Emma Straub - Modern Lovers

“What are we making?” Ruby asked. “I just got so hungry.”

There was nothing Jane liked to hear more. “Well,” she said, and immediately snapped to action. She pointed at cabinets, and Ruby took down whatever she needed — the mandoline, the immersion blender, cutting boards. It was Ruby’s job to peel garlic, to be the sous. They worked silently — Jane was the captain of the ship, and she knew just what had to be done. That was what she liked most about being in kitchens — people thought cooking was about making things taste good, and it was, but it was more like being a conductor, or a choreographer — there were a thousand moving parts, and you had to be aware of them all. An allergy, a birthday, how long it took mussels to open in their buttery little bath. All the information was inside her, organized and constantly recalibrating.

“Avocado,” Jane said, and Ruby cut one open the way she’d been taught, letting the knife rest on the seed and rolling the fruit around in her hand. She handed it to her mother, and Jane made a quick mash. She tore off a hunk of bread, slathered the avocado on top just as an egg began to crack and sizzle in a pan. “Bon appétit,” she said, sliding the egg out of the pan and onto the bread, drops of olive oil polka-dotting the plate.

“Thank God,” Ruby said. “I thought I was actually going to die.” She didn’t leave the kitchen, the way she usually did, squirreling her food upstairs like someone was going to steal it from her — instead she ate standing up, hunched over the counter. Jane put the rest of the groceries away and then leaned on the counter next to Ruby and ate the other half of the avocado with a spoon. When she was a baby, Ruby would eat a whole avocado every day — she’d try to eat the peel if they let her. For a few months, it seemed like her skin might actually be permanently stained green, along with most of her clothes. Zoe had loved it — she would throw her head back and laugh, so entranced by their daughter’s gusto. Jane leaned over and kissed Ruby on the cheek. “Love you, honey,” she said.

“Jeez, Mom,” Ruby said. “I already said thank you.” Some crumbs fell onto her shirt. Jane pinched Ruby on the nose and went upstairs to write more notes for Dr. Amelia.

Harry was happy that Ruby had brought Iggy Pop home — Iggy was a good cat, and his mother was waltzing him around the house like they were in a Disney cartoon — but her story was weird. She said that she was just sitting on the stoop, and then Iggy crawled out of the bushes and onto her lap. Iggy was a lover, and he would have crawled onto her lap, sure, but if he’d gotten as far as the Kahn-Bennetts’, then why wouldn’t he have just come home? Cats weren’t idiots. And neither was Harry. He knew that Ruby hadn’t been hiding the cat — he’d been in her room a hundred times, and even with all the piles of clothing everywhere, he still would have noticed his own pet. There was only one likely candidate — otherwise Ruby’s story about finding the cat would have made sense.

During the school year, it was easy to find Dust and Nico and the rest of their friends — they were always across the street from Whitman, skidding along the edge of the lowest church step on their skateboards or wrestling each other to the ground in a way that looked both playful and dangerous. That was what the girls liked about them: at Whitman, parents were everywhere — in the halls, in the audience at plays, standing along the edges of the gym during basketball games, visibly willing shots to go in — which meant that all the kids were bubble boys and girls, with no broken limbs or bruised egos. But the church-step kids had no parents. They were like kids from the 1970s, self-sufficient, with bruises and scars. Sometimes Harry was envious of them, the way their lives seemed full of empty days instead of extracurricular activities designed to boost their chances of getting into college. But most of the time, he understood that he had it better than they did, even if they probably had more fun.

Nico’s house was the first logical stop — mostly because Harry knew where it was. He waited until afternoon and then walked over, going around the block so that he didn’t have to walk by Ruby’s house, just on the off chance that she was looking out the window and might see which direction he was going and follow him. It was paranoid, but Harry was feeling paranoid, and so what? He got to Nico’s house and rang the bell. No one answered, and he rang again. Five minutes later, he was about to leave, when he finally heard some rustling around on the inside. The door slipped open a crack.

“It’s fucking early,” Nico said. He had a sheet wrapped around his shoulder like a marathon runner at the finish line.

“Not really,” Harry said. “It’s almost one.” They’d barely met when Harry came over for Nico’s party, and he couldn’t tell if Nico recognized him. Harry got the feeling that Nico would let anyone into his house, though, as long as the person was under thirty and looked like they might buy weed from him someday.

Nico squinted. “Okay,” he said. “You coming in?”

“Well, actually, I was just looking for Dust. Do you know where I could find him?” Harry peeked over Nico’s shoulder and into the living room. There were other sheet-covered lumps moving around on the floor.

Nico turned around and pointed to the couch. “Yup. I’m going back to bed now.” He propped the door open with an elbow and gestured for Harry to come in. Harry took a few sideways steps into the foyer, his eyes adjusting to the relative dark of the room.

Dust was prone on the couch, his face turned to the side like a sleeping baby’s. He was wearing only a pair of jeans, which looked neither comfortable nor cool — the room was hot, and Dust’s cheek was pink. There was a small tattoo just below his shoulder blade, a muddy-looking drawing of a lightning bolt. “Can I help you, bodyguard?”

Harry startled. “Oh, sorry, I thought you were sleeping.”

Dust rolled over and pushed himself up. There was hair on his chest, not a lot, but more than the four that Harry had. He rubbed his face with his hands. “Not anymore.” He opened his eyes wide and then felt around on the floor by his feet until he found a T-shirt. “What can I do for you? You need some tips on how to make Ruby come?” He smirked.

“Actually,” Harry said, trying to maintain his composure, “I was wondering about how exactly Ruby came to acquire my cat.”

“She told you? Man, I thought she was going to take all that glory for herself for sure. That girl loves to be the center of attention. She ever tell you how we met? She was outside school, and I was on my board, and she lay down on the sidewalk and told me that she’d only go out with me if I could jump over her. So I did.”

“No, I didn’t know that,” Harry said, sorry to have learned it. “But what about the cat? Did you have it?”

“Relax, man, I didn’t steal your stupid cat. I found it on the street, I don’t know. But I saw the posters. I can read. I was just trying to do the right thing.” Dust patted his jeans until he found his cigarettes. He held out the pack, and Harry shook his head. “Oh, right,” he said.

“Ruby’s with me now, you know,” Harry said. He didn’t mean to sound possessive. He knew that Ruby belonged to no one but herself. And he didn’t even know for sure if he was with her, really, or if he was just in the right place at the right time, filling a bored spell. He hadn’t even meant to bring up Ruby. He’d come about Iggy. Truth be told, he hadn’t thought any further than knocking on Nico’s door, and the rest was a bit of a surprise.