The couples peeled off. The line grew shorter. They were nearly up.
“Genevieve, François, meet Lily and Tomas,” Gram boomed to the couple before them in line. “Lyon meets Dortmund. You must know someone in common, right?”
Then it was their turn. The mustache was thick and white and wide, wider than his wide face, wider-seeming than the hips that spilled over the edge of the stool. He leaned back against the stool, wrapped in an apron that matched the tablecloth, checkered red and white, with a loopy I Love Lucy script that said Screw Me, I’m the Chef. His cheeks were red, his skin was tan, his hair was gray in spots and yellow at the edges—the color of a used cigarette filter. He watched Genevieve and François disappear into conversation with Lily and Tomas, then turned his half-moon glasses on them.
“Two under Will Granger,” Will said, holding two twenties outstretched.
“Put that away,” Gram said. “I’m not a whore. You don’t need to pay me up front.”
He peered down his nose at them through his glasses.
“It’s a joke,” Gram said. “It’s a joke that I’m too lazy to make funnier. There’s nothing to worry about. I don’t recognize you. First time?”
“If we haven’t made that clear enough yet,” Will said, smiling cautiously.
“Well, there are plenty of folks here who can show you the ropes. But it’s not meant to be a night of strict rules. Just one rule, really.” Here he pointed his pencil at Whitney. “You must always be talking to a person you didn’t know before tonight. If I catch the two of you off in the garden by yourselves, I’ll ask you to leave. Or Josep will. Or Caterina. Easiest rule there is. Make friends. Drink drinks. Soup, then chicken, then dessert, courtesy of…Curtis.” He screwed up his face. “How cute.”
Curtis was behind Gram in the kitchen, and he lifted his wooden spoon at the sound of his name. He had jean shorts on and a white V-neck T-shirt and hair down to his shoulders, tied back with a red bandanna.
“Curtis is from Brisbane and staged in Perpignan last season. He’s crashing here while he writes away for his next internship. Lucky us. Anyway, you’re all set, and it’s a pleasure to have you in my home, Will Granger and Whitney Cross. Will and Whitney, young blood, did you meet Genevieve and François when you were in line? Or better yet, I see him coming up the steps, the tall American, the basketball player. Jack! Jack, come here. Jack, meet Will and Whitney…”
Will couldn’t believe it. There, ducking beneath the bottom edge of the retractable door, was a face he’d known and loved, but hadn’t thought of in years. There, scanning for something essential, attempting to distinguish among the three competing lines in the room, was none other than JJ Pickle. Star of the basketball team during their time at college. Three-time first-team all-conference. Breakout of the first weekend of the NCAA tournament Will and Whitney’s senior year. Top scorer in program history. And here he was, with an empty 250ml beer bottle that looked like wax candy in his hand, searching for another drink, searching for the bathroom.
It was as though he didn’t hear Gram at first, so Gram called out again: “Jack!” And JJ lit up at the realization that it was he whose attention the host was seeking. “Jack, my boy, this is Will, this is Whitney.”
JJ was trapped by two bald men with rimless glasses and dark jackets. JJ, who towered over them, mocked a fake handshake across the divide. Will turned to Whitney and said, “Unreal.” And she said “What?” like she really didn’t know.
When the men with the glasses cleared out, the three of them were body to body. JJ was five inches taller than Will, a head and neck taller than Whitney. He took her hand and said her name again and he said “Jack” and their hands bobbed between them like one or the other might ask another question. Whitney squinted like she maybe recognized him from somewhere, and he squinted like he maybe knew her, as well. But at the word volcano behind them, Whitney cleared her throat and dropped his hand, and he eventually turned to Will. Will didn’t say his own name, but rather, “Believe it or not, we went to school together. All three of us.”
Jack’s mouth was open like a cave, eyes slit and turned down like a tickled baby’s. “No way!” he said, emitting a low roll of uncomplicated joy. He squinted again at the two of them and put his hand on Will’s shoulder, then took another long lingering look at Whitney.
“Hold on,” Whitney said.
“We graduated a year ahead of you,” Will said.
“I love it!” Jack said.
“You’re…” Whitney said.
“And you’ve been playing here ever since college, right?” Will said.
“Well, not here the whole time,” Jack said. “Norway, then Germany, then…” He trailed off and stooped his dark-haired head. “And, weird as it is, I guess I can’t claim that anymore. It’s all through, as of last night. It was supposed to be my last game, but it was canceled ’cause the other team couldn’t get in on a plane.”
“Last game of the season?” Will said.
“Of everything. Of all basketball, forever. Twenty-five years and done.”
“As of last night?” Will said. “You’re kidding.”
“We weren’t gonna make the playoffs, so they just decided to call it. No makeup game. Over just like
