8. Special Edition
8
SPECIAL EDITION
Elodie
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Navarro,” Amanda says in the doorway of the pink duplex with artfully arranged plants lining the railing on the little porch of her friend’s home.
Amanda’s purple backpack is slung on her shoulder, a new friendship bracelet on her wrist with gold beads forming the words make art .
Ally’s mom—Stella—shoots Amanda a sympathetic look from behind her trendy electric-blue glasses that frame wise brown eyes. “You don’t have to apologize. Just be sure to drink plenty of water.”
“And walk around if you need to,” Ally chimes in from next to her mom, a little mini-me with matching glasses and equally good advice. “Don’t forget what we read—it’s totally normal the first time a vegetarian eats meat. So don’t worry about it.”
“You’ll feel better soon. It’s just that your body uses different digestive enzymes for meat, and you’re not used to that,” Stella offers, and dear god, she’s a mom nurse now. “Take a digestive aid if you need to.”
“Thank you for all this,” I say, overwhelmed but grateful. My head pings with information. Stella’s already researched the problem and is offering advice. Meanwhile, I’ve barely said a word since I arrived and I’d spent the ride over hoping my panties dried while I freaked out that Amanda would have to go to the ER to get her stomach pumped after accidentally eating meat for the first time in her life.
Amanda offers the superhero mom a weak smile. “I’m sure your veggie burgers are really, really good.”
“Next time. You have an open invitation,” Stella says.
“Thanks,” Amanda says, then waves goodbye to her friend.
Ally offers a goodbye wave in return, her make art bracelet slipping down the tanned skin of her wrist.
“Thanks again for having her over,” I say to Stella. “I’m really sorry it didn’t work out. Ally’s welcome at our house anytime.” I think that’s what you’re supposed to say when a sleepover snafu happens.
“Text me? Let me know how she’s feeling tomorrow,” Stella adds.
Right, right. That’s what you say. “Of course. Absolutely. Thanks again.”
“Don’t forget—a digestive aid if she needs one,” the superhero calls out.
“On it!”
With a wince, Amanda sets her hand on her stomach. I walk her down the steps, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as we head to the waiting Lyft, the same one that brought me here in a flash, weaving expertly through Friday night traffic. From Lyft drivers to ultra moms, I’m surrounded by rock stars at their jobs.
“I only barfed once,” Amanda says, trying hard to be strong.
“That’s good,” I say, then worry digs into me. “Do you need to throw up again?”
She shakes her head. “I feel okay now.”
But okay isn’t how you want to feel when you stay at a friend’s house. “You’ll be better soon.”
“I just can’t believe I took the wrong burger,” she says, embarrassment thick in her voice as we reach the car while she explains again that it was a mix-up. The burgers on the plate all looked the same so she snagged a meat one rather than the special veggie one for the vegetarian, like our parents were after they had Amanda.
“Don’t beat yourself up. Mistakes happen,” I say.
I open the door for her and she slides into the car. Gage is long gone. The second I got the call that Amanda wasn’t feeling well we scrambled and said hasty goodbyes. But I can’t think about him right now.
As the driver pulls away from the pretty home in Lower Pacific Heights, I buckle in too. “So I guess you’re not going to ask me to cook you a steak tomorrow?”
Amanda makes an exaggerated gagging sound in her throat, then giggles. I’m glad she can laugh about it but her mirth doesn’t last long.
“I feel so dumb.” She slumps back against the seat.
She’s not a sister now. She’s a daughter. A girl trying to navigate the world. A girl raised by our parents who changed their ways with her and went farm-to-table as much as possible. Cooking all their own meals for her. Eating dinner with her.
Me? I was raised by those same people on whatever I wanted, eating alone most of the time.
“I didn’t even realize it until it was a few bites in because I’ve never even tasted it,” she says, still beating herself up. “How dumb am I?”
I want to snatch away all that unnecessary self-loathing. Squash it. Throw it in the trash so she never has to face it again. “No, bug,” I say emphatically, trying to impart some of my certainty. “You’ve never had it in your whole life. It was an easy mistake to make.” I pause for a few seconds. “How do you feel now?”
“Stupid. I couldn’t make it through a sleepover. What am I? Nine?”
“You are not stupid. It happens.”
“I just didn’t want to stay there and keep barfing,” she says, staring out the window as the driver cruises down Scott Street into the night, past Alamo Square Park where tonight’s doomed date began just a few hours ago. Feels like many days ago.
“Of course you don’t. Even if you’re feeling better, you just don’t want to take that chance.”
“I guess I’d rather just barf with you, Els,” she says, then sets her head on my shoulder. After a few quiet seconds, she seems to have found the end of her frustration since she says, “What are sisters for?”
I pet her hair. “More than I ever imagined.”
She sighs. “Sorry about that too.”
“Nope. Do not say that. Do not ever say that,” I say fiercely.
“Yeah?” She looks up at me, eyes full of questions, heart needing reassurance.
“Yes. Just yes. I’m exactly where I want to be,” I say. Even if I have no clue how to do this thing most of the time.
She seems relieved, and I’m glad I can give her that. But as the driver steers his way down the bustling streets, I worry away at my cuticles. Did I handle this right? Did I say the right thing when she called? Was I supposed to research the issue immediately like Stella or say it’s no big deal? Instead, I simply reacted like I always do, saying I’m on my way then flying out the hotel room door. I didn’t ask what she wanted. “Was it okay that I came to pick you up before even asking?”
She nods. “Yeah. I wanted you to. And Ally’s mom is cool, but I don’t think she wanted me there.”
“I get that. I mean I want you around though,” I quickly correct.
The car slows at a light while a pack of women my age in slouchy tops revealing their shoulders stream out of a neon-lit bar on the corner. Amanda glances at them, then me. “But I ruined your date, didn’t I?”
I’m certainly not about to tell her that it’d be impossible to ruin a date when I already rode a guy’s face like he was a wild Mustang. “We had a nice time and I think it ended exactly when it was supposed to end,” I say.
“Do you believe that? That things happen for a reason?”
An ache digs into my breastbone. I know where this is going. She still wonders if our parents died for a reason. What the meaning is behind that loss. What the meaning is behind…anything.
“I don’t know. I wish I did,” I say.
Some days I feel like the only thing I really know the meaning of is chocolate. I guess that’s why I keep going back to it. It’s the one thing in my life that feels consistent. The only thing in my life that has always been there. That promises exactly what it delivers—comfort, sweetness, and escape.
“Me neither,” she says. “I don’t think so though.”
“It would be hard to think it happened for a reason,” I say, especially considering how it happened.
As we turn onto our block, she looks me in the eyes again, her blue irises thoughtful and sad. “One time I was at a sleepover and I wanted to say goodnight, but I couldn’t reach Mom and Dad. I thought they were drinking again.” My throat tightens with too many emotions. Of course she knows about their past. They talked about their alcoholism openly with anyone and everyone. They’d stopped before my mom got pregnant with her. They’d become sober coaches, running sobriety retreats, ones they poured all their own money into, going into debt to try to help others. Ironic, in a terrible way, that they were killed by a drunk driver. That can’t possibly have been for a reason.
Amanda finishes with a shrug. “I think it turned out they were just busy in other ways.”
Like I was earlier. But at least I had my phone on. Maybe I deserve a badge for that?
When we reach our home, the one I moved into when my little one-bedroom was no longer enough after a late night when my parents didn’t make it home, and I took on their roles, I thank the Lyft driver, then go.
As I’m walking up the steps to our building, waiting for the notification about leaving a tip, a text blinks up at me from Gage.
Gage: I took care of your Lyft, including the tip. Hope your sister is OK. Thanks for a fantastic night.
Oh, right. Everything happened so quickly, I’d forgotten he’d ordered the Lyft from his phone in the first place. I’d just rushed downstairs with him, and he’d held open the car door for me.
A rush of warmth fills my chest at the reminder.
I unlock the door, then return to something Amanda said earlier. “Hey, don’t feel bad about the mistake. Mix-ups happen. I’m the girl who has sent packages to the wrong address.”
She doesn’t know the details of what was in the package, but she doesn’t need to. She smiles my way regardless. “I guess mix-ups run in the family.”
“Maybe they do,” I say, then rub her back.
Once she’s had a glass of water and is settled into her bed, feeling better, I head to the kitchen and take a deep breath in the dark. I turn to the cupboard, grab a bar of dark chocolate with almonds and sea salt—it’s not even one of mine. It’s Lulu’s, the brand I saved all my allowances for when I was younger—and break off a small square.
I bite into it, letting the flavors flood my tongue and fill my mind. Smooth, a little salty, a tiny bit nutty. A reassurance in a storm of uncertainty.
I feel reassurance in a strange new way too. I might not have known exactly what to do with my emotions when I got that call, but right now, right here, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Somehow, I’ve figured out what to say to Amanda, how to help her, how to be there for her when she needed me to be.
That’s what matters.
But a romance with Gage?
Do I have the skills to balance that and everything else? In one night, he’s already sprinted miles ahead of other men I’ve dated, and I don’t even mean in the bedroom. Or not only in the bedroom, anyway.
I break off another small chunk of chocolate, then hold it in my cheek, letting it melt slowly as I flash back over dates and the short-lived romances of my twenties. There was Charles, the venture capitalist, who loved to play blackjack and took me to Vegas, where we went and lounged by the pool, then dined on fancy small plates at famous chefs’ restaurants. It felt romantic, but he never truly opened up, never told me about his family, never shared his fears. Before him was Jean-Pierre, my dashing French-Canadian lover who opened a wine shop here in San Francisco, and whisked me away on Wine Country weekends, where everything felt like falling in love. Except for the fact that I never knew what excited him, what drove him on, what made him who he was. I’m not sure he was capable of loving a person like he was a vintage Bordeaux.
Then, there’s Gage. A guy who plans a great date, executes it, and then actually shares some of his heart and soul with me. Telling me a little about his daughter, a little about himself, and a little about asking me out.
That’s rare for a first date. I want that. I crave that. But do I even know what to do with it right now in my chaotic life?
I don’t have the answer. Instead, I open my texts and reply to Gage, thanking him profusely.
Gage: Anytime. By the way, we should call it Special Edition.
It’s not until I get into bed that I realize what he means. And I can’t stop thinking about it all weekend long.