Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 124320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
“You used to be the same way.” I walk with them into Mona’s backyard.
“All Ezra’s food went to the future.” Mona laughs, squeezing one of his well-defined arms. “And was just waiting for him to catch up when he got to high school.”
“Very funny,” Ezra says. “And do me a favor? Tell Noah it was the vitamins that made me grow so much bigger. It’s the only way I can get him to take them.”
“He’s hilarious.” Fondness is apparent in Mona’s tone as we approach a table laden with too many dishes for me to even process.
Noah walks up and takes his place in front of his father in line. As we wait our turn, there’s such an ease between the two of them. It’s apparent Noah respects his father’s authority, but they also seem to be friends. A lot of eight-year-olds would be squirmy with affection from their dads by now, but Noah leans into Ezra often, even grabbing his hand sometimes when he’s making a point.
“I’m going to Jewish camp this summer,” Noah tells me, his voice and face vibrant with excitement.
“Your dad used to go to camp in New York sometimes when we were growing up,” I tell him, spearing a hot dog but skipping the bun. I’m hoping the homeopathic regimen will get my weight back to normal, but there’s no need to tempt the goddess of cellulite with lots of carbs. My stomach has been surprisingly placid today. I hope the worst is over and I don’t have to ruin Mona’s bathroom. I keep envisioning that scene when Ben Stiller overflows the toilet in Along Came Polly. It could be that bad. Worse.
“I know.” Noah frowns at the fruit Ezra dishes onto his plate, but doesn’t voice the objection on his face. “I’m going to the same camp. Bubbe says it’s a family tradition.”
Ezra said something similar when he’d go up to New York for a few weeks each summer to the camp his bubbe preferred. He loved that woman so much. When I glance at him, his eyes are shadowed and his full mouth settles into a sober line. Some things you never quite get over, and somehow, I suspect Bubbe passing is one of those things for Ezra. I give his hand a compassionate squeeze.
“She was something else,” I whisper to him while we wait for the steak.
“What?” He looks down at our hands and back up to my face. “Who?”
“Oh.” I pull away hastily. “Sorry. I thought you might be thinking of your gran.”
He stares at me for several seconds, and then his mouth tips at one corner. “Yeah, I was, actually. How’d you know that?”
It feels strange to know the path of his thoughts when it has been so long since we’ve seen each other—to still feel like some part of me is plugged into his emotions. To feel I might be able to know his mind as well as I know my own.
“Just guessing.” I shrug, unprepared to go there with him, not the way my body lights up every time I catch him staring.
I turn my head and he’s looking at me. I lose myself in his eyes, not in that dreamy, romance-y way, but in the mystery of them—of what lies behind the midnight-blue shade he pulls over his thoughts.
“Hey!” Mona snaps her fingers in the space that separates our faces. “You two are not doing that thing you used to do. I forbid it.”
I blink several times, breaking the spell of ancient memories and new mysteries. “What are you talking about?”
“The two of you used to block everyone else out, get lost in some corner and only talk to each other,” Mona says. “This is a social event.”
“My favorite thing to escape from,” Ezra says.
“Daddy’s an introvert.” Noah bites into a Hebrew National hot dog.
“Thanks, son,” Ezra says, his mouth a wry curve. “I think they know that about me.”
“He used to be a Kimba-vert,” Mona says. “He was only social with her. Then I came along and he was at least sometime-y with me.”
“Why?” Noah asks around a mouthful of hot dog.
“What have I told you about talking with food in your mouth?” Ezra asks softly. “And why what?”
“Why were you a Kimba-vert?”
Our gazes collide, and I look away first. I don’t want to hear how he would answer that question, so I reply for him. “Your dad and I knew each other literally since we were babies,” I tell him and take a sip of the freshly-squeezed lemonade Mona set out. “Longer than anyone else, so we were always really comfortable together.”
“That’s nice,” Noah says. “I want a friend like that.”
“You have Peter,” Ezra says, taking a pull of his beer.
“But I’m not a Peter-vert,” he says.
We all laugh, but once the humor fades, I find myself drawn to look at Ezra again. And dammit, he’s looking back.