Page 25 of The Reunion

I slide into my usual spot, my bare leg brushing up against the soft fabric of Ransom’s joggers. It’s familiar and new all at once.

“Oh man, I’d forgotten about that sandwich,” I say to Ransom by way of greeting, nodding at his open menu. A glossy photo of a chicken sandwich piled high with provolone, avocado, and pineapple takes up more than half a page, titled—in gigantic all-caps text—THE RANSOM SPECIAL. “Didn’t you eat it, like, twenty days in a row?”

“Twenty-two,” he says, “but who’s counting?”

“I bet I know exactly what you’ll be having, Liv,” Ford says, and Ransom joins him in unison: “Two scrambled eggs with only one yolk, no butter, black beans, extra salsa, two slices of avocado, and berries on the side.”

“Itisthe perfect meal,” I say, laughing. “You’re one to talk, Mr. Please-Put-the-Pineapple-Between-the-Avocado-and-Cheese!”

“It’spractical,” Ransom insists. “Keeps the bun from getting soggy. Can’t help it if I know exactly what I love,” he says, grinning.

His eyes linger on mine with a look that makes me feel like he’s talking about much more than just a non-soggy sandwich. A beat passes between us, and another, and I think maybe I’m reading this exactly right because he’s gone as quiet as I have.

I need a distraction, fast. “Hey,” I say, nudging Ford under the table with my toe. “What’s with you? You’re awfully quiet.” Now that Ransom and I are equally silent, it’s clear he’s in one of his rare taciturn moods.

“Starving,” he says, not looking up from the menu.

Ford’s always starving, but he’s not usually like this. “And?”

“Haven’t heard from Juliette since Tuesday,” he says. “Cast has her on a pretty strict shooting schedule.”

“Doesn’t help that they’re shooting all the love scenes this week,” Ransom adds with a grimace.

“Ahhh,” I say, glancing at Ford, who continues to stare into the menu like it holds all the secrets to the universe. “Who’s playing opposite her again?”

“Ethan… bloody… Miller,” Ford says, exaggerating each syllable, still not looking up.

Ransom and I exchange a look. “I’m sure you have nothing to worry about with Juliette,” I say. “She seems incredibly professional and not at all like the sort who would… well, you know. Not even with Ethan Miller.”

“It’s not Juliette I’m worried about,” Ford says simply.

Ransom pulls the menu from him. “You don’t need this thing. You know you’re going to get exactly what you always get—shrimp tacos, a pile of fries, and a cookies ’n’ cream shake.”

“Gotta admit, nothing else sounds as good,” Ford says, with the hint of a smile. Finally.

“And you guys givemea hard time about never ordering anything different,” I laugh.

“What I want to know is, why is Ransom the only one who gets a menu item named after him?” Ford arches an eyebrow. “I think ‘Ford’s Favorites’ has an intriguing ring to it, personally.”

“Marjorie always did love Ransom best,” I say. No one argues because it’s true.

It hits me, suddenly, how strange it all is, that we’re all here in this booth again like old times—how strange it is that at this time next week, we’ll be on set and shooting a brand-new episode.

Marjorie returns to take our orders; Ford gets his usual, and Ransom takes the unexpected route with a grilled chicken–and-kale salad with ginger-peanut dressing. It feels likesomeoneshould order the Ransom Special, so I go out on a limb, too.

“How’d your Snapaday thing go this morning?” Ransom asks, once Marjorie moves on and it’s just us again. I’m surprised he remembered what I was up to today, especially since we never explicitly talked about it—I definitely don’t know what’s on his schedule for the week unless it’s something that involves both of us.

“It went well, except Sasha-Kate was in a big mood over the whole Millie situation.”

“Her new song?” Ransom guesses, while Ford sings what can only be a line from the chorus.

“Yeah, apparently she knocked Halo out of the number one spot,” I say. “Sounds like Halo’sthrilled.”

A little while later, when our food arrives, Ford immediately takes an enormous pull on his milkshake. “And this is on the house,” Marjorie says, sliding a strawberry shake across the table to me.

“Wait—it’s not September, so it’s not her birthday,” Ransom says. “And it’s not April, either. What’s the occasion?”

“Missed a lot of birthdays since the last time you lot were in,” Marjorie says with a wink as she shuffles back to the kitchen. “You’re next, hon. Hope you still like cookies ’n’ cream as much as that one.”

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