“It can be anywhere that a whole lot of people will see our romance unfold,” I say. “Preferably people who will tell other people.”
“There’s a ghost tour every Wednesday that starts at the graveyard by St. Bernard’s,” Wyatt says. “It’s on foot, but she can get scared and you can act all protective.”
“You take Lainey there, too?” asks Javier, squatting to examine the oven.
“Fuck off,” Wyatt suggests.
“The hot springs,” Gideon says. His beard is now being vigorously cleaned. He still looks annoyed.
“I haven’t been there since high school,” I say. “Is it all teenagers?”
“Don’t know, I haven’t either,” Gideon admits, and we all fall silent for a moment.
If there are three people in Sprucevale who don’t have any idea where to take a woman on a date, it’s these guys. Gideon’s been in a bad mood since birth, I think, and doesn’t seem to have much interest in forming a human attachment that he doesn’t already have. Javier’s got more than enough to focus on, between his job, his art, and staying sober, and Wyatt is…
…Wyatt is Wyatt and we don’t ask questions.
If I were smart, I’d have asked Levi where to take a woman on a romantic date that’d be sure to get noticed, but I tend to shy away from discussing romance with my best friend because I don’t particularly want to know what my sister considers romantic.
For the record, I’m over the fact that she stole him from me, especially because our relationship changed far less than I feared it would. But I also have no desire to learn what gets either of them in the mood.
“The Appalachian Folk Art Museum has an exhibit on taxidermy,” Javier says, rising. “Has anyone seen my—”
“There,” Wyatt says, pointing at two oven mitts on a counter. Javier grabs them.
“Folk taxidermy seems like more of a third date thing,” I say, and Gideon snorts. Zorro makes a weird sound, still going to town on the beard.
Javier opens the oven. Everyone goes quiet as he carefully reaches in, both hands oven-mitt-clad, then pulls a dish out and sets it carefully atop the stove.
He closes the oven door.
Tentatively, we move toward it. Gideon and I exchange a look that asks is tonight a pizza night? but Wyatt’s the first to the stove.
“Oh!” he says, and there’s no mistaking the delighted surprise in his voice. “It’s lasagna.”
“Come on,” says Javier.
“I thought it might… not be.”
“Just for that, I should make you eat with him,” Javier grouses, tilting his head briefly toward Gideon.
“Oh, his manners are fine,” I put in, and Gideon snorts.
“I meant the cat.”
“Sure,” says Wyatt, grinning, as Javier pokes the lasagna with a knife.
The lasagna does not respond.
“Go set the table,” he says, slicing into it. “You know where everything is.”
We do. Our weekly potlucks are coming up on three years old, even older than the cabins at Camp Wildwood, and we know each other’s kitchens almost as well as we know our own. Wyatt grabs plates and silverware, Gideon unlatches Zorro from his person and feeds the beast, I get the salad I brought and Gideon’s roasted carrots from the fridge, and we all sit down around Javier’s table as the evening sun streams through the windows.