The Secret Recipe for Moving On Karen Bischer (read my book .txt) 📖

“So when the horse finishes dead last, you’ll be the one”—he pauses for a second—“going up to Anthony on Monday, asking him what kind of protein shake he uses.”

“Fine. I’m willing to take that bet,” I say defiantly.

“If you guys don’t mind,” Luke pipes up, “I may go put two dollars down on Red Shirted. I mean, what’s the point of being eighteen if you can’t do things like a legal adult?” It’s weird, because he’s staring right at me when he says this, like he’s trying to tell me something.

Then it dawns on me: He probably wants a girl’s advice on dealing with Greta. “Um, I’ll come with you,” I say, and his face relaxes, so I’m glad I read that right. Though I’m not exactly sure I’m the relationship authority over here.

We work our way through the crowds to the main hall where the betting booths are. I wait for Luke to say something, because I don’t want to be like, “So, you’re in the doghouse over date night, huh?”

Finally, he stops short and runs a hand through his hair. “Are we cool?”

“Cool?” I repeat, wondering if I’ve somehow missed something.

“Yeah. I didn’t mean to insult you by calling you wholesome.”

I laugh. “Luke, that was hours ago.”

“I know. But you seemed really upset by it. I just wanted to apologize if it’s—”

I hold up my hand. “It’s okay. It was a knee-jerk reaction, I guess. And there are definitely worse things to call someone.”

“Good. I really didn’t mean it as something bad, you know,” he says. “Anyway, why do you like that horse so much?”

“Uh, the name is kind of meaningful to me. I want to be a meteorologist.”

Luke’s face lights up. “That’s so cool. Do you want to be one of those people who sends up weather balloons? I’ve always wanted to know what they figure out from those things.”

I try not to gawk at him in wonder, remembering how Hunter’s crew used to be so dismissive of all that. “I think I want to do research, so it would involve weather balloons. Study weather patterns and storm systems and stuff. I’d love to do something weather-related for NASA,” I tell him. “People usually get disappointed that I don’t want to go the glamorous route of TV.”

Luke nods. “So, what brought on this love of weather? Was it so you could predict snow days? Because that’s totally what I’d be in it for.”

I can’t help but laugh. “No. It’s more to do with tornadoes, actually.”

Luke stops in his tracks, beneath one of the large windows of the main hall. A beam of sunlight is touching his head, making his hair glow all holy-like, as a look of complete fascination crosses his face. “Tornadoes? How? You’re from New Jersey!”

“I know! But we were doing this cross-country drive when I was eight and when we were going through Nebraska, we almost ran into one. The sky got all green and it got really still, and then, way down the highway, we saw the funnel cloud. I’ll never forget it—it was really thin and spindly, not like the one in The Wizard of Oz. And then the tornado sirens started to go off.”

“Jesus,” Luke says, his eyes wide. “What did you do?”

“Well, my mom just kept driving, all calm as a cucumber, but my dad started freaking out, and he was all, ‘We need to get off the road!’” I pause. “He’s from Italy. He’s not really used to that sort of thing.”

Luke shakes his head. “I’m not so sure I’d be so good around one, either, but go on.”

“Anyway, we were passing this barbecue joint and the owner and his daughter saw us as they were making their way down to the storm cellar. They waved at us to come in and said tornadoes were in the forecast all morning. I was so fascinated about the idea of knowing a storm like that was going to come—and that you’d have a special room to hide in when one hit. Anyway, it didn’t end up hitting where we were, but I didn’t shut up about it for the rest of the day. When we finally got to our hotel, my mom turned on the Weather Channel for me and that was that.”

Luke smiles, looking like he’s going to laugh.

“Oh, god,” I say. “I really sound like a nerd.”

“No, that’s the thing. You’re, like, glowing over this. It’s clear that it’s what you’re supposed to do.”

He’s looking at me with what might be admiration and I’m weirded out that his approval pleases me. I don’t know what to make of it, so I clear my throat and point to the betting/claiming windows.

“I think you need to go to the booth that guy is using.” At the window, there’s an older guy in a white blazer, his black shirt opened up to reveal a lot of chest hair and some giant gold medallions. He’s totally balding, except for two small tufts of hair over his ears, and he’s carrying a fancy-schmancy cane. He folds a huge wad of cash into a gold money clip.

“Dude, that’s totally how I want to look when I grow up,” Luke says with a laugh. “Maybe he knows that booth is good luck or something.”

When we get to the booth, a middle-aged lady with big, feathered blonde hair looks at us expectantly from the other side of the window. “How can I help you today?”

“I’d like to put two dollars on the next race, the number three horse, Weather Or Not.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “Luke, if it’s not going to—”

“Win, place, or show, sweetie?” the lady asks.

“To win,” Luke says, slipping two dollars through the slot in the window. He turns to me with a cocked eyebrow.

I laugh. “You’re crazy. His odds are terrible, you heard Isaiah.”

“You won’t think it’s so crazy when this horse brings in like a hundred and fifty bucks,” he says. “I’ll need a money clip like our