Sweeter Than Summer

6 | peanut butter monkey bread

There was only one Indian restaurant within a twenty mile radius that delivered. Peshwari Palace, located in Elton, Massachusetts, proudly proclaimed on their menu that they had 'the best naan in New England' and that they 'made deliveries to towns in the Elton and Mill's Rock area.' After scanning over the menu, and asking my dad what he wanted, I called in our order. The woman who answered the phone, Donna, said it would be over in twenty-five minutes.

"All set?" my dad asked when I reclaimed my seat on the couch.

I nodded. "It'll be here in half an hour."

"Great. I'm starving."

He had unmuted Chopped, and we sat in silence for twenty minutes, watching as someone failed miserably at making a vinaigrette, until his phone rang. He scowled at the screen, but answered it anyway, walking into the kitchen. Two minutes later, he came back into the living room to hand me a ten and a twenty, still on the phone.

"That should be enough, right?" he asked me quietly.

"Yeah, perfect."

He smiled at me, then left again. I heard our back door open and close, distantly, and knew, without having to look, what he was doing; sitting on the edge of our back porch, talking on the phone, making facial expressions as if they person on the other end of the line could see them. Usually, if I needed him, that's where I could find him, unless there was several feet of snow and a hurricane rolling in. His boss, Greg, needed a second – and usually a third – opinion on every decision he made. Once he had called my dad from Ikea, wondering aloud if that particular type of desk would be easy to assemble.

Once thirty minutes had come and gone, I walked over to our front door to wait. Thirty-three minutes after I had called, a beat-up black car pulled into our driveway, and Wyatt stepped out.

It took me a minute to recognize him, even though we'd been working side by side for almost two years. Even though he looked exactly the same as every other day – bronze skin, a thin face, and dark hair that was just long enough to curl underneath his ears – it was hard to place him out of context. It seemed wrong to watch him walk up my driveway, in a black shirt instead of a Franny's polo.

I waited until he was almost at the door before stepping outside, my hands shoved into the pockets of my cutoff shorts. He didn't notice at first, as he readjusted the paper bag tucked under his arm. But when he looked up again, he seemed confused.

"Hey," he said hesitantly.

"Hi Wyatt," I replied, finishing my statement off with a little wave. I immediately regretted it, since Wyatt just looked even more wary of stepping closer.

"It's, uh, twenty-four ten."

"Here, I don't need any change," I said, handing him the two bills I had in my hand. He reached out to take it, and that's when I noticed how round his nails were. Which was a weird thing to notice, but I couldn't help but have flashbacks to the last time I had seen him. All through our late night crossword puzzle, he nibbled on his fingernails, then remembered what I had said, and pulled them away.

Before I realized that asking about it was probably a bad idea, my mouth was already moving. "Did you stop biting your nails?"

"What?" He looked down at his hand. "Oh. Right. Yeah, I did, it's bad for you."

I couldn't help but smile. "I bet the person who told you that is pretty smart."

To my surprise, Wyatt smiled back. Just a small one, but still. Wyatt Gulati. Smiling. "She is," he stated, neatly folding the money I had given him, sliding it into the pocket of his khaki shorts.