Page 12 of In a Pickle

Liana Abrams: What are you talking about?

James Alonso: This playlist was advertised as 90s and 2000s hip-hop. And you’ve gone and Rick Rolled me with a Pitbull song. What the hell, Abrams?

Liana Abrams: Not sorry. Pitbull is a national treasure. Any pump-up playlist needs at least one Pitbull song.

James Alonso: Are you trying to be a Miami cliche, or does it just come naturally?

Liana Abrams: One, don’t knock the 305. Two, you just told me that my coffee order wasn’t a Miami cliche. Make up your mind, Alonso.

James Alonso: I’d never knock the 305. I love it here.

Liana Abrams: So do I.

And maybe she loved it just a tiny bit more now that James was sitting across from her.

Chapter 8: Liana

A week later, Liana showed up for the synagogue volunteer event. A friendly 30-something greeted her. “Thanks for coming. We’ve got two food stations tonight. If you want to make peanut butter sandwiches, go down the hall to the left. If you want to chop vegetables, stay in this room. If you’d like, we all go to the sports bar down the street when our shift here is over, but there’s certainly no requirement to do so.”

“Thanks. I think I’ll go make the PB&J.” She made her way down the hall until she found the correct room. Milling around were a handful of people about her age… including one man, far too handsome for his own good in a backwards Heat cap, who was staring at her with a bemused look on his face.

“Following me, are you, Abrams?” James asked.

“Are you here with the Temple Israel group?” she asked lamely.

“Yep. I thought I remembered you attending the synagogue growing up.” This wasn’t a surprise; probably ten to twenty percent of their high school class did. Still, Liana couldn’t honestly say that she remembered James at any of the temple events throughout her childhood. James remembered her? How? From what events?

An employee at the shelter clapped their hands, stopping Liana’s thoughts from spiraling. “Thanks, everyone, for volunteering your time tonight. Please choose a station for the night — you’ll see that we have a few tables set up with loaves of bread, peanut butter, jars of grape jelly, and individual sandwich bags. Please make sure you’re wearing a pair of disposable gloves before you start touching the food. After you make a sandwich, put it in its own bag, seal the bag, and put it in the box at the end of the table. No throwing the sandwiches, please; we don’t want to smash them.”

James motioned Liana over. “Come on, Abrams.” He indicated the work station next to his. “I’ll show you the ropes.”

Smiling to herself, she joined him. He passed her a loaf of wheat bread and the largest jars of peanut butter and jelly she’d ever seen. They opened their loaves of bread and started spreading peanut butter.

“So…” she said in a lame attempt at conversation. “You also prefer making sandwiches to chopping vegetables, huh?”

“Not just any sandwiches. But PB&J is the king of the sandwich. It’s got the perfect ratio of saltiness to sweetness. It’s got everything you need: protein, carbs, healthy fats. It’s my desert island food.”

She laughed. “Couldn’t agree more. I’ve survived on PB&J many times in my life.” She shook her head, not wanting to bring the mood down by talking about how she could no longer eat crunchy peanut butter. Instead, she tried to change the subject: “Do you come here a lot?”

“I’ve been coming here for years with my dad, since I was little. I’m the one who got the young professionals group volunteering here.” His voice conveyed a touch of pride.

“In fact,” James continued, “believe it or not, being a pickleball instructor isn’t my full-time job. I mean, it kind of is, but — well, I also run a charity.” She raised her eyebrows. “I don’t talk about it a lot, because it makes me seem like more of an entitled douche than I already am.”

“Is that even possible?” she singsonged, smiling. He playfully punched her arm.

“All right, fair enough. So I guess I shouldn’t tell you that I run my parents’ charity — I mean, it’s all my parents’ money. So having me run it is pure nepotism, obviously. Anyway, the reason I’m telling you this is that I host a big gala every year. It’s the charity’s main event, and it always benefits this place. We’ve raised tens of thousands of dollars every year. It’s really meaningful to me because I’ve known the owners of this place for decades now, and they’re amazing people. All that is to say — rest assured that your time is well-spent. This place is well-run, and I know for a fact that the food we make gets to people who need it.”

“I’m glad to hear it, nepo baby.” She had meant it in a teasing way, but after she said it, she blanched, instantly worrying she’d gone too far. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult your charitable work. It’s really admirable.”

James cleared his throat. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I was trying to make you feel good about the organization you’re volunteering for, and instead I made the conversation about me and my 1%-ness.”

“There’s no reason to be sorry. I can really tell how passionate you are about this place. It’s awesome. I’m sorry for making fun of you.”

“Oh, please. I deserve worse.”

“Tell me more about this annual charity event that you run. You called it a gala, so I’m guessing it’s black tie?”

“Actually,” the corner of his mouth turned up, “I think you’d like it. It used to be a black-tie event — very stuffy, as you can imagine, tons of old women dripping diamonds. A pickpocket’s dream, really.” She smirked.

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