“And you don’t eat leftovers?”
I shake my head. “Not if I can help it.”
“You’re missing out. Most food is better leftover. Especially Indian food.”
We fill our plates at a leisurely pace, smelling and discussing the different dishes as I try to recall their names, and Arlo offers several guesses, using a myriad of accents.
“This is so much better than Dick’s,” he says.
I stare at him, waiting for more information, but rather than explain, he forks a mouthful and hums his approval.
“Dick’s?” I ask.
He wipes his mouth with the napkin as he nods. “You know, the hamburger place.”
“There’s a hamburger place named Dick’s?”
“You’ve lived here how long and haven’t heard of Dick’s?”
“Almost four years.”
“How is this even possible? Seattle would throw you out if they knew.”
“Is it really called Dick’s?”
He nods. “And it’s a rite of passage here. How has Rose earned best friend status when she hasn’t taken you to Dick’s?”
“I don’t know … maybe she’s earned best friend status because of it.”
He laughs again, the sound drawing my lips upward without obligation or reason, aside from it’s easy and comfortable to be around him.
“When did you hurt your knee?”
“This past Saturday marked three weeks since my surgery, but I hurt it a week earlier.”
“Have they told you when you’ll be able to put weight on it?”
“I go in this week to do a follow-up and find out if it’s ready.”
I nod. “And it was a full reconstruction?”
Arlo finishes chewing another bite. “Yup. They said it’s a whole hell of a lot easier to go through now than it was ten years ago.”
“My mom had her ACL replaced,” I tell him. “She had a scar that ran from the top of her knee all the way down to the top of her shin. I had no idea until I started working at the physical therapy place that they didn’t still do it like that.”
“Was she laid up a long time?”
“Yeah, but it sounds like the entire process has changed. They brought this big machine to the house that bent her knee, and she had a brace that weighed more than she did. She had it done at the beginning of summer, and we laid in bed and watched movies and played board games for pretty much the entire summer. She didn’t start walking until October, so seeing patients lifting weights and exercising so soon after surgery seems straight-up crazy.”
“That had to be rough.”
I shrug. “We had fun with it. It was always just us, so we managed to make the best of it. We did theme weeks, and we’d decorate the living room and order takeout based upon our different themes. The hard part was the constant takeout mixed in with my really bad cooking rather than eating what she cooked.”
“She’s a good cook?”
I think of her chicken fried chicken, honey-butter biscuits, and sausage gravy she’d cook when we craved good Southern food, and the Coq Au Vin and my favorite beef bourguignon when she sharpened her culinary skills. “The best.”
“I’m guessing this is why you don’t like leftovers?”
“Correct. I was spoiled with food. What about you?”
“Oh, yeah. My mom can throw down in the kitchen. She’s half Italian and half French, and my dad is fully Italian. Everything in my childhood revolved around food. We looked forward to the food served on Christmas more than the presents.”
I laugh. “Yes! I understand that!”
“Food is a language. Like, when my mom was stressed out, there’d be a million cookies in the house. And if my dad did something wrong, he’d make Taylor Ham, egg, and cheese on a roll. And if my brother or I got our hearts broken, my mom would pick up pizzas, and we’d drown our sorrows in mozzarella.”
I try to imagine Arlo’s family. I picture them all smiling like he is so quick to do. “You have just one brother?”
“Thankfully.”
I bark out a laugh that is neither ladylike nor dainty. I cover my mouth because I still have bites of rice between my molars.
“Seriously. My brother is a pain in the ass. He used to hunt for every cent I ever made and would steal it. I would hide it in the light canisters and in books and old board games our mom wouldn’t get rid of, and he’d find it all. Always. Once, he actually paid me back after he borrowed two hundred bucks after he made a bad bet with the wrong dude, and he paid me back in nickels. All nickels.”
“No.”
His eyebrows arch as he nods. “And that’s the easy stuff that didn’t require emergency room visits.”
I shake my head. “Emergency room visits?”
He shrugs. “He was a pain in the ass.”
“I have my half-brothers, Colton and Rob, but they’re ten and twelve years younger than me, and we never saw each other much. I was like a young aunt who sent cards and gifts on their birthdays and at Christmas, and visited once a year.”
“Do you like your step-mom?”
“Whitney? Yeah. I mean, she’s always nice to me. Sometimes she tries to wear the mom hat a little too heavily, but I’m sure it’s weird for her, you know? She hosted a step-daughter once a week and was supposed to bond with me, be parent, and win my affections in this blip on the radar. Sometimes she did a good job. Other times she tried too hard to be cool or super strict, and that was always fun. But she’s nice, and she tries hard. She loves my dad and is a really good mom to my brothers.”
He swipes a hand through his hair that isn’t long or short but teases at both. It falls in a messy disarray of perfection as his smile grows, and his gray eyes warm like the Texas sun.
“What are you studying?” I ask, focusing my attention back on my plate of food.
“Sports medicine.”
“Really?”
He nods.
“What do you want to do?”
He runs his hand through his hair again, and I have to force myself not to watch. “I don’t know yet. I love football, and for a while, I even thought I’d go pro, but now…”
My attention jumps from my dinner to Arlo’s face, trying to decipher the slight frown of his lips, the pinch between his eyes, the tightness of his jaw.
Does he really think it could be the curse? Or his injury? Or maybe with age and three years of college football behind him, he’s starting to have new doubts?
“What are you doing tomorrow?” I ask.
“I have football practice and then a class in the afternoon.”
I nod. “After your class, let’s plan to meet up. I think I have a couple of theories to test.”
“Are you asking me on a second date?”
I roll my eyes, working to ignore the heat that finds its way to my cheeks. “If you don’t want help, you don’t have to meet me.”
“I wasn’t saying no. I just was going to ask if you wanted to see me in pants or shorts or if I should wear my hair up or down, you know, in case you bring me somewhere fancy.”
“This is why Rose never gave you best friend status, by the way.”