Page 72 of Que Será, Syrah

“A classic. Anything else?”

“You pick this time.”

“Hm. I consider the flavor profile. “Maybe…jalapenos?”

“Yes. Perfect.” She’s definitely perked up now, eyes dancing with excitement. “What about Cotija cheese?”

“Love it. So is that it?”

“Ranch dressing?”

I shoot her a disparaging look. “Well, obviously.”

She sips at her drink and looks around while I place the order. After I disconnect the call, she sighs and says, “I think my sisters wish I’d stayed in Europe.”

“I doubt that,” I tell her. “I was there when they came to the station to pick you up—remember? As I recall, they seemed pretty happy to see you.”

“Well, sure—then. But we hadn’t all lived together, under one roof, in nearly ten years. I think they forgot how annoying I am.”

“Are you annoying?” I tease as I reach for her, urging her off her stool and onto my lap. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“I was today,” she says, tilting her head to the side as I nuzzle her neck.

“Yeah? In what way?” But she shrugs and, instead of answering, turns her head and presses her lips to mine. And for a long moment, that lasts until the pizza arrives, neither of us talk at all.

Over pizza and beer—two beers apiece, with me justifying the fact that I’m breaking my own workday rule of only having one, by virtue of the fact that I’m off in the morning—I tell her, “You know, when something’s bothering me, I often find it helps to talk about it. A burden shared is a burden halved—my mom used to say that a lot.”

“Nonna used to say that, too.” She dips her pizza in the cup of dressing. “I don’t really have anyone to talk to anymore. She was my best friend in a lot of ways.”

“Must have been hard to lose her,” I say.

Legs nods. “You have no idea. I-I think I went crazy for a while there—after, I mean. I made so many stupid decisions.”

“But that was only…what? Six months ago?”

“Yeah,” she laughs a little at that. “Yeah, it was. Seven now. It’s funny; it feels so much longer. So, what do you think? Maybe I’m still not over it?”

“I imagine it takes a while,” I say, which…I’m pretty sure is a lie. Because I don’t think you ever do get over that kind of loss. You just find ways to live with it. “You should probably give yourself some slack.”

“Yeah.” She’s quiet for another long while—long enough for us to finish the rest of the pizza, a side of chicken wings, and some of those weird cinnamon things that everyone sells now, and no one can seem to agree on a name for.

“Thanks,” she says, and I’m distracted by the sight of her licking cinnamon sugar from her lips and from between her fingers, and for seeking out the last few drops of beer, head tilted back, throat working as she swallows, that I lose the plot and forget to answer for a minute.

“Uhh…for what?” I finally ask.

“Oh, I dunno.” She shrugs. “Just…for being here? For letting me talk. For not judging me.”

I have no answer to that, so I do what I usually do—or maybe what I always do. I find a way to deflect. “You know, you don’t talk nearly as much as you think you do. For example, I still don’t know what happened today that has you so upset.”

“True.” She’s quiet for a moment. Then she looks at me and says, “Can I spend the night?”

I nod slowly. “I was hoping you would.”

“And will you take me to bed and let me ride you?”

“Any time you want.”

So, I guess there’s more than one way to deflect.

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