Emma Straub - Modern Lovers

“He likes roast chicken,” Dust said. “And cottage cheese.”

“How do you know? How long have you had him?” Ruby asked, even though she really wanted to ask if Dust had parents who had provided these items, or if he’d roasted a chicken himself.

“It was from the grocery store,” Dust said. “My mom can’t cook for shit.”

“Oh,” Ruby said, and immediately tried to clear her mind of all other thoughts he might be reading. How long had he had the cat? Had he found it and just taken it home, to rescue it from the streets of Brooklyn? Had he stolen it from Harry’s front porch? Had he blown weed smoke in its poor little pussycat face? Ruby didn’t want to know. “Anyway, thank you.”

“It sucks about the fire,” Dust said. His hair had grown out a little over the summer — it was maybe an inch long, sticking straight out. In a few more weeks, it might start to look like normal boy hair and not a shaved head. Ruby tried to picture Dust with hair he could tuck behind his ears, like Harry.

“Um, yeah, that’s an understatement. Now I think my parents are happy I didn’t get into college — no tuition to pay for. When the restaurant is closed, no one is buying a thirteen-dollar hamburger, you know?” Ruby was afraid to put the cat down, even though he’d probably just run straight home. She wanted the points for bringing him back.

“Sarah was tripping balls,” Dust said. “She thought the sparklers were fairies sending her messages. She kept trying to kneel down and get close to them. I don’t think she meant to put them so close.”

“Excuse me?” Ruby scooted a few inches away. “Did that bitch set my parents’ restaurant on fire? Are you joking?”

“No,” Dust said. “She didn’t set it on fire. Not, like, on purpose. She was just putting these sparklers all around the back of Nico’s house, and… you know, the fence behind Hyacinth is right there, and she put them all in a little line with some candles and stuff, and then I guess she came inside and forgot about them. She didn’t ‘set it on fire.’ She’s not psycho. She’s just kind of dumb.”

Ruby had never heard Dust call anyone dumb before. That was her line — it was what she always said about him. His stupidity was the reason they weren’t ever going to be serious, it was why she never gave their relationship that much thought. She’d always seen him as a cardboard cutout of a person, a type. But now she wasn’t sure.

“So you think Sarah Dinnerstein accidentally set my parents’ restaurant on fire?” Ruby wondered where Sarah was now, if she was at home in her family’s apartment in Park Slope, in her bedroom that overlooked Prospect Park. She was probably staring into space and thinking about how she could make sure she got a private room in her dorm, just in case Dust came to visit. And who knew! Maybe Dust would go and visit her — maybe he’d take the subway to Penn Station and then a Greyhound bus, and when he got off in the bumblefuck Vermont town where her school was, Sarah would be standing there with tears in her eyes, so happy to see him, and then maybe Dust would decide to move in with her, and he’d let his hair grow, and they’d get married and have babies, and he’d teach them all how to skateboard. “I could call the police, you realize that, right?”

“You’re not going to call the police. They probably already came. I already heard, the whole thing is covered by insurance. It’s not even a big deal. It could have been way worse.” Dust pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his front pocket. “Most people’s houses burn down because of cigarettes, did you know that? Cigarettes and ovens.”

“Thanks, that’s great,” Ruby said. He was right — she wasn’t going to call the police. What would it accomplish, except getting her in more trouble? “Give me one of those, mine are upstairs.”

Dust plucked out another cigarette and lit it on the end of his own, the two papery embers flashing in the darkness. Ruby took it from him and plugged it into her mouth. She exhaled a string of perfect smoke rings.

“I bet your little boyfriend can’t do that,” Dust said.

“Why would he need to do that?” Ruby picked a fleck of tobacco off her tongue — Dust smoked unfiltered. Sometimes he even rolled his own from a little baggie, which Ruby had always found very sexy, his fingers working so quickly.

“He’s, like, a kid,” Dust said. “Like a good little kid who always does extra credit on his homework.”

“I do my homework. Or I did.” Ruby spit. “Your cigarettes are fucking gross. What are you, like, a cowboy?”

“Yeah,” Dust said. “But so are you. You’re more like me than you are like him, Ruby. You gonna tell his parents I gave you that cat? Or are you gonna tell them that you found it in the bushes?” Dust dropped his cigarette butt onto the sidewalk, then pushed himself up and ground it down with his shoe.

“Did you walk here?” Ruby asked. She’d never seen him without his skateboard in hand. He raised a finger and then leaned down and reached under her mum’s forsythia. He pulled out his board and slid it under his feet.

“It’s hard to ride with a cat,” Dust said. “But not impossible. I’ll see you, Rube.”

She watched him skate away, his willowy body shifting back and forth as he went down the middle of the street. It was dark, and there were cars, but Dust didn’t care — he was immortal, just like she was, immune to common sense and traffic laws. Ruby finished the cigarette even though she wasn’t enjoying it, and then took the cat down to Harry’s house and knocked on the door. By the time Elizabeth came to the door, Ruby’s sheepish, hopeful smile was firmly in place.

Dr. Amelia had both Zoe and Jane keep journals about their feelings. It was worse than the food journal Jane had kept in culinary school, a brag book that was intended to shame anyone else who happened to open it ( Lunch — seared foie gras with poached egg and frisée salad ). Jane didn’t know what to write down, so she wrote down everything — when Zoe kissed her on the cheek in the morning (about half the time), when Zoe farted (often, but so did she), when Zoe said something dismissive (sometimes), when Bingo paid more attention to Zoe (always). Jane felt like it was probably stupid, but she was doing it anyway. If Zoe wanted her to do homework, she was going to do homework.

There wasn’t very much to do about Hyacinth — the patio was under construction. The replacement tables and chairs were on order, as was the glass that had been broken. A special cleanup crew was working on the ceiling and the wall. Jane was on the phone with her suppliers every few days — squash blossoms, tomatoes, a new cheese, beautiful pork chops — she wanted to order it all, but they were at least a month away. During the day she took the Q to the Grand Army Plaza farmers’ market, buying things for the house. She always saw other chefs there, and she’d kiss them hello. Everyone knew about the fire, everyone was sympathetic, and they all furrowed their brows before turning their attention back to the hen-of-the-woods mushrooms or the fairy tale eggplants. Jane wandered, putting her hands on everything. She was going to grill some steaks, or maybe make some scallops, and throw some asparagus on, too, let them roll around on the fire until they were striped with beautiful grill marks, both firm and tender. Maybe a chimichurri — Zoe loved her chimichurri. Jane picked up three big handfuls of parsley. There were enormous peaches, practically already dripping, and Jane’s mouth began to water. She’d make dessert, too.

When Jane got home, her shoulders weighed down by tote bags, Ruby was on the floor. She was leaning against the couch, watching television. “Help me,” Jane said, and Ruby peeled herself up like Gumby. Together they unpacked the bags, lining everything up along the counter.