by Karole Cozzo
“In the meantime, I’m gonna have a beer,” Miller announces as he steps back. “Can I grab you one?” He offers me a few choices, name brands I don’t recognize.
“I’m not much of a beer drinker.” I shrug. “I guess just pick me out something that goes good with what we’re having?”
“The porter. Porters go well with steaks, but they’re less malty than stouts.” He grins. “It’s a vanilla porter, too. Nice and girly for you.”
“Thanks.” I nod, settling into one of the rickety wicker chairs surrounding the small table. When Miller ducks inside, I study the horizon, exhaling a deep breath, relaxing. The sun is descending in the sky, at the perfect position to still warm my face, and the faintest of breezes is ruffling the palms and carrying the aroma of cooking meat past my nostrils. My stomach rumbles in anticipation.
Then Miller reappears, an open bottle dangling from each hand. “I would’ve gotten something classier, red wine or whatever, but I didn’t want Jake to think I was trying to be a little too smooth in having you over for dinner, right?”
Miller’s all smiles, waiting for me to laugh the situation off right along with him, and so I force a smile and nod in his direction so that he’ll turn back to the grill and flip the steaks.
But once he does, I find myself staring down at my thighs, conscience protesting.
I’m pretty sure I should force myself to say the words. It’s been more than two weeks now. And I haven’t said them aloud to anyone but members of my family. I need to start working on accepting reality.
I fiddle with my zipper, running it all the way down. I pull it back up. Run it back down.
“Jake broke up with me,” I blurt out.
There. I said it. And I didn’t just say it, but I stated the whole truth about it, without sugar coating. I didn’t weasel out with “we’re no longer together”; I didn’t say we broke up. I tell Miller what happened. Jake broke up with me.
Miller’s surprise is evident. He pauses, with his beer halfway to his mouth. “What?”
“Yeah, umm…” I go back to fiddling with my zipper. “Those problems I was referencing the other day at the gym. They were of the really ugly breakup variety.” I take a long sip of the porter, which isn’t half-bad. Sort of tastes like coffee. “So…”
“I’m sorry,” Miller tells me. He looks me in the eye. “You don’t deserve that.” He adjusts the temperature on the grill, staring down at the dial when he asks, “Are you okay?”
I consider before answering him. “Yes. No. Maybe somewhere in the middle.”
There is a part of me that is tempted to spill more, to throw Jake and Harper under the bus for further evidence of exactly how undeserving I was. But I keep quiet, because there’s a bigger part of me that sees no point in it. A part of me that imagines how I’ll sound and doesn’t want to sound that way to Miller.
But I do want him to understand something. “There are some … extenuating circumstances surrounding the whole mess,” I tell him. “It’s been … really hard reaching out to some of my other friends.” I smile weakly. “I’ve kind of been hiding out. So”—I start peeling the beer label off the dark brown bottle—“I really appreciate this. It’s nice of you.”
He shrugs. “Of course,” he says again. Miller clears his throat. He looks at me. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”
I wave my hand. “It would’ve come up eventually.” I laugh. “And I know I need to get my appetite back. This is so much better than being the girl eating an entire cheesecake by herself alone in her apartment.”
“As luck would have it, I got a cheesecake for dessert. I’ll eat more than my fair share, and you won’t need to feel the least bit pathetic.”
“Thanks, Miller,” I say quietly as he spears the steaks and sets them on a clean platter.
He covers them in foil, sets them on the table, and says, “I’ll be right back with the rest.” He glances around, looks toward the sky. “We should eat out here, right? Tonight is perfect.”
“Absolutely,” I agree. I start to stand. “Can I help?”
“Nope.” He disappears before I have the chance to insist.
My butt falls back into the seat. I bet Miller treats his girls really well, I decide. He cooks and he’s sweet. Without even really trying to be.
It requires two trips before everything is arranged on the table—several large bowls, our plates and silverware, and fresh beers. Miller plops into the seat across the table and points to each of the dishes. “Potatoes, with onions sautéed in a lot of butter. Salad with egg and full-fat ranch dressing. Bread. More butter. Use it.”
I point toward a small pitcher filled with a reddish-purple sauce. “What’s this?”
“It’s a cabernet goat cheese sauce for the steak.”
I lean toward it. It smells like I imagine heaven must. I look at the spread again. “Are you trying to fatten me up or give me a coronary?”
“It’s just one meal,” he retorts, tearing a chunk of bread from the loaf and smearing it with butter. “You’ll be all right.”
The meal smells too good to even consider any further protest. I pour the wine sauce over my steak, cut off a sizable piece, and pop it in my mouth.
“Oh my God,” I moan around it a few seconds later. My eyes practically roll back in my head. “Oh my God.” I tilt my chair and stare heavenward. When I can actually speak again, at least with any kind of manners, I tell him, “Hands down, this is the best steak I’ve ever had.”
A huge smile lights his face, and he bows at the waist. “Thank you. Nothin’ but the best. I felt it was very important to deliver.”
I try everything. The potatoes are almost as good as the meat, and even the salad tastes decadent. Everything tastes rich and full, but then again I can’t remember the last time I ate something that was, as he called it, “full fat.”
I point toward my plate with the tongs of my fork. “You definitely have a talent, Miller Austin.”
“Ah, it’s just genetics.” Miller finishes chewing and leans back in his chair with his beer. “It’s a family business,” he tells me, taking a sip. “My great-grandfather started it. I’m the oldest male child, and for a while the expectation was that I would take over the shop. My dad doesn’t have the greatest business sense, and the store hasn’t been doing so well, and not because of any lack of quality. He just doesn’t get the business side of things.”
Miller squints toward the horizon. “I was first one in my family to go to college. So there was a lot of pressure for me to put my fancy ‘book learning’ toward turning things around.”
I chew my bite of steak. “But…”
“But…” He smiles and raises his bottle in the air. “My brother saved my ass. Cheers to him.”
“What do you mean?”
He shakes his head. “The butcher shop wasn’t my future. At least, it wasn’t the future I wanted. My brother is into business, and even though he’s only a sophomore at Rutgers, he’s already started taking things over, getting them back on track.” He shifts in his seat. “And now my plans can get back on track, too.”
I spear another bite of steak, circle my hand in the air. “Do tell.”
He looks back at me, a little sheepish. “I told you I had an agenda for this summer. And I do.” Miller jumps out of his seat and runs inside without further explanation. He returns a moment later with a sketch pad in hand, which he lays down before me.
Curious, I flip it open. My eyes widen. The cartoons it contains are phenomenal, detailed and lifelike and whimsical. They’re beautiful. They’re huge and fill the pages; they practically jump right off them. A lot of them are renderings of Enchanted characters, but some must be originals, too.
Miller’s still hovering over my shoulder, and I glance up at him. “You draw.”
“Yes.”
I flip a few more pages. “You draw really, really, really well.”
This time, his smile splits his cheeks, and he reaches past me to carefully remove the tabl
et from the cluttered table. “Thank you,” he says, tucking it close to his body. “I changed my major from business admin to art and animation a couple of years ago.” Miller inhales a deep breath. “Before I knew my brother would be stepping in. All I knew was that I couldn’t.”
I stare at the cover of his sketchbook. “Good choice!” I tell him. “Your work speaks for itself.” I glance at him. “It’s your calling, huh?”
He nods, looking way more serious than I’m used to seeing him. “I want to do animation, and…” He takes a deep breath. “… I’m planning to stay down here and try to get in with the movie studio. You can apply for internships, and I’ve submitted my application.” Miller shakes his head. “I’m not going back to Jersey. I want to stay here, hopefully work for EE.”
My eyes widen suddenly. I stare back at the grill. I point. “Did you do that?”
He looks down, bashful. “Uh, yeah.”
“That’s amazing! It’s spot on. You should sell those! You’d make a mint.”
He chuckles. “Oh, I just did that for the fun of it.” Then Miller’s running his fingers over the cover of the sketchbook. “I love this place, Lys.” He shakes his head. “I mean, I love my family, too, but I could never get excited about the prospect of meat hanging from hooks. So … I hope I get to stay put. I know the brood at home is a little bit bummed, but I hope they also understand.”
“The brood?” I ask. “How many of you are there?”
“I have three younger brothers and one baby sister.”
“I have three sisters.”
He looks at me. He laughs. “That doesn’t surprise me.” He shakes his head. “Your poor dad.”
“At least the cat’s a boy.”
Now it’s my turn to be serious. “My family…,” I tell him, meeting his eye. “I think they’re probably also a little disappointed about my devotion to the park. My mom especially. She didn’t go to college, and I know she came to regret that.” When she couldn’t help keep us afloat. When finding a job to support a family of five wasn’t terribly easy.
“She’s always preaching about how us girls need to always be thinking ahead, making smart decisions about our futures.” I roll my eyes. “I’m sure she thinks the practical thing to have done would have been to find an internship, in Manhattan or somewhere, if I’m truly going to pursue something as ‘frivolous’ as fashion merchandising. Instead of just working at a theme park as a full-blown adult. But. I had my reasons.”
“Jake?” Miller guesses.
“No,” I say, shaking my head rapidly from side to side. “Not just Jake. I love the park, too. The magic that exists here. I’m not ready to give that up.” I shrug. “I know I can’t play princess forever. That one day I’ll outgrow it way before my heart ever does. So right now I just want to stay here.” I finish my second beer. I look down, gently kicking the table with my foot. “I mean, we can’t all be brain surgeons or physicists or … lawyers. But maybe I do lack serious aspirations.”
“Really?” he asks, sounding genuinely surprised. “What better aspiration is there than finding a job you actually love? A job you actually look forward to going to day in and day out. Personally, I think very few people can say that about their jobs.” He lifts his shoulders once. “Hands down, you’re the winner in that equation.”
I consider. “That’s probably the best way to look at it that anyone’s ever given me.”
Miller flashes me a quick smile. “I’m gonna go put this back inside. Grab another beer.”
I sit in the quiet of twilight while he’s gone. My hand comes to rest on my belly. It’s full, jutting out between my hips. It’s also very, very happy with me. Probably because I haven’t given a single thought to sucking it in, adjusting my posture, and attempting to press it against my spine. I can’t recall the last meal I’ve eaten where I’ve been at ease like this, where I haven’t been concerned about who I’m with and what kind of impression I’m making. And I am just really, really grateful to have Miller Austin as a friend.
I’m still patting my belly when he returns. “I think your reverse Weight Watchers program is a total success.” I refuse the third beer he’s brought me. “Although I should probably quit when I’m ahead with the drinks. I’m sure I’ll do even better at look-overs tomorrow if I stumble in hungover.” I roll my eyes.
“Alyssa.” Miller plops unceremoniously into his seat and gives me a “come on, now” look. “Yes, I gave you shit about being a mess at the gym, but you know it would be impossible for you to actually look bad. You on a bad day is still better than most girls at their best. C’mon.”
“It’s an internal thing more than anything else,” I say, remembering how sad I look in the mirror nowadays, sad from the inside out. “I need to turn my mood around more than anything else. And … I’m having fun, Miller. So thanks.”
“Yup.”
I stare back into the dark interior of his apartment. “Is Yael working tonight?” I ask suddenly.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t think she likes me very much.”
“She’s just prickly. Like a hedgehog. So it’s mostly all bark and no bite.”
“I think she might be one of the leaders in the gang wars,” I tell him.
Miller cracks up. “What?” he asks, leaning forward.
I sit up straight. “That scene you walked in on in the cafeteria? That was no joke. And a second before you saved my butt, Yael was totally backing Kelly up. Egging her on, even. I’m telling you.” I nod knowingly. “Leader in the gang war.”
He laughs so hard he sprays some of his beer.
“Anyway, at the very least, she has totally prejudged me,” I conclude.
Miller wipes his mouth with a piece of the paper towel we’re using as napkins and raises an eyebrow. “Alyssa, you rolled into a bar with a posse of blond sorority princesses, all wearing tiaras. What did you expect?”
“I expect not to be stereotyped!” I insist. Then I have to laugh, too, because it is funny, imagining what we must have looked like to Yael.
I stand. “I’m going to go use the bathroom.”
There are more cartoon stills in the hallway, and it occurs to me Miller probably provided the decor rather than Yael, as I’d first assumed. In the bathroom itself, there’s a huge framed Coldplay concert poster.
I comment on it when I return to the patio, where Miller is now sitting with clean plates and a boxed cheesecake before him. “Nice Coldplay poster you’ve got in there. You really are a megafan.”
“Pretty much.”
“I love them, too. Always include them in my top-five-bands list.”
“Really…,” he drawls slowly, devilish grin dawning. “See, I would have assumed they were way too white bread for you, homegirl.”
My eyes bulge out, and I make a warning face at him. “I thought we were never going to speak of that again!”
“I never agreed to that.”
“You’re a pain in the ass. Just give me my damn cheesecake.”
Miller laughs. He obliges me, opening the box and cutting a slice, transferring it to my plate, and topping it with a generous portion of whipped cream from the spray can. Then, without any warning, he leans across the table and shoots the spray of sugary foam right into my mouth.
I recover quickly, jumping up on instinct and grabbing the can from his hands, reversing its direction, and pointing it right into his mouth. He’s attempting to dodge me, laughing, and I miss my mark, spraying whipped cream all over his beard.
“Holy shit!” he cries as he futilely attempts to wipe it off with a paper towel. It just rubs it in further, and I crack up in victory.
Giving up on his attempt, he pounces without warning, pinning my arm behind my back and wrestling the can away from me. Next thing I know, I feel a nest of whipped cream settling atop my head. My piercing scream echoes in the quiet night.
It’s ten minutes before a truce is sought, before we collapse, sticky, tired, and bent over from laughter at the tabl
e again to finally eat our dessert. I’m still laughing so hard my bloated stomach hurts, and I’m practically crying.
Somehow I still manage to cram the entire piece of cheesecake in.
When I’m done, I push the plate far, far away. “Roll me home, Miller,” I groan. “Just roll me home.”
We’ve ended up sitting side by side. I’m beer buzzed and food drunk, and I let my head fall onto his shoulder. It’s so easy to let it stay there.
Things were so tense … for months … I’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to relax with someone. To laugh. To smile without trying.
These snippets of thoughts spin drunkenly in my head, my eyes falling closed as I rest against Miller.
I don’t know how long it is before he nudges me. “You still awake? Or are you in a food coma?”
“Maybe,” I murmur.
It takes a physical effort to lift my head, and when I do, I’m surprised to find how close his face is to mine, how my eyes are drawn right to his in the darkness that surrounds us. Miller swallows hard before glancing away, and suddenly I’m aware of the slight awkwardness inherent in the situation.
Platonic relationships are never completely without some degree of awkwardness.
I push my chair back and force myself to stand. “I should probably go. Before I do pass out entirely.”
Miller shrugs. He reclines in his seat, his hands coming to rest behind his head. “Stay as long as you’d like.”
It would be so easy, to stay longer. But it feels like a slippery slope, being this happy and relaxed. “I should go. I have to get ready for tomorrow. If there’s any chance of it going well.” I start piling plates, gathering silverware.
“Don’t do that.” Miller quickly pulls my hand away from the table. “Don’t do that.”
“This was amazing. I owe you. It’s the least I can do.”
This time I insist, making several trips inside and back, loading his dishwasher, even washing a few pans in the sink. When I’m wiping down the counter, a Post-it note catches my attention.
We’re doing breakfast tomorrow, right?
It’s signed with a heart, the letter Y next to it.