Free Heart's Desire by Laura Pedersen

is cute. And he can’t be stupid if he’s reading those books. Not everyone is good at math. Yet he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would be threatened by a woman figuring out the gratuity in a restaurant. Macho Ray can never work out the correct tip without a calculator and so he just leaves way too much, in cash. Of course, this also serves to make him look like a big shot, which I think he rather enjoys.

Chapter Twelve
    I TAKE OFF FOR CLEVELAND TO VISIT GIL JUST AS DUSK IS falling. The mellow sunlight casts a honeyed glow over the houses in the neighborhood and the breeze sinks to stillness. A few days of hot weather has hurried the tulips, violets, marigolds, and cherry blossoms into bloom, and under the pink tissue-paper sky it appears as if rainbows quiver on the front lawns.
    Gil throws open the door like he’s been waiting for my knock. “It’s great to see you!” He puts his arms around me before I’m even inside the door. Though he’s careful not to clunk me with what appears to be a fresh white plaster cast on his right wrist.
    “It’s terrific to see you too,” I say, and hug him back.
    “Come on in!” He waves toward the tiny entry hall. “Of course, I haven’t finished settling in yet.”
    Aside from the busted-up wrist Gil looks pretty much the same. Though in his mid-thirties, of medium height and weight, and now slightly disabled, he still moves with the ease and grace of an athlete. Otherwise the only difference seems to be that his hairline has receded perhaps just a bit farther back than I remember it, as if it’s currently at low tide.
    We move into the cramped hallway and I’m careful to wipe my feet on the mat. The new apartment is shaped like a railroad car, with a long corridor down the middle and four small square rooms going off to the sides. There are still boxes lining the walls and I can only hope the nubby yellow couch and director’s chairs of blond wood and maroon canvas came with the rental.
    Gil stares at me for a moment and says, “You look so . . . so grown up!” However, he seems slightly preoccupied and doesn’t bother to ask how I’m doing, same as everyone else these days. A year and a half ago all people did was chase after me asking, “What’s wrong?” A few even managed to make it into a full-time job. And to think I actually resented them for it. Now
nobody
asks. Not Mom, Dad, Louise, not even Bernard. It makes me suddenly realize that even though I’m only three months shy of eighteen, they must all figure that I’ve
had
my crisis. One per customer.
    So this is what it’s like to be an adult—if you look okay and don’t have a bag of stolen money in your hand then people automatically assume everything is hunky-dory. Of course, there’s plenty to ask Gil, since he’s the one who has moved into a new place and also the one whose arm is in a cast. I find myself hoping the injury didn’t have anything to do with Bernard. Especially since it would be just like him to leave out a minor detail such as a recent brawl.
    “Looks as if I’m just in time to sign your cast,” I say.
    Gil glances down at the wrist as if he’d forgotten all about it. “Oh that. I was demonstrating a trust exercise at a training seminar and they didn’t catch me.”
    “That’s not very nice,” I say.
    “They thought
demonstration
meant that they weren’t supposed to do anything. I guess I didn’t explain it very clearly.”
    Gil organizes seminars that are supposed to help employees work together in teams and be more productive. At least that’s what the companies claim. Gil says that in actuality it’s supposed to make them feel better about doing more work for less pay. It’s no secret to me that he hates his job, but it pays the bills and they like him, so he must be pretty good at it.
    We navigate our way around towers of unpacked boxes and he offers me a glass of milk or water. “Sorry, I meant to stop and pick up some Yoo-hoo. Maybe you’d like wine