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my phone so hard I was afraid the shattered screen was going to go to pieces in my hands. “I thought you were going to tell him.”
    “Why would I do that? Is that my responsibility?” I heard the soundtrack to my childhood:  ice clinking against her glass.
    “Mother.”
    “If you don’t want to go, it doesn’t matter to me. Mia isn’t even—”
    “Mother,” I said too sharply, unwilling to hear what Mia wasn’t.
    “If you don’t want to go to the wedding, then by all means, don’t go. But tell your brother and leave me out of it.” She hung up then, which was just as well, since there was nothing I could say to her that wasn’t obscene. I shuffled to my apartment. There was a small box of lemon squares outside my door.
    Instead of settling in, I went into my apartment and grabbed my toolbox and the things I’d bought from the bike shop earlier and then made my way to the basement to Delaney’s bike.
    An hour later, I’d tuned everything up, a ttached a new CatEye light, and was covered in bike grease. I went back upstairs and knocked on the door across the hall. When Delaney opened it, her dark hair was wrapped in a knot on top of her head, her white stripe a lightning bolt in her bangs.
    “Hi,” she said.
    “Delaney.”  I held up the empty box from the CatEye.
    Her mouth popped open and then closed and then opened again before she said anything. “You put a light on my bike?”
    I sighed and dusted my free hand on my pants. “And I tuned it up.”
    “But why?”
    “Because I broke it. Now it’s fixed.”
    “But you gave me money for the repairs. I can fix my own bike. I fixed the tire myself.”
    “But I already did the rest,” I said.
    “Yeah, but,” she put a hand on her hip, “I was looking forward to doing it.”
    “You wanted to do it yourself?” I said, still confused. “Aren’t you happy I did it for you?”
    “No. I like to fix things myself. But thank you. That was very kind of you,” she said, and then she smiled a megawatt smile at me and suddenly Delaney was a lot more interesting, and pretty. I ran back to my apartment, holding up my finger for her to wait. I returned a few seconds later with the box of lemon squares, holding it up to her.  “Speaking of fixing your own messes, we talked about you being too nice. Stop being so nice.”
    She laughed at me, her lips curving up, causing the small red apples of her golden brown cheeks to stand out, her face transfor ming into loveliness, and I felt something inside my chest squeeze. “It was the least I could do, after you fixed my bike.”
    “You gave them to me before I fixed your bike.”
    “Yeah, well.” She tilted her head to the side and studied me. “You feeling okay?”
    “Just working a lot.”
    “Because you haven’t insulted me once. You might be getting sick.”
    “Probably am,” I said, grinning at her, unable to rein my mouth muscles.
    “Well, I’m making spaghetti and meatballs. I have more than enough. Want to stay for dinner?”
    “Only if I can help.”
    She motioned for me to come in, and the scent of her hit me. She smelled like roasted garlic and cooked butter. I wanted to lean in and sniff her neck, so I moved away from her and to her tiny kitchenette instead.
    Sauce was splattered on the stovetop, a wooden spoon sticking out of a pot. I picked it up and dipped a finger in, and then turned to see her watching me from the archway of the kitchen. “Do you have or egano? This could use some.”
    “You cook?”
    “I’m a thirty one year old man who lives alone. What do you think?”  I peered into the pot again. “How about a garlic press?”
    “Wouldn’t a garlic press be a unitasker, Alton?”
    “You’re a fan?”
    “Who’s not a fan?” she said.
    I shook my head and asked for the garlic press again, and she laughed. “Exceptions. Always make exceptions with Alton Brown and kitchen tools. He’s like Paula Deen. No one’s really going to make a bacon-egg-cheeseburger on a