Cool for the Summer, Dahlia Adler [classic literature list .txt] 📗

to put the seafood boil to shame. As promised, there’s an incredible lentil soup, and by the time I finish, I’m already half full. But the hits keep coming, and I find I can’t say no—not to the football-shaped kibbeh stuffed with meat and pine nuts, nor to the mini pizza-looking things called lahmajun whose slightly sour taste Jasmine explains to me is the infamous tamarind, nor to the roast chicken spiced with cinnamon.

“I appreciate a girl with a healthy appetite,” Sylvia says with a smile, and I blush. I don’t usually eat that much, but the food is so good and Jasmine keeps encouraging me to “just taste” the stuffed onions and “have one bite” of the flaky bastel. I’d expected the food to be spicy, but it isn’t at all, not in the hot sense. It’s flavorful—more than anything else I’ve ever had in my life.

My mother would hate it.

“I told her you were a great cook,” Jasmine says with no small amount of pride.

“She did.” I take a gulp of water from my glass and notice Sylvia has barely eaten. Jasmine mentioned that too—her mother loves to cook far more than she loves to eat. I selfishly hope that means we’ll be going back with leftovers.

Sylvia pats Jasmine’s hand affectionately, and a wave of missing my mom comes over me. But it’s quickly replaced by the realization that this is Jasmine’s normal. I’m looking at the life she’s coming back to after the summer—the food, the Friday night dinners, the vanity covered in perfume bottles. She won’t be returning to New York with her dad, and none of us will be staying at the beach.

Suddenly, I’m not hungry anymore.

“So, you know I like to cook,” Sylvia says to me. “Tell me, Larissa. What do you do for fun?”

“She’s a writer,” Jasmine says before I can get a word out, definitely knowing I wouldn’t have said a word about it if she didn’t force it. “She’s been writing a book this summer.”

My blush before was nothing compared to the heat level in my cheeks now. “It’s nothing. It’s for fun.”

“Doesn’t everything always start for fun?” Sylvia says with a shrug. “You know, my sister Rachel is a writer. A journalist. But she’s been asked to consider turning her work into a book. If you ever want to talk to someone about publishing, I’m sure she’d be happy to speak with you.”

It’s the first time I’ve let “writer” be attached to my name, and it makes me itchy in a way that isn’t as bad as it sounds to have someone take it seriously. I can’t imagine talking to a professional about it, ever, but I say “maybe, thank you” through a mouthful of rice.

“Rachel’s really cool,” Jasmine tells me. “She does a ton of reporting on the Middle East and she’s been everywhere. She wins awards and stuff.”

“Where is she now?” I ask.

“Officially, she lives in DC, but barely. She’s probably traveling somewhere like Morocco or Jordan.” Jasmine says it a little dreamily, and it’s obvious Rachel is kind of her idol.

It must be obvious to Sylvia too, because she says, “It’s interesting how cool you find it when Rachel travels, considering you used to have a meltdown every time your father did when you were little. I used to beg him not to go because I couldn’t take another one, but of course, that never stopped him.”

Immediately, Jasmine stiffens. We’ve talked about how our moms do that thing where they find ways to mention our dads just to criticize them. But while I don’t care—I know my dad’s a dick and I have nothing to do with him—Declan is very much in Jasmine’s life.

I don’t know whether Sylvia realizes she’s pissed off her daughter or senses that might’ve been a little much in front of company, but she gives an embarrassed cough, takes a sip of water, and asks what my father does.

I feel bad for both of them—for all of us, really. “Pays child support on time,” I say, and there’s a stunned silence before Sylvia bursts out in laughter. That even makes Jasmine grin.

“What more can we expect from them, really?” Sylvia says dryly, and we all laugh again.

It’s a weird night.

In the best way.

We talk until the tall white candles Sylvia lit to bring in the Sabbath have melted to nothing and only traces of honey and pistachio crumbs remain on the dessert tray. Then we sip tea with real mint leaves in it while Sylvia shows me old photos of Jasmine, and I laugh at her extensive princess phase until there are actual tears in my eyes. By the time we go to bed, it’s nearly midnight, and I feel like I’m glowing from the inside out from the warmth of it all.

There’s a guest room, but there’s no discussion of me sleeping in it; Jasmine has as big a bed here as she does in the Outer Banks. We change into pajamas and brush our teeth and slide in together like I belong with her here as much as I do there.

I imagine these sheets still smelling like me when she comes back, even though they won’t.

“Hey, thank you,” I say softly, curling up in the mound of pillows on my side of the bed.

“For what?” Her voice is thick with sleep, her eyes already closed.

“For bringing me here to meet your mom. For Shabbat dinner.” I inhale her sweet shampoo, the light trace of perfume that’s been pressed into her skin from Sylvia’s throughout the night. “For not laughing at me about the whole writing thing?”

“Why would I laugh at you?” she murmurs, halfway to dreamland. I feel fingers brush mine, intertwining, holding tight. “You’re gonna do amazing things, Tinkerbell.”

A few moments later, her soft snoring fills the air, and I let it lull me to sleep, her hand warm in mine.

Chapter Nineteen

NOW

The dance isn’t much better than the limo ride, but it’s easier to blend in with the crowd