Page 33 of I Love a Good Challenge

“Of course,” he says quietly, his blue eyes laser-focused on me. “We’re adults.”

The room feels infinitely warmer, like I’ve just taken a bite of the spiciest curry.

“Lily, are you okay?” Amara asks as I feel the flush breaking out across my skin.

“Fine. Just warm. Ran here.”

Graham looks at my shoes, which are high-top wedge sneakers that are as clean as the day I bought them. I have a thing with my shoes not looking scuffed or messed up, so he knows it’s a lie. But it’s not one directed toward him, so he smiles. The side of his mouth infuriatingly reveals a dimple I’ve tried to forget and couldn’t.

He hums but doesn’t say anything as I slide into the seat across from him. Even though we aren’t saying much aloud, there’s still so much being communicated in the silent current of air between us. I feel like a white flag has been raised. We’re sharing the same air and the same booth, and for now, that’s enough.

Amara walks back and forth with menus and water glasses, even though she knows exactly what I’m going to order.

“Do you know what you’d like?” she asks Graham after she and I exchange a nod. She knows it’s the usual for me.

“Did you want to order first?” he asks me.

“I just did.”

“You just what?”

I shrug. “Ordered. I just ordered.”

“When?”

“The head nod, George.” He bristles at my tone. “You must’ve missed it.”

He shakes his head before turning toward Amara with a calm expression I know he doesn’t feel.

“I’ll take the Massaman curry, please.” He smiles.

Immediately, I know it’s sincere, but it’s not the smile he gives to me. Correction: The smile he gave to me. I haven’t seen that smile in years. Lately, I’ve observed a thin veil of it creeping back in. It’s like something is a little off with it, though, as if someone has aligned a photo over an old image and hasn’t matched it up quite right. I can’t tell him how much I miss his old smile.

It’s weird that we can sometimes be jealous of a memory. We want so badly to relive it that we’re almost irritated at our old selves for not recognizing the last time we’d ever see something so we could commit it fully to memory.

“And do you want it spicy?”

I realize Amara is still taking Graham’s order. I try to hold back a smile of my own. “Oh, he doesn’t do spicy, do ya, George?”

The look he gives me could melt the silverware between us. “Oh, I can handle some heat.”

I swallow, my throat suddenly closing, even though there is plenty of air.

“I’m sorry. Is your name George?” Amara asks him, confused as to how she got it wrong.

“No! No,” Graham replies quickly, motioning with his hands toward me. “She just seems to have trouble calling me by my real name.”

“It’s true,” I interject and talk myself into looking directly at him again. “So, here’s the deal, George . . . there are five spice levels for the food here. A rating system just for Birch Borough that Amara and I brainstormed. I enforce them, of course.” I hold up my hand and start listing off the levels with each finger. “One, weakling. Two, recreant. Three, respectable. Four, confident. Five, brave. I’ve only gotten to a four, and trust me, it has taken me years.”

“Are those really the levels?” He turns to Amara, who simply points to a sign near the front door spelling out exactly what I just said, including an asterisk at the bottom that instructs diners to take it up with Lily (me) if they have a problem.

“Noted,” he says. “Ok, well . . .” He looks at me, his nose scrunching in a delightful (I mean, in a terrible and couldn’t-be-worse) way. “Good thing I feel brave today.”

My mouth drops open in shock.

“Are you sure?” Amara says in a tone of wonder. “Only my family and Liam ever eat at that spice level.”

He gives her a pleasant look, as if he’s about to go on a vacation and not about to get a plate of food that could easily destroy his insides.

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