Page 7 of The Sweet Spot

I pass our favorite farmers’ market, the place I got my ears pierced when I was seven, the skate park where I broke my arm when I was nine. There’s Mom’s yoga studio, closed for the day, and the preschool she took me to when she finally opened that studio. The way she tells it, she cried more than I did—I was just psyched to see all the other kids and toys.

Pulling into the apartment complex we’ve lived in for the past decade, I bypass my usual spot—occupied by an inconsiderate doofus despite our apartment number stamped on it—and park beside a rusted-out beaterthat’s been rotting there for months.

I’m hit by a blast of seasoning smells the second I walk in the door…mostly curry and cumin, Mom’s favorites. I like them too, but I’m not sure how I feel about them together. Wrinkling my nose, I kick off my shoes and drop my bag on the couch. “I’m home!”

No response. Venturing into the kitchen, I take note of the sliced French bread, the chopping board full of vegetable scraps, and the pot on the stove, set at a low simmer. God knows what’s in there. Woven placemats and fancy silverware decorate our table, a teal relic we rescued from a garage sale back in middle school. Mismatched, multicolored chairs surround it. This set-up kind of embarrassed me when I was younger and obsessed with what other people thought, but I love it now.

“Little bird’s flown home,” coos Mom, sweeping into the kitchen with cheek kisses and caresses. She’s in faded, worn, bell bottom jeans and a flowy, purple blouse. Her dark, waist-length hair falls down her back in soft waves. Maybe it’s the yoga, but I swear the woman doesn’t age.

“Hey Mom.” I tug at my necklace, wondering if I should tell her about Arlo Janvier now or later.Definitely later.I give her a quick hug instead. “I’m gonna go take a shower. What time is Darius coming over?”

“Not for a couple of hours.” She waves me off, one silky sleeve of her blouse coming dangerously close to the contents of her simmering pot. “You have plenty of time—come, come. Tell me about your day.”

Grimacing, I lean in the doorway, half in and half out of the kitchen. This conversation was a lot more satisfying when I was in elementary school and not perpetually feeling sorry for myself. “Same stuff, different day. You know how the boardwalk gets. People everywhere.”

“Hmm.” Nodding, she adds a generous sprinkling of what might be turmeric to her creation. “Anything stand out?” She glances at me, eyes narrowing. “Anyone?”

Luca and his caramel-colored eyes come to mind. He stood out, all right. “Not really.”

“I don’t believe you. There are so many stories out there—you just have to open your eyes.”

“Okay, so there was this one guy,” I hedge. “Luca.”

“Luca!” She tosses a grin over her shoulder. “I love that name! It was on my short list had you been a boy!”

“Really? Weird.”

She laughs, nodding. “Isn’t it? The universe loves a good coincidence. Tell me about him.”

“I mean, I don’t know much. He came with some friends, and I sold him a couple of churros.”

Setting the spoon down, she turns to face me, an expectant half-smile gracing her lips. “And?”

“And he was gorgeous.” I shrug. “Like really, really gorgeous. That’s it.”

“You know his name, so obviously he asked for yours.” She arches an eyebrow. “Right?”

My face warms, completely negating the nonchalant vibe I’m trying to put out.

“Of course, he did.” She smirks, pointing at me. “He’ll be back, mark my words.”

I try to ignore the thrill of anticipation that zings through my body at her prophetic words, but it’s near impossible. I would love to see Luca again, so I want to believe what she’s saying. But also (and I really, really, try to ignore it so as not to encourage her), she’s a tad clairvoyant and usually right about stuff like this.

“What is that?” I ask, nodding my chin at the pot.

“Stew mushrooms and cauliflower, from Trinidad. I got the recipe from Adrika,” she says. “I just made a few modifications.”

God help us. This isn’t the first time she’s attempted a recipe from Saira’s mom.

Later, after a long, hot shower, I wrap my hair in a towel and flop onto my bed. Staring up at vintage concert posters half covering my turquoise ceiling, I allow visions of Luca’s dreamy, bedroom eyes to float through my mind. I hope my mother’s right.

I hope he does come back.

* * *

Darius, bless him, eats his bastardized Trinidadian dish with the enthusiasm of the smitten. Smitten with my mother, that is, not the stew. They’ve been friends for years, but I’ve always felt like my mother and Darius were going to end up together. Not just dating or fooling around or whatever they dothat I don’t want to think about, buttogether.

I wish my mom would just give him a chance. A real chance.

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