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

away, but doesn’t seem surprised or upset by my presence.

“Oh, hey!” he says.

It’s too late for me to back away and run, and that would look super crazy of me, so I offer a “hey” back and tuck my hair behind my ears uncomfortably.

“I’m actually glad I ran into you,” he says, his face serious. “Are you okay? From before?”

Something inside me seizes. We haven’t really spoken in weeks, but his eyes are filled with concern. For me.

He lied to you. Stop it, Mary Ellen.

“I’m okay,” I say. “I’m more worried about A.J., to be honest.”

“Same. It’s why I’m here,” he says. “Him throwing that bottle … It just seems like something isn’t right.”

There’s a strange tug in my gut, like my body’s trying to be like, Luke cares about A.J., isn’t that sweet? I try to ignore it. “So he’s not working today?”

“Nope, he must’ve went straight home,” Luke says. “He’s seemed stressed out a lot lately. I’m wondering if he has something going on at home. Has he said anything to you?”

I shake my head. “No, but then he doesn’t seem like the type to open up.”

“True.” Luke shoves his hands in his pockets. “I just hate seeing him so angry.”

“I think the only thing we can do is let him know we’re here to talk if he needs it. I mean, he has his friend Patrick, but…”

“… It can’t hurt to let him know his fake family has his back, too,” Luke says with a small smile.

I feel myself starting to smile back, but bite my lip to stop it. “What if we both text him tonight? We can stagger it, so he doesn’t think we’re ganging up on him or anything.”

“Good call. He doesn’t seem like he’s going to want anyone to feel sorry for him.”

“I’ll make sure to add a GIF of, like, a girl in a bikini to throw him off the scent.”

“Look at us, teaming up,” Luke says. And then he smiles bigger and my heart gets all fluttery and now I know the real reason I’ve been avoiding him: my hormones are not to be trusted.

We both just kind of stand there awkwardly, I guess waiting for the other to leave. I finally adjust my backpack on my shoulders and start to say, “See you Monday,” but Luke interjects with a “How are you?”

“Good?” I say, unable to keep the uncertainty out of my voice. If Isaiah can see that I haven’t been myself, I wonder if Luke has noticed, too. And that’s the absolute last thing I’d want.

“I liked your RHHS TV report on the new band uniforms.”

I almost laugh because that report was only thrown together for filler on a slow news day, but Luke’s face is so sincere that I choke it back. “Thanks. They, uh, asked me to do the weather.”

Luke’s eyes light up and he starts to step forward to shake my hand or hug me or something, but he stops just short and drops his arms to his sides. “Dude, that’s awesome! You’re going to kick ass.”

“Thanks,” I say. I finally point at his bandaged arm. “Did that happen on the ramps?”

Luke’s face flushes and he laughs as if he’s embarrassed. My stomach clenches when I have this awful feeling he’s going to admit he got this injury hooking up with another girl or something, and I swallow hard.

“I tripped over a pile of clothes in my room and came down on the edge of my dresser. Didn’t realize it was that sharp until then. This is what I get for being a closet slob.”

I can’t help it when I let out a laugh that’s fueled by a massive wave of relief. “Closet? Your shirts are always in a perpetual state of wrinkledom, Luke.”

He looks like he’s about to laugh, but throws his hands up dramatically instead. “Ironing is boring! And annoying! And my mom refuses to do it for me. Like, I can throw my clothes in the washer and dryer, but ironing is just … no.”

“A bridge too far,” I say.

His eyes are twinkling and he finally grins. “I like it better when we’re on speaking terms, even if you’re giving me crap for my, uh, laundry habits.”

I feel my face flush and look at my feet. “Yeah, speaking does make that whole ‘communication’ thing a little easier, I guess.”

“Good. Let’s keep it that way.” He climbs back on his bike and gives me a wave. “See you on Monday.”

“See you,” I say, feeling something welling up inside me but unsure what it is. Regret? Relief?

No. It’s disappointment. Like, did I expect him to end that conversation by begging for a second chance? Why would I want that? I shake my head as I walk.

This is not a road we’re going down again, Mary Ellen. There can be a thaw, for the sake of peace in class, but feelings? No. He lied to you.

I guess I just can’t look at him from the neck up.

That won’t be hard for the next seven months.

CHAPTER 21

A.J. doesn’t respond to my texts by Saturday afternoon. In fact, last night, Luke started a text chain between our whole group to discuss what we should make for the Feast-Off, but he doesn’t respond to that, either. Luke and Isaiah are chock-full of suggestions, though, and I have a hard time keeping up, even though it’s a rainy day and therefore crazy slow at Cityscape Shoes.

“Mashed red potatoes?” I say out loud after reading Isaiah’s suggestion. “But mashed sweet potatoes are so much better.”

“No,” Richard says, looking up from his crossword puzzle. “Sweet potatoes are a bitch to cut. Go with the red potatoes. It’ll save you time and fingertips.”

“See, this is why it’s good to have a coworker who cooks,” I say.

“I just know my carbs, what can I say?” Richard says with a laugh. He sobers quickly when something out the window catches his eye. “There are some people standing outside getting soaked. I think they’re waiting for