Page 39 of Fortunate Misfortune
“For me?”
Mallory grins and hands it over. “My friend works at the drive-in. I use this trick to bribe the twins. I hope it’s enough for you.”
It is, but I don’t need a bribe to let Mallory in.
I point toward the living room, telling her I’ll meet her in a minute. Once she’s around the corner and out of earshot, I reach into my pocket for my phone.
Great. The call wasn’t muted. I sigh, bringing it to my ear. “How much of that did you hear, Nan?”
Her smile sounds even bigger. “I heard nothing. Good night, Fishie.”
“How do you have jicama but not a regular household vegetable like green beans or broccoli?” The plate on her lap wobbles as she leans over to grab the Parmesan cheese. “I’ve never met anyone who has a whole jicama laying around.”
Last week while trying to buy a potato, I grabbed a jicama, which has gone unused until tonight. With a little salt, pepper, and paprika, Mallory has created my new favorite way to eat vegetables.
Her original plan was to crash here for ten minutes before sneaking back in through her bedroom window. I convinced her to stay instead of possibly hurting herself and needing a trip to the hospital.
Promises of pizza had her thinking about it, and when I added that we could count this as our second required project meeting, she was on board.
In the thirty minutes she’s been here, my knowledge about diabetes has increased exponentially, and I’m not even close to scratching the surface. With every meal, she prioritizes fiber. I sensed hesitation in her voice when she asked if I had any vegetables she could add to dinner. I was off the couch and halfway to the kitchen before she even finished her question and came back with a wannabe potato.
In true Mallory fashion, she made it work like she always does.
“It was an accident,” I laugh. “But I’ll be buying jicama every week for the foreseeable future. These are amazing.”
I only see half of her proud smile as she heads toward the wall behind the television. She assesses each frame slowly before turning back to me. “How did I not realize these are puzzles? I thought they were paintings. You did these yourself?”
I nod, gathering our plates. Cade and Nan call me a grandpa because of my hobby, but it’s rewarding. Each puzzle has been glued, framed, and displayed for everyone to see.
Once the pizza is in the fridge with plenty for Cade to snack on later, I gather my stuff and hook her heavy backpack over my shoulder. “Let’s work in the dining room. There’s more room over there.”
Even though she’s been here many times, Mallory’s eyes are wide as she assesses the overly spacious living room and formal dining room.The house isbig. Much bigger than a place that normal college students can afford to rent in this town. Only Cade knows that my dad owns the house, which is why we’re able to live here for free.
“Is the decoration up to your standards?” I ask.
In her hands is a photo of me and Cade from our high school graduation. “For two heterosexual men, it’s not half bad.”
A low laugh slips out as I set her backpack onto the table. No wonder it’s so heavy. She pulls out a clunky laptop, the lime folder, a hole puncher, the soccer-ball fanny pack with her diabetes kit, her planner, an assortment of snacks, two notebooks, and a pencil bag.
Holding up my end of the deal, I hand over my ticket. With a loud crunch, she looks at me through a hole in the thick paper.
“Two meetings down. Only one more to go until we are done working together.” Mallory is giddy as she slides it across the table, unaware of the way her words hit me square in the chest.
I wonder what would happen if I refused to take it back. Maybe this wouldn’t have to end. I want so much more than three meetings and seeing each other at point opportunities. And the likelihood of that is slipping through my fingers.
I hum in acknowledgment, facing the other thing that is sending me into a tailspin. I’m not sure why I’m trying so hard to get this internship. Even if I win, who knows if I’ll complete it, but if everything I’ve worked so hard for is going to be taken from me, I might as well go out with a bang.
“I need a favor,” I say, breaking the long silence.
She slides a purple pen behind her ear, and it disappears into the curly cloud. “Yeah?”
“On my resume, most of my work experience is business related, minus math camp, tutoring, and one research opportunity. At this rate, I’m not going to make it through semi-finals.”
Mallory’s eyes fall to the paper I slid across the table. She drums her fingers against it as she scans the words.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “What do you need from me?”
“Well, you’re the most critical person I know—”
