with a spark in his eye, “salt represented friendship. One of the first superstitions I learned. Salt was a prized commodity, and spilling it was not only costly and considered unlucky, it was thought to signal the impending loss of a friend.” He pushes the little bowl toward me. “To prevent that, you throw a pinch of salt over your left shoulder.”
Mami uses salt to draw oil stains to the surface and make them cleanable. But it’s not only the salt that makes it feel safe to bring out some of my hidden truths. It’s Orion, eating my food and feeding me back something of himself. Even though it’s only a superstition, it tells me he’s not just curious or making small talk. He cares.
Just as I’m about to say more, he steps close. “I do have to get on to work, but come by the shop later?” Even though we’re both flushed post-run, he invites me in for a hug I didn’t know I needed, more than the tastes of home. “You’ll straighten it out, Lila. Old friendships are valuable, way more than old salt. But so are new ones.”
My head finds a home on his shoulder. He smells like soap and clean sweat. Around the time I’d usually pull back, I find I don’t want to. I fit my cheek right above his collarbone. Sensing the shift, he shortens his grip, his palm planted firmly in the center of my back. As moments come and go, my pulse lulls from a vigorous salsa to a spring formal slow dance. The whole kitchen just breathes. Finally, I lift up and he smiles, tucking a stray hair behind my ear.
When Orion leaves, a stab of fear nicks through all my settled parts. Minutes ago, I felt more than just okay and maybe a little bit happy that I was in Winchester. For thirty real seconds, I wanted to be inside Orion’s hug with his superstitions and listening ears more than I wanted to be on a British Airways flight home.
Way back in the way back, salt represented friendship.
I grab the wooden bowl and toss a pinch of salt over my left shoulder, just like Orion said. It’s silly and ridiculous, but I do it anyway. But I don’t do it for my friendship with Stefanie. I don’t want to lose Miami. My oldest friend of all.
* * *
I’m riding a bicycle. I’m riding a green bicycle on Jewry Street. I’m riding a green bicycle on Jewry Street with six pounds of pork shoulder and a five-pound ham in my basket.
Also, I’m not a sweat-sicle like I would be riding a bike in West Dade. I’m beginning to know Winchester. Now I can pedal off from the Crow and vary my route, watching brick homes and flower arches and monuments without worrying about getting lost.
I stow the bike in an empty space across the street from Maxwell’s. Two bags full of roasts, gourmet pickles, and yellow mustard come along. As I wait to cross, tapping thumps from the window behind me. I pivot and find Jules at a table, motioning me inside an organic juice bar.
A dinging bell welcomes me into the tiny shop that smells of cut grass and oranges. I slide into her spare chair and set down my groceries. “You caught me!”
“Just in time,” Jules says brightly. It’s the most casual I’ve seen her—marbled gray sweatshirt and boyfriend jeans, hair coiled into a topknot. “Carly from my band just left. We had an exam study session, and now my brain is totally fried. Keep me company until my mum comes?”
I grin; I like her style. Her confidence.
“Want to order a drink?” she asks. “There’s nothing quite as jolting as the wheatgrass shot.”
I believe her but shake my head. “Next time. That much green goodness might revolt against all the carbs and fat I ate earlier.”
“Too right,” Jules says before she starts telling me about her upcoming summer gigs. I share about my work at the inn, and some tidbits about Florida. Soon the rate and volume of our chatting balloons inside the small shop. We learn we’re both unapologetic food snobs. And her parents are just as addicted to British soaps as Mami is to telenovelas. I don’t even have to explain how this can spill out into the rest of our homes, even when the TV is off. She gets it, and more.
Jules understands how it feels to have a protective older sister (hers attends uni in