Chapter 29
ZARIAH
YEMENI OASIS
Unknowingly ignoring Tallulah was an egregious sin.
I couldn’t believe we’d shared so many classes, clubs, and mutual friends since freshman year and I still had no idea who she was.
I refused to let that continue any longer.
In our classes, I brought her over to sit next to me and we started spending a lot more time together.
“You need to write that essay,” I insisted on our way to Roman Villa, both of us huddled under my umbrella through the pelting rain.
“I’ve never been to Canada—I haven’t even been out of the country before without my parents,” she confessed.
“That’s more of a reason to go.”
Inside the lobby, I shook my umbrella as we wiped our boots on the mat. I needed to grab my laptop before our writing sprint, to struggle with my script yet again, but before I could make it to the elevator, I realized she’d stopped walking.
Tallulah stalled by the doors, hands clasped behind her back. “Zariah? I wasn’t going to say anything—it’s none of my business—but you have a letter in your mailbox?”
I frowned, confused. “A letter?”
“Denali wrote one. The team’s waiting for you to open it.”
My ears were suddenly warm. “Oh my god, we temporarily live together. Why doesn’t he tell me these things?” I took to the stairs. Our mailboxes were built beneath the dorm in an open walking space. “If Denali knew I hadn’t opened it, why didn’t he say anything?”
“I don’t know, everyone’s been waiting. There’s a countdown poster in the locker room.”
As exasperated as I was with Denali, I couldn’t deny how quickly I hurried down the stairs. I bit back the grin, jiggling my key in the rusted mailbox. “This is what I should put in a script. I’m definitely feeling things right now.”
“How’s it going?”
“The script? I threw the last one in the garbage,” I told her, pulling out the envelope.
“Oh. You spent a lot of time on it.”
“It’s fine, it was another crap attempt.” I fluffed out the letter, taking steps towards the flickering wall light. It was too dark. The pouring rain on either side didn’t help. Muttering under my breath, I brought out my phone to illuminate the letter.
If you need your audience to feel something, I thought this could help. Maybe feelings can be in food too?
— Alaska
There was an address at the bottom of the page with instructions to order number seventeen at a restaurant called Yemeni Oasis. I searched for it online. It was a little hole-in-the-wall in West Houston, crammed between a defunct hair salon and a private insurance company.
There were two twenties in the envelope too. I stuck my tongue at Tallulah, unable to hide my excitement. “If this man is asking me out to dinner, why isn’t there a date? Or a time?”
“I don’t know?”
“And he signed it as Alaska—that’s my nickname for him.” My shoulders did an embarrassing, involuntary wiggle. “He’s so—ugh. I love this. It’s so cute. Denali’s being so cute!”
There was no additional information on what number seventeen was. I followed Tallulah upstairs, burning with curiosity. The menu took forever to load. When it did, number seventeen was labeled as one of their most popular dishes.
My fingers stalled over the screen. I froze, my steps stumbling to a stop.
Tallulah turned back. “Zariah?”
“Oh,” I said softly, my throat suddenly tight. The rest of my words vanished and I swallowed, opening the letter to re-read Denali’s words. “Oh.”
I waited for Elijah to finish his drills, then stopped him between the rink and the locker room. “What are you doing after practice?”
“Uh…”
“Who am I kidding? You’re depressed, you don’t have plans.” Elijah tried to argue and I snapped my fingers to the locker room. “Go shower. You’re driving me off-campus.”
Grumbling, Elijah left for the locker room, and I caught sight of Denali walking with his coach and his coach’s usual horde of business-attire assistants. Now that I wasn’t in my self-perpetuating prison, I could openly admit their jerseys looked so fine, I let my eyes wander, enjoying the sights.
There was so much about Denali. Everything about him was more. His thick, dark eyebrows, his broad shoulders, his thick lips, his ears on the bigger side, his hands—oh my god, his hands. I trailed down his body, a slow and lazy meander to get my fill.
His eyes caught mine, dark eyes I’d drawn in my sketchbook and the margins of my scripts. With a warm smile, I waved.
Denali glanced away from me, checking who I was waving to.
I shook my head, unable to hold back the grin. I mouthed my words, teasing. “No. You.”
A dazed smile tugged up on his lips, and he raised his hand a little to wave at me, hesitating in case I meant to wave at someone else. But when I kept waving, he waved faster with more courage, until he stumbled into one of the assistant coaches and almost sent him to the floor.
“Oh, shit,” I whispered, listening to Denali’s embarrassed apologies from across the rink.
“Zariah?” Elijah called, shouldering his bag. “Where are we going?”
I shot one last glance at Denali before directing Elijah to the doors. “It’s a surprise.”
“Means it’s probably shitty.”
“I could’ve taken the bus, or any of my friends, but I want to go with you. Because I want to do this together.” I flicked his arm. “Don’t be such a baby.”
Yemeni Oasis was a quaint restaurant with only five tables and intimate lighting.
It was cast in a red glow from the burgundy wallpaper, the smells wafting from the kitchen were obscenely delicious.
It was definitely a hidden jewel. Beyond the delivery orders stacked behind the counter, it wasn’t very busy.
Elijah gave the place a confused glance when we walked inside. “Did Dad recommend this place?”
Our dad was Lebanese and loved nothing more than adventuring to new restaurants. It was a good guess, but this one had escaped his long list of screenshots in our family group chat. I motioned for Elijah to sit down, and headed to the counter, scanning the well-lit menu on the wall.
Number seventeen—the choclava speciality.
I couldn’t stop reading those words. It felt like I’d just drank the champagne from the Gladiators’ win against WTU, that same bubbling feeling inside, a simmering happiness. Denali must’ve researched where I could find choclava and sent me here. It was unbelievably sweet.
The man behind the counter pointed at my brother, a laugh bursting out of him. “I thought you were our friend.”
“Friend?” I repeated. Elijah was in his Gladiator’s jersey, did this man think he was Denali? Did he scope out the restaurant before recommending it?
“You know—uh—?” He frowned, clicking his tongue. “He told me his name…”
“Denali?” I held up my hand to make the line at Denali’s height. “Big guy, dark beard?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah!”
“He’s been here?”
“Ah, yeah.” He shrugged, good-natured. “Every couple of weeks. He sits in the booth, comes alone. Number seventeen. Tips good, that’s easy to remember.”
My eyes widened. “How long has he been coming here?”
The man mulled over the question before making his way to the kitchen, pushing open the swiveling door to ask something I couldn’t understand. His grin was wide again. “Early summer, perhaps May? You know him?”
I was speechless. Denali had been coming here since May. The moment he transferred to Houston, he’d been coming here. Which meant the choclava spot had never been for me, it was…because of me.
How many other choclava spots did he try before settling on this one?
Did that mean Denali had been going to choclava places for years as a reminder?
My heart ached. I hurt for him, but that didn’t erase the unbridled pleasure.
I couldn’t separate the two. This gesture was so intimate, so tender. I was melting for him.
I managed to order number seventeen through the influx of emotion and explained that I did know Denali.
“Are you buying me dinner?” Elijah asked when I took my seat, my legs unsteady.
“I’m buying you dessert,” I replied, studying the booths, separated by decorative wall dividers. I could almost see him. Denali, alone, hunched over a plate of choclava. That boy was so infuriating and so romantic.
“How’d you find this place?”
I put my chin in my hand. “Denali.”
“Denali?” Elijah repeated.
“Do you know he comes here every couple of weeks?”
“He does?”
I gazed at my brother. How was Elijah his best friend and he didn’t know that? My frown deepened at the thought, and questions I had for Elijah sprung up. “How many siblings does Denali have?”
“Siblings?” His face scrunched up. “Uh…”
“He has three. Two older brothers, Darren and John, and a younger sister, Angela. Everyone calls her Angie.”
“Okay?”
“When’s his birthday?”
“Uh…”
“How do you not know his birthday?” I demanded. “He knows your birthday!”
“Hold up, we’re Christmas Eve babies, Zariah. It’s the easiest birthday to remember.” He rubbed his temples. “Why are we talking about this?”
“What’s the one thing Denali would never touch, ever?” I held up my phone. “He has a retirement account that he started when he was twelve years old, he’d literally never prematurely open it! How are you friends and you don’t know anything about him?”
“We’re dudes, Zariah. We don’t talk like that.”
“You don’t talk like that with anyone. You don’t even talk like that with me.”
“We talk.”
“We don’t. I think you bottle up everything inside because you think that’s easier, but it just makes you angry all the time.”
Elijah fell silent, before he tried to recover with a joke. “Did we have to go off campus for a heart-to-heart? I spent gas money on this?”
“Denali gave me this recommendation because I was looking for a choclava spot,” I said. Except I wasn’t looking at all, and Denali gave it to me anyway. Because he knew this would help me.
My brother gazed around the room. “Ah. Grandpa Herschel.”
The man behind the counter brought us the choclava specialty, squares of baklava with chocolate drizzled over it, and I picked up a fork, but I couldn’t take a bite.
I was overwhelmed. It was more than just a dessert, it was my connection to Denali, Hersch, and the summer I’d tried so hard to push out of my mind. It was a connection to my family, to my brother.
I brushed at my eyes, stinging with tears.
“Why are you crying?” Elijah asked. “Can’t we just enjoy eating chocolate?”
I sniffled. “I’m trying to feel with you, asshole.”
“You’re feeling all over my food,” he said but I remained silent at the jokes. Finally, he sighed, raking a hand through his curls. “Grandpa didn’t like me. This isn’t a fun conversation for me.”
“What are you talking about? Why would you say that?”
“Come on, Z.” Elijah rolled his eyes. “This is so shitty but I’ll never forget it. Grandpa was telling me about the director’s story—you know, when he rearranged the ice monster sculpture—and he said I’d never have the guts to do that. But ‘oh, your sister would.’”
I hesitated. “He was…complicated.”
“That’s what people say when they don’t want to admit that someone was a dick.”
“It’s kind of surprising to hear you say that,” I said. “Hersch always told me you were his—you know—replica.”
“Wow. That makes me feel better.”
“Hersch could be an asshole,” I admitted. “I loved him so much, but he could break my heart. He was lonely, and beyond his immediate family, only really had surface-level friendships. He refused to change.”
“Yeah. That was Grandpa.”
“Makes me think of somebody else I know.”
Elijah’s eyes flickered to mine. “You’re piling on the compliments tonight, aren’t you?”
“I love you. I’ll always love you, even when you break my heart.” I took a deep breath. “I want you to consider therapy. Not just make jokes about it.”
Elijah put his head in his hands and sighed. It was a long, heavy sigh, but I refused to break the silence. He was the one who had to budge.
Eventually, he emerged, reluctant in every sense of the word. “Fine. Fine.”
“Fine?”
“If we get to playoffs,” he said as a condition, “I’ll go to therapy. How’s that?”
“What? Why playoffs?”
“Because if we don’t make it to playoffs, I’m either jumping off a bridge or picking a different sport—”
“Shut up. You’re making it to playoffs and going to therapy.” I left my chair and wrapped my arms around his neck, hugging him tight. “I love you—”
“Get off me, we’re not hugging siblings.” Elijah rolled his eyes. “We hug at the airport, that’s it.” Despite that, he hugged me back before nudging me back to my seat. “I’m getting real food, I’m fucking starving.”
While Elijah went for food, I watched the empty booth, smiling again. I’d have to pick up Denali something. He ate at Yemeni Oasis for their choclava but they had other desserts. I wondered if he’d ever tried something new or if he’d stuck to the same old thing.
Knowing him, he’d probably never touched anything else on the menu.
Elijah returned, grumbling about his stomach until he stretched back. “You know what I can’t believe?”
“What?”
“Herschel left his ice monster to someone else.”
“He left it to Mom.”
“No, he didn’t. You don’t remember?” His eyebrows knitted together and a beat passed. “I guess you wouldn’t. You were dealing with that psycho stalker bullshit. No, Grandpa left it to someone, and Mom was fucking furious about it.”
“Who? He didn’t like anybody? Nobody liked him?”
“She never told me who, but it doesn’t matter.” Elijah’s teeth flashed for a lofty grin. “Mom refused to send the sculpture. It’s in the storage shed.”
“She kept it?” It was hard for me to imagine. My sweet, doting mother refused to adhere to her late father’s wishes? “How could she do that?
“There’s a letter tied to it too. I tried to open it and Mom screamed at me.”
“Screamed at you? What’d she say?”
“No idea, it was in Italian. I’m not like you, Zariah, I can’t listen in. And when Mom talks fast like that, I can’t understand anything she’s saying.”
Elijah’s order was brought over, two plates of chicken and rice. He could complain about the hugs, but I knew my brother loved me. He slid my plate over and we ate together in comfortable silence. The food did little to distract me though.
I had no idea Hersch’s sculpture was in our storage shed.
Who did he leave it to?