“I wanted to stay with her back then too, she wasn’t having it,” I shoot back, but somehow with Chelsea giving me the side eye, I don’t have as much conviction in my voice.
“Yeah, you were both a dumb couple of kids,” she agrees. “And I can see you’ve changed. You grew up into a great man. A man that would be a powerful influence on Chris’s life,” she continues.
“Thanks,” I follow her as she weaves past an elderly couple walking about a quarter mile an hour. The smell of food tells me that we’re near the trucks before my eyes do. A mixture of scents perfume the air; the concoction is similar to the clash of spices at the market in Afghanistan. My vision blurs and suddenly sand grits under my feet where asphalt was only a second ago. The heat of the Afghani sun is searing my skin and beads of sweat break out on my forehead. I blink hard and take a deep breath. Focus. When I open my eyes, Chelsea is watching me closely. I must have stopped walking because we’re both standing still.
“You ok?” she peers at me like a child looking at a bug they’re seeing for the first time.
“Yeah, for sure. Just, uh, got dizzy for a sec. I’m good.”
“Ok,” she looks at me with one eyebrow cocked. “Well, let’s get some slices. Maybe you need some food.” She nods over at the pizza truck and we get in the line for food.
“Anyway, I’m not trying to give you a hard time or anything,” Chelsea picks up where she left off.
“You sure about that?” I look her straight in the eyes, not because of our conversation, but because it helps me stay focused on the present.
“I am. I’m actually trying to give you your props. I can see you’ve got a good heart and good intentions for my sister. I believe that people can change for the better and you’ve clearly done that.”
“Thanks, I actually have a plan for later,” I reach into my pocket.
“Hey, I don’t need to know what you plan to do with her later. We’re not that close!” she laughs and crinkles her nose the same way Lauren does.
“No, not that. Well …” I shrug, “that too.”
“Ewww.” She sticks out her pink tongue. “Can I get four slices of pepperoni and four cans of coke?” She diverts her attention to the man waiting to take our order.
He nods and I drop the velvet box in my fingers and take out my wallet instead. I hand the guy some bills and Chelsea thrusts the cans of coke at me as she balances the giant slices of pizza in her hands.
“Anyway, my plan is to propose. So you don’t need to worry about my intentions or me walking away anymore. I know you’re just doing your job as a big sister, and I appreciate that Chelsea.”
The truth is, Chelsea has always looked after Lauren in one way or another, even since we were all kids. I remember when I was seven and I pulled all the heads off Lauren’s Barbie dolls and tossed them in the mud. Lauren cried like I had killed actual people and Chelsea chased me out of the yard with a skipping rope. And I don’t mean she gently skipped over to me and asked me to leave. I mean she looped that rope over her hand and swung it at me like a whip. She was never one to mess with, even when she was nine.
She stops in her tracks and her brown eyes go wide. “You’re proposing? Seriously? Oh my God, that’s awesome!” She haphazardly tries to throw her pizza filled hands around me in an awkward hug.
“Thanks,” I smile and pat her back with the cold coke cans in my hand.
“Ok, we’re good now for sure,” she beams at me. “Let’s find some seats and keep an eye out for them,” she scans the picnic tables in front of us, littered with bodies and fast food. “Oh, wait! Have you ever seen this guy?” Chelsea points toward one of the food trucks with her elbow. “You’ve got to see this, it’s amazing!” She takes off in the direction of the truck with a sign that says “Fruit Ninja” on the side.
I guess the table is going to have to wait. I wade my way through the crowd toward the display and fight the anxiety climbing up my throat.
Chelsea and I come to a standstill in a group of onlookers at the side of the truck. The man behind the counter is a middle aged white dude with a martial arts belt tied around his head, Karate kid style.
Um, ok. What the fuck?
On the butcher block in front of him is a grapefruit, watermelon, pineapple and other fruit.
“What’s the deal?” I ask Chelsea.
“He makes frozen yogurt with that stuff, but just watch, this is cool. I saw him on that food truck show on Food Network.”
My eyes settle back on the fruit ninja as he takes in a deep breath and leans down under the counter to grab something. Suddenly he pops back up with a Japanese Katana sword in his hands. The blade glints in the sun as he lifts it up over his head. “Hi-eee-ah!” he shouts, swinging it down, splitting the pineapple in two.