Page 30 of The Sweet Spot

Until recently, anyway. Mãe was furious when Pai pulled his stunt last spring, his refusal to finance my semester abroad if I wasn’t going to take the internship as well. I don’t think they’ve spoken more than a couple times. It took me a little longer to get angry, somewhere between August and September.

Because my father had been right—I was fucking great at softwareengineering, even software architecture. I was Marcos Pereira’s wunderkind all summer, his protegé, his favorite and I made more money than I thought I would. But while the prestige and money were addictive, the work wasn’t, only confirming what I’d known all along: coding was all right, but it was not ultimately what I wanted to do with my life.

The city lights sparkle by, reminding me of São Paulo’s immense skyline. I wonder if Wren ever got my postcards. I included a return address once, when I was staying at Pai’s place in the Jardins district, but I didn’t expect to hear back. We’d had one night together. One fun, relatively innocent night—we didn’t even sleep together. We hadn’t made promises or plans.

But it was Wren I thought about while I was in Brazil, no one else, and I thought about her a lot more than I’d expected to. I’d thought about her sweet smile, her kisses, her questions. I thought about how she wanted to travel, and here I was doing it.

“Have you ever been outside of the U.S.?”

“No, but I will one day.” She peeks up at me. “My bucket list is about a mile long.”

“Where would you go first?” I ask.

“Oh, man. Santorini, Greece. Brazil—so you’d better send me a postcard…”

She was on my mind when I visited Rio de Janeiro and saw Christ the Redeemer late in the summer, as I gawked at the awe-inspiring architecture of several famed cathedrals, when I traversed the frenetic, glittering chaos of São Paulo at night. I’d told her she’d do these things one day and I’d meant it.

And yet, for the first time, I fully understood my privilege in having traveled as much as I had. The postcards seemed like a good way to acknowledgethat. To let her know I hadn’t forgotten her or our conversation on the Sky Glider.

I close my eyes and see hers, shining like stars beneath the lights of the boardwalk. How much has she changed since then? That was a lifetime ago. She’s gotta be with somebody by now. Six months is a long time to be alone.

Mostly, I just hope college is what she hoped it would be.

* * *

Logan clinks his beer bottle to mine, just hard enough that the foam starts to rise. “Welcome back to the good ol’ US of A, man. Good to have you home.”

“It’s good to be home.” Taking a long pull of the crisp, cold brew, I settle back in my chair to people-watch. We’re having lunch at one of our favorite old haunts in Berkeley, a couple blocks east of campus. “What’ve you been up to?”

In some ways, I probably already know—Logan and I kept in touch regularly while I was gone. I know he and Olivia finally went their separate ways, that his little brother transferred from Santa Clara to San Francisco State, and that Logan’s making his way through Gabriel García Márquez’s books. Partly because he’s pretentious as fuck, but also because he’s considering writing a paper on the author for his Spanish Lit course.

“Not a damn thing,” he says, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Just work and school. Hey, Ben gave me your keys before leaving.”

Ben’s the kid who subleased my room while I was overseas. “Yeah, he emailed me. Thanks.”

Our server, a cute, willowy brunette, comes over to get our lunch order. I can tell by Logan’s half-smiles and hooded stare he’s hungry for more than just burgers.

“Something tells me you’ll have her number by the time we leave,” I say once she’s gone.

“Maybe,” he says cryptically. He might just be high. He and Kellan often have wake n’ bakes on the days they don’t have class.

“How have you been doing without Olivia?” They were together for a long time, and even though they bickered more than not in the end, calling it quits must have been tough. “She handling this okay?”

“I talked to her this morning.” He shrugs, turning his attention to his clasped hands. “She’s having a hard time. Keeps asking if I ever cheated on her.”

I watch him carefully. “Did you?”

Logan’s pale blue eyes shoot up to mine. “What? No. You know I was faithful.”

“You’ve always had wandering eyes, Lo. Maybe Olivia noticed.”

“Fuck you, man,” he says lightly, draining the rest of his beer. “Looking is not touching.”

“No, but the intention’s there regardless of whether it’s ever carried out.” Logan’s always been free with his appreciation. Usually he does just look, but where there’s smoke there’s fire and Olivia’s no fool.

“Where’s all this coming from?” He narrows his eyes in suspicion, his eyes darting between mine. “Sounds like you got it all figured out.”

“Just talking, Lo.” I lean over and punch his shoulder, nixing the fight before it can start. I just endured months of strained relations with my dad. I don’t need it here with my friends.

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