The Meet-Cute Project

by Rhiannon Richardson

  Dinner is basically a lot of small talk, me tuning out the sound of Jasper’s games from across the table, and a lot of my older relatives mistaking me for a senior instead of a junior and asking me what colleges I applied to. I decide to go light on the mashed potatoes and stuffing this year because my second-to-last meet of the season is next week, and the Thanksgiving slump tends to last for a few days. I can’t afford to lose the headway I’ve gained.

  My aunt June, Dad’s younger sister, sticks me with her baby when she sees me sitting on the couch with “not enough to do.” Babies make me more uneasy than dogs, so I end up frozen in place. Last Easter, Marcel kept grabbing at my boobs because he thinks all boobs have his milk. When I—of course—couldn’t deliver, he started crying, and suddenly everyone was laughing at me, telling me that babies cry, it’s no big deal, hold him like this, tilt his head like this, let him drool on your shoulder like this.

  So, as much as I want to hop up and run away when Jasper makes eye contact with me from the doorway of the living room, I have no choice but to make sure Marcel’s head remains in the crook of my arm, and I sink as far into our leather couch as I can.

  “There’s something about maternal Mia that just doesn’t add up,” Jasper says, flashing me a smile.

  In one motion he turns on his heel, whips his Nintendo out of his back pocket, and lands on the cushion next to me with a game already open. I wonder how long he’s ever gone without staring at that thing. I don’t ask, though, because engaging is the last thing I want to do.

  “Sam told me that you found a date to the wedding,” Jasper says, gunshots pew, pew, pewing from his game.

  “Did she now?” I say, deadpan.

  “Yeah. I’m happy, though. I was dreading having to tell you that the Jasp-man is taken. Didn’t want to have to break your heart.”

  “The Jasp-man?” It’s impossible not to laugh. I try not to let my shoulders shake, though, for Marcel’s sake.

  “It has a nice ring to it,” he says, even though it comes out more like a question.

  So I give him an honest answer. “No, it doesn’t.”

  We fall silent. I think maybe Jasper didn’t hear me, or that maybe he decided to ignore me. The high-pitched noises from his game clash with the low rumble and crackle of the fire. I’m surprised that the loud popping noises that come from the wood every so often don’t make Marcel stir, but I don’t question it.

  I watch the flames dance, and then I look up at the stockings Mom already hung from the mantel. She took care of pulling out the decorations this year, so the tree is already decorated—none of the memories discussed and relived. Above the fireplace is an outdated family portrait in which I’m posed on my mother’s lap with a straight face. I don’t look on the verge of crying, but I don’t look happy, either. Usually the picture makes me laugh and we all joke about how I was serious even back then. But something about that doesn’t seem funny anymore. The way my mouth is a flat line and my eyes seem spaced out while I’m staring into the camera, it looks like little me is trying to stare into my current-day soul. It creeps me out and I tear my eyes away, looking in the direction of the dining room instead. I wish Aunt June would come back for her baby, but she’s laughing at something my granddad said, with her back to me, no end to my torment in sight.

  There’s a decrescendo in the music in Jasper’s game that catches my attention. He sighs before looking up from his game with a wistful smile on his face, like losing is some old favorite pastime of his.

  “Yup, the Jasp-man has landed himself a lady.”

  “I can’t take you seriously if you’re going to talk about yourself in the third person.”

  “Fine,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I met a girl at school, okay?”

  “Okay?”

  He stares down at his Nintendo, looking at the screen telling him he lost and offering him a rematch or to start a new game.

  When he doesn’t hit one of the buttons, I ask, “So, what’s she like?”

  He nods before saying, “Basically a younger, nicer version of you but with braces.”

  “Of course,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Of. Course.”

  “She was actually really nice to me when Toby had to get his surgery. I was scared because Mom had said we might have to put him down if things didn’t go well, and this girl was the only person I knew who’d had to go through that, putting their dog to sleep.” Jasper looks away. Even though his Nintendo is in his hands, I can tell he’s not looking at the screen so much as he’s reimagining some of his conversations with this new girl.

  There have been a few times when Ben and I have been up late, texting back and forth about nothing important. I wanted to talk to him about Sam, about how I’ve been feeling like maybe I really messed up. But whenever I try to bring up anything other than the wedding or math team, he always steers the conversation back to himself. Before, I would tell myself it’s okay, since I do want to know more about him. But now, hearing that Jasper has even found a girl who cares, who’s willing to listen when he needs someone, I begin to question what exactly Ben and I have.

  “Look at it this way: now both of us have dates to the wedding,” Jasper adds when I don’t say anything.

  I stand up from the couch, trying to slowly and gently adjust my grip on Marcel.

  “What?” Jasper asks, almost whining.

  “Nothing,” I say, trying not to laugh. “It’s cool that you met someone. I’m glad.”

  I shuffle off toward the kitchen, careful not to step on the parts of the floor that creak, so that Marcel won’t wake up.

  In the kitchen I shift Marcel so that I’m holding his tiny body in one arm and am able to use my free hand to sneak a little bit of stuffing into a small dessert bowl. I figure I’ve earned a little cheat on my strict swim diet, and I take my bowl over to the far corner of the kitchen, away from the living room and dining room.

  I’m thankful to find Marcel’s portable bouncer hidden on the other side of the island. I put the bouncer on the table, gently lay him inside, and turn the dial to the gentle rocking setting before pulling the tinfoil back on some of the already sliced pies. I take a picture of the half-eaten cherry-and-pecan pie, and I Snapchat a picture to Grace. I draw eyes in the uneaten half and draw a frown in the other half.

  I’m surprised when she opens it immediately. She responds with a video of her baby cousin Cambree hooking his fingers at the corners of his mouth and stretching out his lips so that they look like they’re about to crack.

  I take a picture of another pie and draw a face and stick-figure arms reaching out for a hug. Before I send it, I add a white flag in one of the hands, with a question mark in a thought bubble. Sometimes stick figure drawings can do a lot more than words.

  She responds: If I accept your surrender, does that mean I can come over and eat pie?

  I reply: Yes, please with a huge smile on my face.

  By the time she is cracking open my front door, Marcel is back with his mom and I have two plates with slivers from four different pies, all topped with dollops of whipped cream. I pour hot apple cider into two mugs and drop in cinnamon sticks, pleased that we’re not skipping our tradition.

  “Thank goodness,” she gushes, her face red from the cold. She shrugs her coat off and drapes it over one of the breakfast barstools before grabbing her plate and mug and moving ahead of me toward the stairs.

  The sound of everyone chatting gets quieter as we ascend, and with my bedroom door shut behind me, I feel the first bit of peace I’ve felt all week. I tell her I’m sorry and that she’s right about it not being smart, me going on that date with Darth Vader. She tells me I wasn’t crazy and that she’s sorry for flirting with that guy during my first meet-cute. I jokingly tease her and say, “Oh, so you were flirting?” We laugh about it and fall silent. I take a bite of sweet potato pie and pretend that it’s the only thing in the world that matters right now. Grace spears a piece of my pie, and I reach over and slice off an edge of
her pumpkin. She taps her fork against mine while we chew, her eyes bright and smiling. I’m glad that while things feel upside down right now, at least this hasn’t changed.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Every year on the day after Thanksgiving, Sam and I get up in the early afternoon and head out to the Pie & Leftovers Festival. It’s a community thing for the people from our neighborhood and the other small towns surrounding us. There was one year when someone wanted the festival to be a big thing, like the kind of gathering you’d see posters about downtown. But no one else wanted it to be that way. Since Mom’s gardening friends make up a good majority of the people who actually bring the pies and leftovers, she was able to influence the decision by saying there wouldn’t be any food if the festival was publicized. And, well, let’s say a lot of our neighborhood likes the shared leftovers more than they like popularity.

  On the day of the festival, Mom always gets up early, goes through the leftovers in the fridge, and sets out disposable tin containers of the things we can contribute. Some people bake new pies specifically for the event, but we never do. Mom says a real Thanksgiving pie is made on Thanksgiving for Thanksgiving, and that’s that.

  This year, in a futile attempt to get Sam and me to make up, Mom says that even though I’m grounded, I’m still allowed to go to the festival as long as I stay with Sam. I can tell Sam is pleased, so I rationalize to Mom that since Sam can bring Geoffrey, I should be allowed to invite Sloane. Ever since Geoffrey started going with us, I’ve always avoided being a third wheel by inviting my friends. And now that’s the last thing I want to be, especially since Sam and I aren’t even getting along. When Mom asks Sam if she could just spend the day with me, Sam plays the Geoffrey and I are one now card. Still, she’s annoyed when Mom relents and says I can invite Sloane.

  And by “invite” I mean “beg.” I even tell Sloane that Grace and I made up over pie last night, and it’s only fair that Sloane give me the opportunity to make up with her, too. So she pulls up and parallel parks a few cars behind us along the street lining Pinecrest Park. We trail a few steps behind Sam and Geoffrey, and Sloane helps me carry the tins of mac and cheese and string bean casserole. I can feel the warmth from the reheated dish through my mittens.

  Pinecrest Park is an open field bordered by four different streets. But it’s shaped less like a square and more like a curvy trapezoid. There are a few apple trees spread out, and some picnic tables around each one, and toward the center of the park is a man-made pond with a bridge that kind of zigzags over it through some of the overgrown cattails.

  To the left of the park entrance, a number of tents have been set up, with tables where people can drop off their leftovers and huddle in front of generator-powered heaters. There are plates and plastic utensils, and because the festival is so small, it’s treated like one big unsupervised potluck. At the north side of the park are more heated tents where the pie competition is held. There’s pie eating, pie tasting, a pie raffle to win pies, pies for sale, and pie throwing. Sloane loads up on sweet potato casserole and collard greens before we start walking over to the pies. Some people bring picnic blankets, and various bands spread out through the park to play live music until they get too cold and decide it’s time for pie.

  The pie eating competition is usually the most crowded attraction. We have to weave through the crowd to find a spot where we’ll be able to see. Sloane gets shouldered and nearly drops her plate right into the damp grass, but catches it just in time. When we emerge, I’m surprised to find a familiar-looking slightly-hunched-over back, with hands shoved down in the same worn and washed-out pair of black jeans.

  I want to say his name, but I stop myself. I remember how judgy and mean he was a couple of weeks ago, and decide my best bet is to ignore Gavin. But that becomes impossible when Gloria, who I didn’t at first recognize standing next to him, starts scanning the crowd. Her eyes almost immediately land on me.

  “Mia! Dear, what a nice surprise. I almost didn’t recognize you out of your flannel and old jeans.”

  She closes the space between us and wraps me in a hug like it’s completely normal, like this is how we’ve been greeting each other every Friday for the past couple of months.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you either,” I tell her. Gloria has traded her bucket hat for a wool beanie, and her tense frown for a soft easygoing face. She’s smiling, which I don’t think I’ve seen her do before. She looks at Sloane, and then her eyes rest on Sam, probably registering the resemblance.

  “This is my sister, Sam,” I say.

  “Oh my goodness.” Gloria beams, a harsh contrast to her usual furrowed brow and edgy tone. “You’re glowing, dear,” she tells Sam. Gloria takes Sam’s hands in hers and looks her up and down, unabashedly taking in how well put together Sam’s dark-washed jeans, navy-blue-and-white bird-print blouse, and chestnut-brown boots look.

  “Sam, this is one of Mom’s gardening friends,” I say.

  “My name is Gloria,” she says, gushing like she’s meeting a celebrity.

  Sam’s shoulders scrunch up to her ears, and her smile nearly takes over the entire bottom half of her face. She’s weird about being touched by people she doesn’t know. Even though Gloria’s attention could easily be pulled away from anyone and anything by my bringing up the community garden, I don’t say anything. I just watch Sam make incredibly uncomfortable long and silent eye contact with Gloria.

  “Your mother has told me so much about you. Congratulations, my dear. I wish you a long and happy marriage.” Gloria looks over at Geoffrey, like she’s noticing him for the first time. She says, “You’re so lucky,” before dropping Sam’s hands. “Mr. Turner and I also had a winter wedding. There’s something magical about the wintertime, and I wanted my anniversary to fall right in the middle, like an extra holiday.”

  Gloria starts talking about her own wedding, and I realize that Gavin never talked about his granddad. Gavin mentioned to me once that Gloria has been taking care of him since he was a baby, and he made it clear that his parents have never really been in the picture. But I feel kind of stupid and selfish, having never asked about Gloria’s husband. Right now doesn’t seem like the right time, so I try to half listen to what Gloria shares with us, watching as Sloane starts kicking at something on the ground. I look at Gavin’s shoes. They’re different from the beat-up sneakers and work boots that he alternates between at the garden. They’re a pair of clean classic Vans, which isn’t something I would expect from him. I wonder if he has more Vans, like me, if he has limited-edition prints or cool colors.…

  When I look up and catch his eye, I flash him a smile. Making up with Grace took a huge weight off my shoulders, so maybe making up with him can help me out too. But Gavin quickly looks down, almost as uncomfortable as Sam is.

  “And this is my grandson, Gavin,” Gloria says, turning and lightly touching Gavin on his arm.

  “Nice to meet you,” Sam says, still smiling like a serial killer.

  “You too,” Gavin says, forcing a quick smile before pretending to notice something on the other side of the park, over Sam’s shoulder.

  “We really must be going,” Sam lies, looping her arm through Geoffrey’s. “And we wouldn’t want to hold you up from the famous pie eating contest.” At the mention of it, Sloane and I look over at the same time and see a man with blackberry juice all over the bottom half of his face. It’s amusing and gross simultaneously.

  “Oh, well, you must stop by the garden soon—maybe in the spring when we’ve finished with the renovations,” Gloria says.

  “That sounds great.” I can tell Sam is thinking that an ensured five months of not having to do this awkward exchange again is perfect. “Have a great rest of your weekend.”

  With that, she turns, using her looped arm to pull at Geoffrey, who had been distracted by the pie eating contest. I smile and say good-bye to Gloria before following Sam, with Sloane trailing a few steps behind me.

  “So, that’s Gavin,” she says, th
rowing her plate away in a trash can.

  “Yeah,” I say, leading us toward the pie tasting booth.

  “You don’t talk about him very much,” she says like she’s just realizing it.

  “There’s not much to say.”

  “How about, He’s hot?” Sloane asks, incredulous. She turns to look over her shoulder to see if he’s still in view.

  I pay for both of us to taste all the pies, and watch as the woman on the other side of the table starts cutting slivers from the eight pies up for judging.

  “He has a girlfriend,” I tell her. The combination of “Gavin” and “hot” hadn’t really crossed my mind before. He’s Gavin the gardener who suddenly turned grumpy, the Gavin of Gs. His face comes back to mind, and I instantly remember him looking down at me from the ladder the day he was painting the inside of the greenhouse; the way he leaned his weight to one hip, how he took care with his brushstrokes and moved slowly, tenderly. I try to push the image out of my mind because it doesn’t matter now anyways.

  “I would be disappointed if he didn’t,” she says, her tone musing.

  “What’s it to you?”

  The woman hands us our plates and shows us the ballot box at the end of the table, for when we’ve finished tasting. When she pushes her brown locks out of her face, I notice her delicate gold wedding ring with a tiny rose-tinted diamond. Something about it makes my stomach twist.

  Sloane and I start walking over to the stone benches in front of the pond. On our way there I see Sam and Geoffrey farther down. Geoffrey is trying to skip rocks, and Sam keeps pushing the gravel around with her foot to look for stones he can throw.

  “Because,” Sloane starts saying through a mouthful of pie. “If he was single, I would have to beat you up for not taking him for yourself.” She chews some more, and looks out at the pond. As an afterthought she says, “I mean, we could’ve been done with the meet-cute thing, like, ages ago.”