The first thing my eyes land on is the tray of hors d’oeuvres on the counter next to me. So I grab a tiny cube of cheese and stuff it into my mouth.
“Quinn,” Asher says, voice pitched with worry, and before she finishes her sentence, I realize what I’m chewing is not the savory, cheesy goodness I was expecting. It’s tart. Too tart to be cheese. “That’s a mango.”
2
It takes only a few minutes for my body to surrender to the allergic reaction. My lips swell and a rash climbs up my arms and neck and then I am being buckled into the passenger seat of Tarek Mansour’s car.
“I’m so sorry,” he says for the twelfth time. Asher was ready to drive me to the hospital before my mom insisted she couldn’t lose both of us, and there was Tarek, keys dangling from his index finger, concern slanting his dark brows.
It’s been years since I had an allergic reaction, mainly because I don’t encounter mangos very often. It’s not severe enough to trigger anaphylaxis—and my mom has an EpiPen in her emergency kit anyway—but because it’s been so long, my parents insisted I go to the hospital. Just to be sure, they said.
“Not your fault.” My tongue is swollen, so I have to force out the words. “Although I don’t know why you’d put mango on a cheese plate.”
“It actually goes quite well with creamy cheeses,” Tarek says. “Mango has the right amount of acidity to balance out the—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “Sorry, that’s probably not helpful right now.”
“Not really.”
I stare out the window, trying to keep my face out of his peripheral vision. It’s easier if I don’t have to look at him, because what I’ve observed so far is that college made him hot. Almost annoyingly so. He was always cute to me: when he grew his hair a bit too long, until he couldn’t delay a haircut any longer without his parents hounding him about it, and then he’d cut it a bit too short. He was cute even during his unfortunate man bun phase two years ago. Now it’s the perfect length, shaggy and curling just past his ears.
He’s Egyptian American, his mother born in the United States and his father born in France, both of them with parents who’d emigrated from Egypt. When we were ten and eleven, our parents started letting us tag along to weddings. They’d ask us to entertain the other little kids during the reception, and in our tiny suits and tiny dresses, we’d dance to songs I hadn’t grown sick of yet. As we got older, we took on more responsibilities. I’d retreat into the kitchen after a recessional until his parents or mine yelled at me for distracting him; he’d sneak me leftovers while I helped the Mansours clean up.
It was his love for baking that drew me to him before I had the words to call it what it was. Desserts were his favorite, and it wasn’t unusual for him to walk around unaware he had powdered sugar in his hair or smelled of cinnamon. Whether he was frosting mini cupcakes or balancing a tray of tomato soup shooters with wedges of grilled cheese, he had this clear passion.
And once upon a time, so did I.
The boy I used to know slouched when he walked, a side effect of a too-early growth spurt, and tugged on his long sleeves to hide the eczema I knew embarrassed him. Sometimes he even skipped weddings because of it. He’s not feeling his best today, one of his parents would say when I asked where he was.
Maybe it’s cliché to think this, but he looks so adult now. There’s a confident edge to his shoulders he didn’t have before, a new definition in his jaw. Like he “figured himself out” in college, the way people always say they’re going to do. The thought of it makes me suddenly, painfully jealous, an ache that settles beneath my ribs, pulses next to my heart.
He runs a hand over his face, drawing my attention to the scruff there. Oh yes. That too.
So I focus instead on the fight we had before he left for school and how, after I tried to make things right again, he went silent for eight months.
“Are you too hot?” he asks. I wonder if the car sat abandoned in his garage while he was away. He was so excited when he finally saved up enough for this old Ford Focus, which he plastered with stickers supporting local farms and proclaiming the benefits of eating sustainably, plus an I POWER KEXP like anyone in the 206 with decent taste. The car is so Seattle, it might as well be wearing flannel. I wouldn’t be surprised if it ran on kombucha. “Too cold? Do you want to stop somewhere?”
“I’m fine. Thanks.”
He’s clearly trying to be a good guy about all of this, but it doesn’t undo what he did, and neither does his upgraded appearance. It doesn’t change the fact that he ignored me for almost a full year, and now he’s sitting there with his great hair and his ridiculous jawline, asking me if the NPR station is bothering me like we’re two polite near-strangers instead of friends. God, maybe he really did turn into an adult, because he never used to listen to NPR.
We end up at an urgent care much closer than the
