Page 3 of Apple of My Eye
Julian slides into his chair next to mine. ‘No way,’ he says in a low voice, his eyes meeting mine. ‘You’re not serious.’
I grimace.
‘Damn. I don’t know if I would have gone through with it.’
‘Yes, you would have,’ I argue. ‘You can’t wimp out on a fantasy football bet—that renders the whole thing pointless. We never would have let you back in the game,’ I say, referencing our annual league. It’s full of my closest friends in the city, six of us from Stanford’s MBA program, the other three are old friends of ours. We’ve made a pact to get together every year to do the draft, an excuse for a boys’ weekend, a way to make sure we stay in touch. The bets are taken very seriously. This year, my punishment for losing has to do with our MBA Graduate Capstone—a two-month program in our fall semester where we apply our business knowledge to real life.
Julian shrugs. ‘I don’t know .?.?. spending the capstone period on a farm instead of in an office with unlimited snacks and an in-house barista doesn’t sound worth it.’
‘Youhaveto do it,’ Isaac jumps in, having none of Julian’s attitude. ‘Brett had to pretend to be a fitness influencer for six months last year. He didn’t wimp out. This is only like two months. And it’s not like you’re missing class time, all of us will be at our capstones anyway.’
‘I know,’ I say, trying to seem unruffled but fighting a rising feeling of frustration. Now that August is right around the corner, two months feels like a long time. I ignore the tightness in my chest, shifting my expression into one of feigned disinterest instead. ‘You guys will spend all fall wasting away inside while I’m hanging out with hot country girls eating farm-to-table food from an actual farm, not a new-age restaurant with dim lighting.’
‘You say that like that’s not exactly what you’ll be doing come November,’ Julian says, raising his eyebrows. He may seem quiet or reserved at first, but his bullshit detector doesn’t miss.
Isaac doesn’t look as convinced. He scratches his chin. ‘Maybe youwillhave fun,’ he says thoughtfully.
For the first time since I got the email, I feel my spirits start to lift.Take that!I think.You thought you screwed me over when I lost that bet, but really you did me a favor.
But then Isaac bursts out laughing. ‘Just kidding, man. I’ll stick to my fine dining with women who don’t have dirt under their fingernails.’
‘Says the guy who hasn’t been on a date in weeks,’ Julian says under his breath.
I feel pinpricks of disappointment in my chest, the same way I did when Christian McCaffrey got injured in week one after I locked him in as my first-round draft pick, but despite the sensation, I can’t help but laugh, quipping back to Julian, ‘Remember when Isaac got rejected from that application-only dating app?’
Isaac glares at me.
Julian snorts. ‘Maybe you two should trade places. His game will go further without us to compete with.’
‘I’m getting more coffee,’ Isaac grumbles.
Julian raises his eyebrows, both of us dissolving into laughter.
Hours later and I’m forced to laugh about my situation again, this time with my mother, who is doubled over, clutching the kitchen counter so hard I can see the whites of her knuckles.
‘Mamma,’ I say sternly, ‘it isnotthat funny.’
‘You boys are so dumb,’ she says, shaking her head. She fills a pot with water and puts it on the stove. The sound of the gas igniting and the hiss of the flame underneath the pot are so familiar that I feel my shoulders relax.
‘Chop this,’ she says, handing me a yellow onion, ‘while you tell me about it.’
I stand behind the cutting board, dicing the onion while we talk. She putters about behind me, getting out ingredients for spaghetti. I’m more at home in her small kitchen than I am anywhere else. There’s barely room for both of us to move around, but we’ve been cooking together for so long that we know how to stay out of each other’s way. Although, it’s mainly me staying out of her way. One thing about my mamma—she can cook on a budget and in a small space and it will always be delicious.
‘It starts next week,’ I tell her, ‘and lasts through September.’
‘Two months is a long time,’ she muses. ‘You live with a host family?’
I nod. The onions are diced. They hit the pan with a sizzle and the smell of olive oil wafts into the air. I open a can of tomatoes, tear up some basil and butter some bread while I explain to my mother how the process works. The host family applies, Stanford either accepts them into the program or rejects them. The stipend is only granted to a small subset of applicants and the interview process can be grueling. Whoever the Parkers are, they had to jump through a lot of hoops to get a student assigned to them—students are one of Stanford’s most valuable commodities, they don’t give them away easily.
Stanford sets me up with a place to stay and pays my way to get to my capstone. Some of the family business placements are international, and even though I was hoping that my application would get flat out rejected, I’m relieved that I was placed domestically, only a two-hour plane ride away.
‘And you’re sure this is what you should be doing?’ my mom asks, arching her eyebrows at me. She is always trying to make sure that I’m doing the absolute best that I can. She worked her whole life to give me the chance at success, and she willnotlet me squander it.
‘I’ll be just fine,’ I tell her. The sauce is ready by the time I’m finished explaining, and we sit down at the small kitchen table with heaping plates of spaghetti. ‘I already have my job lined up, remember?’
She smiles, muttering, ‘Nicky, Nicky,’ under her breath, the closest she gets to straight up saying she’s proud of me. ‘What about Anna?’ she asks.
I almost choke on my mouthful. ‘What about Anna?’ I reply once I’ve swallowed.
