertop stacked with meat. It looks like he’s added links to the menu, and there’s a ridiculously huge jar of homemade sauerkraut nearby, like it was too anxious to wait in the fridge.
“Look at you!” Brianne beams at me, either as though she didn’t see me an hour ago or as though I look remarkably different after my shower.
“I feel like a new person,” I say.
“I’ll bet,” she says.
When she takes and squeezes my hand, I glance down to see, and when she keeps hold of it, it stops me asking where Cherish could be. It doesn’t matter.
“Well, you’re back to your beautiful self; that’s what’s important,” she says as though agreeing with me. “And I went ahead and made a little fruit salad.” She gestures toward the largest silver serving bowl I’ve ever seen. “Since I don’t want you to have to wait for the coleslaw that apparently may never come.”
“Drama.” Cherish’s voice appears out of nowhere, joined immediately by her presence, and the way both her parents coo and almost straighten up with delight, you’d think she’s the one who recently survived the plague.
She holds up a tub of store-bought coleslaw with a kind of petulant grimace-smile on her face.
“Baby,” Brianne whines, “I asked you to buy fixings, not coleslaw itself.”
“It literally tastes exactly the same as yours, Mom, relax.”
“Okay, ouch. And it’s the sodium and sugar content, you know I don’t like—”
But I tune out their sitcom bickering when Tariq steps out of the house behind Cherish. I haven’t seen him since the night I had dinner with my parents, but I can’t be sure he hasn’t featured in any of my fever dreams. I feel like I’ve seen him recently, but maybe not this exact Tariq. Like maybe he’s changed over the course of a few days somehow, and the Tariq in my dreams is closer to who he used to be.
“Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Whitman,” he says, and the corner of his mouth twitches like he’ll smile, only he doesn’t force it. Like Cherish’s disrespect, it goes completely unchallenged, and he receives salutations much more enthusiastic than he gave.
“How’s everything, man?” Jerry first slaps hands with the boy before casually transitioning between at least two other gestures that end with them putting their shoulders into each other’s chest.
I almost snort. I don’t know how guys always know what to do next in these complicated rituals, and I certainly didn’t expect Cherish’s dad to do it that smooth.
I almost snort because something gives me pause. Something looks strange about Tariq’s hand, even though it’s moving around too much for me to get a good look. It looks like he’s wearing something across his knuckles, but I can’t be sure.
“Stick around,” Mr. Whitman tells him, gesturing to the grill, and I hold my breath for his response.
“Yeah, I could eat,” Tariq says, and instead of nodding, he pushes out his chin to one side and then the other like a boxer pantomiming a bob and weave, to Jerry’s amusement.
I glance back down at his hands, but he’s got them under his shirt, holding the hem away from his body in one of those mundane but inexplicably sexy poses guys strike.
He’s doing it on purpose. I know, because the next place he looks is right at me. It’s as though one minute he didn’t notice me, and the next his gaze is fixed.
“Hey, Farrah,” he says, and then absentmindedly wets his lips.
Something falls into the bottom of my stomach—but not my stomach. I know enough about anatomy to know that’s not what’s directly above my pelvis, but I don’t know how watching Tariq’s mouth can give me a sensation that deep.
It’s a while before I can breathe out a simple “Hey, Tariq.”
It doesn’t seem like the adults take any notice, but Cherish is watching me from beside him, and there’s something off about her look. Which is when I realize she hasn’t said a word to me.