“Could I have one of your wipes, please?” I ask. She hands me the wipes, and once I’ve resanitized the dish—lid, underside, and especially the handles—I toss the wipe in the trash and nod goodbye to the attendant.
“It’s hot, so if you have any way to call him down…I just don’t want it to get cold.”
And just like that, I realize he’s gone from being “the boy next door with the obnoxiously loud dog” to “the boy next door who I’d venture outside for during quarantine, just to make sure he has a hot home-cooked meal.”
And the fact that my chest is pounding as I ascend the stairs back to my own apartment, and that I’m running through the list of ingredients I used—did I add enough salt? Did I garnish with too much cilantro? Did I let the mozzarella on top brown enough? As if I haven’t made homemade lasagna a thousand times—tells me…something.
Something’s changed.
BASTIAN VS. THE GAP
I forgot the apartment building next door is the fancy one—the one you need a passcode to get into just to speak to the front desk. So here I am, walking back to my own complex with these sloppily molded hand butter melts in this ugly paper bag, wondering how in the world I’m going to get them to her. I check my phone and realize I have fourteen minutes to get these into her apartment before I lose the contest. And then, why would she give me her number?
I’m loud. She knows I don’t read. I like dogs, she likes cats. I don’t cook. She thinks I’ve been watching her through her window. That’s six strikes.
Blow this shot, and I’m out, I know it.
So I run back through my complex’s lobby, but Gail, the front desk person, calls for me.
“Bastian, hey! You got something here.”
“Yeah?” I ask.
Because Gail was uber-paranoid about germs before the virus, she’s triple extra uber-paranoid now that quarantine is in full force. After pulling out two wipes, one for each hand, she uses them to lift up a white round baking dish as big across as my hand. I catch a faint whiff of tomato sauce.
“What…” I begin, not understanding, “What’s that? Is it for me?”
“Some girl left it a few minutes ago. Said it should be eaten hot. She didn’t look like a delivery person. I don’t know what it is. Eat it at your own risk.”
I lift the lid and smell, taking in the scent of basil, cilantro, meat, and tomato sauce. I close my eyes and fully bask in the best thing I’ve ever smelled. This is no frozen lasagna. This is the real deal. I take the dish in my arms carefully, avoiding my left arm so I don’t melt my cast, cradling it like it’s a newborn baby.
“Thanks, Gail. Really. Thank you.”
My stomach growls greedily as I ascend the stairs, and I can’t wait to get to my room to fully enjoy it. But first, I have to find a way to get this paper bag through that window. And then it hits me.
That’s it!
“Hey!” I call out after flinging open my window and waving. She’s exchanged her sweatshirt for a loose white T-shirt that ties in the front. Same bell-shaped hair, same big brown eyes, same comfortable, curled-up position she sits in by the window. She sees me and opens the glass.
“You admitting defeat?” she asks as I hold up the baking dish.
“Just from the smell alone, I probably should,” I admit. “It’s already amazing.”
“Taste it!” she urges. Her face seems brighter today, glowier. I know that look anywhere. It’s the look of someone immersed in their passion. Maybe cooking is hers like aromatherapy is mine.
“So,” I say, “before I get to your gift—”
“Whoa, whoa,” she says, “Not a gift. A contest entry. We’re still competitors, don’t you forget.”
I grin.
“Stubborn, are we? Okay, ‘contest entry.’ I have to get you mine. I couldn’t get through the front door, but I’d say I should have clearance to toss this bad boy through your window like your cat jumped through mine.”
She laughs.
“Seriously? Weak.”
“Hey, you want me to enter this contest or not?”
“I don’t know if I trust your throwing skills,” she says.
“Got a better idea?” I ask.
She hesitates for a moment. I don’t want to admit that I’m hoping she says she’ll meet me at her front door, but…I am. But I’m also not, because deodorant has been a thing of the past since I’ve been home all day, and there’s no way I’m meeting her smelling like…like this.
“Catch,” I say, leaning out the window holding it in my hand. She leans forward with arms extended and says, “Fine, but toss at your own risk. If you miss, you’re out.”
Believe me, I know.
My forehead is dotted with sweat, and my hands are clammy.
But I fling the bag, aiming at her planter box, and it goes sailing through the space between us, closing the gap. Everything seems to happen in slow motion. It spins in the air as it sails toward her.
BILLIE VS. THE BAG
I reach out, still in disbelief that this kid just tossed me his contest entry. Either he really doesn’t care if he gets my number, or he has a lot of faith in his tossing—and my catching—ability. The bag hits my fingertips and bounces off, and my spirit drops, but I lean farther out the window, farther than I’m comfortable, to reach for the bag.
BASTIAN VS. DISBELIEF
I stare in disbelief at this girl, who’s gone from being the annoyed kid across the alley who keeps calling the front desk to complain about my dog, to the girl who’s about to fall out a window to catch something I made for her.
BILLIE
