Friends Like Us by Lauren Fox

Author:Lauren Fox [Fox, Lauren]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction
ISBN: 978-0307-26811-2
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2011-12-01T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

“Does anyone really know how to pick out a cantaloupe?” Ben lifts a leathery melon, strokes it gently, brings it to his face. “Are you ripe?” he whispers.

Jane pushes her sunglasses up onto her head and squints as the cloud that was obscuring the sun blows away. “They are the most inscrutable of fruits.” She presses her sunglasses back down onto her nose. We’re wandering around the farmers’ market, past stands of Swiss chard and kale, snap peas and sunshine squash, okra and chutney: locally grown ingredients for recipes none of us will make. We move forward empty-handed, en masse, the four of us, toward a stall that sells only tomatoes, neatly arranged baskets of small yellow and orange and purple orbs bright and jolly as Christmas ornaments. As if any of us would have a clue what to do with a tiny, purple, veined tomato, what kind of complicated pasta dish would welcome such a thing. In fact, I pride myself on not knowing.

Declan taps his index finger on an oblong orange heirloom. “Where I come from, tomatoes are pink and swollen and tasteless, and served on a bed of iceberg lettuce.” To-mah-toes. “I miss the old sod.”

“The Irish are famous for their fine cuisine,” I say.

Declan nods. “Accept no substitutes.” I pretend that he’s talking about us and reach for his hand. I notice Ben noticing, then quickly looking away. “We used to eat cabbage at every meal,” Declan says, directing the statement at all of us, like a stand-up comedian. “Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, plus of course the three o’clock cabbage break.” I have the sudden urge to draw Declan as a talking vegetable, round and green and leafy.

It’s been three weeks since we first slept together, and I’m teetering on the brink of something, a shift in perception, a significant revelation. Could I be falling for Declan? My heart is running after my body, panting, trying to catch up. Our connection seems to be rearranging my chemical balance. I find myself thinking about him all the time, drifting off into gauzy fantasies about our future.

A sweet, fruit-scented breeze kicks up. A family pushes past us on the path, two disheveled parents—an unshaven father and a mother who looks strangely unshaven herself, blurry around the edges—and three children dancing around them, chanting a chorus of “I want, I want.”

“Sebastian,” the mother says, “I am not buying you broccoli right now. If I have to tell you again, I’m taking away that cookie.” I look around to see if anyone else has heard. Jane and Ben and Declan are a moving triangle in front of me, absorbed in a conversation about a particular Irish delicacy made of pork sausage and boiled potatoes.

“I’ll tell you about fish pie,” Declan says. “And blood pudding!” Jane cringes; Ben laughs.

How easy would it be just to subsume myself to this, to Declan’s big personality, to his hunger? Maybe part of desire is just knowing that you’re desired. How enticing to give myself over to the idea of love.

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