Hot Pickle - J.J. Knight Page 0,80

my head. I haven’t talked to him in a few days, but I know he dropped out early to allow the other competitor to make travel plans.

“I think he’s taking your advice. Dropping fifteen pounds. Getting into light heavyweight territory where it’s not quite so competitive.”

“You can’t make it big unless you’re a heavyweight, though.”

We pause at the crosswalk with a dozen other New Yorkers. I feel out of place. My shoes are wrong. My jeans don’t have the right cut. But it’s all good. The city is busy and alive.

“He’s got a new workout buddy. He’s not at Buster’s anymore.”

“That’s too bad. He brought them so much publicity.”

“It was Franklin’s gym first.”

“Still sucks. You seeing him when you get back?”

“I’m not sure.”

Now that we’re separated, it’s easier to see the problem stretching out across our entire future. What if we got married one day? Do we invite my brother? Snub the whole family?

Amy punches something into her phone. “Let’s go this way,” she says. “Google says there’s an interesting stop over here.”

“Is it free?” I toss the trash from my ice cream cone into a bin.

“Totally.”

We wander along the sidewalk, window shopping, and I notice that up ahead a crowd has gathered outside of a storefront.

Then I recognize the style of the green and white striped awning.

“Amy, you didn’t.”

She threads her arm through mine. “What’s the big deal? It’s not like he’s here. You said yourself he didn’t come to New York for Nationals.”

I glance up at the giant sign.

Manhattan Pickle. Max’s dad’s deli.

“Why are so many people here?” I ask.

“It’s a hot place for lunch,” she says. She holds up her phone. “Look. Five stars. Average forty-minute wait.”

“Wow. They do better than the one in L.A.”

“It’s the original. And it’s huge.” Amy lowers her sunglasses and stares up at the building.

“I do love their hot pickles,” I say, and bite my lip to keep myself in check. The thought of those moments with Max is hard to bear.

We move forward, and I can almost see inside the place. Only when we get close to the door do I notice the giant banner on the opposite windows.

“Fiftieth anniversary party for Alma Pickle.”

Oh no. This is the big event they were planning.

Max said he was going to be here for this.

I take a step back and run into an elderly man behind me.

“Watch where you’re going,” he grumbles.

“So sorry,” I say. “Amy. I can’t go here. It’s the anniversary. Max is probably here.”

She holds on to my arm. “Then we should see him.”

I shake my head. “I can’t drop in unannounced.” I step to the side and almost ram a baby carriage.

“Watch it,” the mother growls.

I’m not in California anymore.

And I have to get out of here.

I duck out of line, looking both directions to figure out which way to escape. The line behind me is long, but the sidewalk is clear on the other side of the door.

So I make a break for it.

“Camryn!” Amy calls.

I’m almost past the door when an elderly lady steps in front of me with a tray. “Free sample?” she asks.

I have to stop or run her over.

“No, thank you,” I say.

Her eyes twinkle. She wears a bright green satin shirt over navy pants and orthopedic shoes. She’s got to be over seventy but the ethereal beauty of her face beneath her cotton-candy gray hair reminds me of someone.

“Oh, I must insist,” she says. “We have juicy pickles, spicy pickles, sweet pickles. I’m partial to the hot one.” She winks as her long finger points out the pickle I remember well from Max’s deli.

“Okay,” I say, and lift the clear cup with a slice of pickle inside.

I’ll eat one, for old time’s sake.

I try to step away, but she moves with me. “We should get you a glass of water for that. It’s quite hot.”

She neatly sidesteps me, blocking my escape. With the line to my right, the only way to go is into the deli.

“I should wait my turn.”

“I’ll tell them you’re with me.” She presses her hand to my back. “Your friend can come, too.”

I glance back and see Amy waving. No way. She got me into this.

We head into the dining room. Every table is packed with people, and a long counter four times the size of Max’s lines the entire right side. Panic rises as I glance along the row of workers for any of the Pickles. I’ve met them all.

But they’re all employees. Nobody I know.

Along the left side,