“I don’t think so,” he says, opening the door to Jelly’s. “Let’s just say I’ve been doing some research.”
Kaylee’s sitting in a booth. Alone. Which is funny, because the place is crammed with people, shoulder to shoulder, waiting for a table. She sits, with only a glass of OJ and a book called The Idiot’s Guide to Peru.
I drop into the seat next to her. “Hey.”
“You’re here! I so did not expect to see you guys this morning.” She closes her book, looking strange and sympathetic.
My stomach twists. I hate that look. The one that says she feels sorry for me. That she wishes there was something she could do to help, when clearly there’s not.
I had enough of that after Ali.
“Delia said she saw on the news—your mom’s grave? I’m so sorry, Elle.”
I look away, tuck my hair behind my ear, straighten my dress—anything to avoid the pity on her face.
“What’s up with—”
“My dad burying an empty casket?” I shrug. “Really couldn’t tell ya.”
Her mouth drops open. I hear it pop and look up.
“The casket was empty?” She grabs my hand. “What does that . . . I don’t think that was on the news, Elle. Delia would have said something.”
“Yeah, well. Let’s talk about you, okay? I’m kinda done talking about me for a while.”
“Sure,” she says. “Sure.”
We all go silent, allowing the clink and clank of the diner to invade our booth. I can’t think of a thing to say.
“So what’s this?” Jake says, thumbing her book. “Elle says you’ve been studying Peru since freshmen year. What don’t you know?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “That’s the point. I don’t know what I don’t know, and if I’m going to be assigned there . . .”
“You got your Peace Corps assignment?”
“I wish. It’s taking forever. But if I’m going to live there for a year, I need to know everything. Anyway,” she says, yanking the book from Jake’s hands, “don’t try to be all interested in my book. I know why you’re here.”
“I don’t think you do,” Jake says, opening the pink box.
Kaylee’s face wrinkles like a squished pear. I really can’t blame her. The contents of the box are unexpected, to say the least. We’re looking at a dozen or so of these onion-ring-looking things.
“What are they?” I ask.
“Picarones,” Kay says, her face brightening.
“That’s right!” Jake says. “I can’t believe you know what they are.”
“I’ve had them before,” she says, hooking one with her finger. “At a cultural seminar I took in Portland.” She breaks off a piece and slides it into her mouth. “Oh my gosh. I forgot how good they are. How did you . . . Where did you . . .”
“There was this lady who worked for Canaan at the orphanage in Chicago—one of the kitchen staff. She was from Peru, and she made these picarones for the kids from time to time. I hold her solely responsible for my doughnut preoccupation, by the way. Anyway, I got Lizzie at The Donut Factory to give the recipe a shot. This is her first batch, but she loved them so much she’s going to get her dad to add them to the menu.”
“Jaaaaake. You really are the nicest guy in the whole wide world.” She leans across the table, squishing half the donuts and pulling Jake in for a hug. When she settles back down, her shirt is covered with crumbs and her eyes are full of tears. “Thank you. Really. I mean, holy cow, is it weird to say that a box of Peruvian doughnuts is the best gift I’ve ever gotten?”
I beam at Jake. Talk about knocking this one out of the park.
“What about the Furby Delia got you for Christmas that one year? She tackled Liam Hanson’s dad to get you that thing.”
“Forgot about that,” she says, giggling and shoving another bite into her mouth. “I won’t tell Delia, then, but, Jake, seriously. Best. Gift. Ever.”
“You won’t tell me what?” Delia asks from a couple booths away.
“Nothing,” we all say.
Delia sets down a couple plates and shoves past a slew of diners to get to our table.
“You’re taking this girl to church, aren’t ya?”
“Auntie, I can’t, remember?” She looks to Jake. “But I really, truly have a good excuse this time.”