6LEO
Ten Years Ago
“Coffee. I need coffee.” I muttered it like a mantra at six thirty in the morning as I opened the door to the Audi Tripp’s father gave him when he earned his bachelor’s degree. It was a gift that served double duty—a present and a dig at his mom. “Why did anyone ever think waking up early was a good idea?”
As we peeled away from the curb in front of our apartment, Tripp glanced over, his quarterback-in-the-huddle energy too much for the hour. “You can do it, man. You did it in college.”
I shot him a dubious look. “Hello? Have you met me? I famously took no classes before eleven a.m.”
“Except for one. You powered your way through Business Strategy at nine. Remember that?”
I scratched my jaw. “Admittedly, that was my favorite class.”
“Or maybe it was because you had my cheery, happy face to keep you going at that hour. Remember my daily wake-up dorm room knocks?”
“Yes. It was like a rooster cock-a-doodle-dooing in the morning.”
He raised his chin skyward as he drove. “Cock-a-doodle-doo!”
“Stop. It was hard enough to take in college.”
He laughed as we drove from Hoboken, where we’d opted to live after graduation, toward the Path station.
He reached behind to the back seat console. “Do I know you or do I know you? I popped out early to grab this.” He produced a cup of coffee, the deli kind with the blue-and-white writing and a beautifully curling plume of steam coming from it.
“Dude.”
That was all I needed to say. He knew what I meant—thank you so fucking much. Gratitude flowed through me as I drank the life-sustaining beverage.
“All right, so you’re finally going to master more than boiling an egg?” Tripp pulled into the parking lot at the Path station.
“Please. I refuse to master that. Hard-boiled eggs are the worst. But the more apropos question is this—will you ever learn how to balance a checkbook?”
Tripp cracked up. “Why do I need to? I can always lean on you for that side of the business.”
When we reached campus a little later, he went his way to his culinary courses, on a fast track to become a chef, and I went mine, to a program that was mostly on the business side of food management, but with a few food classes too. The candy company I’d snagged an internship at during my senior year wanted me to learn the business from the ground up, and it was paying for my additional school, now that I’d graduated.
I grabbed a spot at one of the kitchen counters, and as I was sorting ingredients, I smelled coconut. I leaned in closer to the chocolate in the silver bowl. Was there coconut in it?
“It’s so good it should be criminal.”
That voice. Pure and sweet and confident.
I straightened and looked into one blue eye, one green eye. A straight nose. Bow-shaped lips with a hint of gloss. A green sweater the color of an emerald. Everything about her was bright. It energized me more than the coffee had.
“But no one should ever outlaw chocolate.” I spoke quickly. Usually I was the thinker, waiting a beat or two before weighing in. This time, I jumped.
“Can you even imagine a world where chocolate was outlawed?” The woman with the wild mane of hair moved closer to me.
“That sounds like a dystopian hell.”
“I hear if you’re very bad in this lifetime, you’re sent to an afterworld without chocolate.”
I shuddered. “I’ll be a very good boy, then.”
She nudged her shoulder against mine, nodding at the ingredients. “What do you say we crush it here? I have big dreams.”
“Big dreams are the best kind.”
She smiled at me, her mismatched eyes holding my gaze in a way that made my breath catch. I wanted to say something else, something witty or clever. But I figured there would be time. Maybe over lunch. When the class ended, we left together, and I asked if she wanted to grab a bite to eat.
Once we sat down, Tripp strolled in. He scanned the tables to find me, and a flicker lit his eyes when he spotted Lulu. Like a spark—a spark that wouldn’t fade.
He parked himself at our table with a dramatic huff. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to boil water?”
“How hard is it to boil water?” Lulu laughed, Laurel-and-Hardying with him right off the bat.
Tripp dragged a hand through his blond hair. “It’s virtually impossible. You have to turn on the stove, then pour the water in the pot, and then put the pot back on the burner. It’s too many steps. Who can keep track?”
“I think you’re supposed to fill the pot first, then put it on the burner, then turn it on.” She counted off on her fingers. “But I understand it might be hard to remember these in order. Did you want me to write it down?”
“Would you please? It’s too complicated without a cheat sheet. I’ll never make it.”
She laughed again. “Do you need a private tutor?”
“I do. Please, please tell me you’re a water-boiling expert?”
“I can teach a master class in it. I can also make toast without burning the bread.”
