Page 72 of The Sweet Spot

“I used to come here all the time to mellow out.” I squat beside the square pond, tracking the vivid, orange koi that swim just beneath the surface. They dart and shift, scales glinting like flashes of light. “Freshman year, mostly. I was a little homesick.”

“Aww, I bet. I still come here all the time.” She lingers across the pond, gazing at it. “I don’t think I’ll ever stop.”

“Yeah, I don’t know why I did.” I straighten up, sliding my hands into my pockets. “Too busy, I guess.”

“We’ll have to remedy that.”

I look up right as Wren snaps a series of pictures of me beside the pond. “Really?” I laugh.

Her cheeks darken, but she grins. “The only pictures I have of you are from random photo booths.”

“Fair enough.” Walking over to her, I take the phone and snap one of us together.

We finish our tour by visiting the Wishing Tree, where Wren rips two pieces of paper from a notebook in her bag and hands me one. “Make a wish.”

“Got a pen?”

Pausing for a moment, I flatten the paper against my thigh and wish for clear direction after graduating. Pai’s been asking if I want to come to São Paulo, semi-permanently this time, but I just don’t know. On one hand, the time I’ve spent in Brazil has been beneficial; I’ve learned a lot, made more money than I expected to. I have friends and business associates. Connections.

My father.

But it’s not my only option. I’ll be graduating soon, with honors, and with that comes a whole new host of opportunities. Despite all the time and effort I’ve invested in learning Pai’s software industry, my heart still beats for buildings. I want to explore architecture and Berkeley’s a solid option for grad school. So is Santa Cruz.

Wren hides her paper when I try to peek, flicking my arm. “No reading other people’s wishes, Luca.” She sweetens the admonishment with a kiss on my cheek and darts off to pin her wish to a branch.

I follow suit, amused at how into this she is—there’s something infinitely appealing about the purity of her wonder. It definitely fits what I know of her.

We’re winding our way back to civilization when the first hunger pang hits. Grimacing, I rub my stomach. “I’m gonna have to eat soon—I’m starving. You coming with?”

“Yeah, I’m hungry, too.” Wren ducks beneath a low hanging branch. “You in the mood for tacos?”

“I’m always in the mood for tacos.”

She nods. “Let’s grab some and we can hang at my place for a while. Mymom’s place, actually, since I live on campus now. But you know what I mean.”

“The house you grew up in will always be yours.” I hold my hand out to steady her as we step over an enormous, felled tree. “You want to call her, let her know we’re coming?”

“I’ll text her to let her know, but she went to Napa for the weekend with her girlfriends,” she says. “We’ll have the apartment to ourselves.”

“You’re sure she won’t mind?”

“Positive. She’s probably the chillest mom you’ll ever meet.”

Wren

After stopping at a taqueria in Santa Cruz, I take Luca to my old apartment building.

In some ways, it does feel more like Mom’s place than mine nowadays. I don’t sleep here, and my favorite foods are no longer in the fridge. My laundry doesn’t litter my bedroom floor, and while the yellow stripe I painted on the wall over my desk remains speckled with old photos and memorabilia, there’s nothing current.

But my bed, the same one I got in junior high, will probably always be here, made and ready for me should I choose to crash for the night. There are pictures of me all over the living room, the hallways, and the fridge. And I still have a key. These stairs, this crappy lock, that sagging couch all feel like home. Luca’s right. It’ll always be mine, too.

We park in my old spot and then Luca follows me upstairs, carefully sidestepping a potted fern someone left halfway up. The apartment smells the same as always, a combination of incense, essential oils and whatever she’s been cooking with lately. Oregano, I think, and maybe rosemary? Ipeel off my boots and plug in Mom’s turquoise and pink Christmas lights. She has a tiny tree in the corner, decorated with seashells.

“You can put the beers in the fridge,” I call to Luca, who disappeared into the kitchen. Pulling open the heavy, teal drapes that cover the sliding glass doors, I take a peek outside. The front of our apartment faces the parking lot, but the back looks out over a wooded courtyard, complete with wrought iron benches and a little green space that Mrs. Martinez on the first floor recently resurrected into a succulent garden. It’s probably one of my favorite things about this place. I spent hours down there as a kid in middle and high school, journaling, texting my friends, and being angsty.

Joining Luca in the kitchen, I rummage around the odds and ends drawer only to see he’s already opened a couple of beers. “You beat me to it.”

He holds up his keychain, from which an opener dangles. “Always ready.”

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