After His Banana Read online




  After His Banana

  Penelope Bloom

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  Contents

  1. Rey

  2. Miles

  3. Rey

  4. Miles

  5. Rey

  6. Miles

  7. Rey

  8. Miles

  9. Rey

  10. Miles

  11. Rey

  12. Miles

  13. Rey

  14. Miles

  15. Rey

  16. Miles

  17. Rey

  18. Miles

  19. Rey

  20. Miles

  21. Rey

  22. Miles

  23. Rey

  24. Miles

  25. Rey

  26. Miles

  27. Rey

  28. Miles

  29. Rey

  30. Miles

  31. Rey

  Epilogue - Miles

  Epilogue - Rey

  1

  Rey

  I sat in one of the many dining halls at NYU with a container of leftover ramen noodles in front of me.

  I know, trust me. Leftover ramen was a new low, even for me. I thought I could pretty confidently say that less than one percent of the population had ever eaten half of their twenty-cent packet of ramen noodles and thought, “I’d better save the rest of this for lunch tomorrow.” My clothes were obviously a few years out of style and threatening to fall apart at the seams. Even my glasses were in desperate need of replacement. When I’d taken them to an optometrist to get the wobbly piece tightened that kept making them slide down my nose, she’d told me, “there’s nothing I can do. The spring has been sprung.”

  The spring has been sprung. It had sounded so dramatic and final, like a death sentence.

  But I didn’t believe in finality. Everything and everybody could be fixed. If I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t want to be a psychologist so badly.

  My best friend and roommate, Luna, sat across from me. She was eying my sad little container of noodles. “I could go get you some nachos or something.”

  I shook my head. “Thanks, it’s okay, though. I was massively craving these.” Liar.

  Luna nodded and pressed her lips together in a way that said bullshit, but I’m not mean enough to call you on it. She was my best friend, and of all people, I wished I could stop feeling like I needed to hide the truth from her, too. She knew I was broke, but I don’t think she had any idea how thin the tightrope I was walking really was. She turned her attention back to her lunch, unwrapping the burrito she’d bought. She gestured it toward me.

  Luna plucked about fifty napkins from the dispenser at our table, arranging them carefully over her lap. “You working tonight?”

  “Yep. Right after clay sculpture class.”

  “Bummer.” Luna tapped out a quick message on her phone. “I was going to see if you wanted to come to an Alpha Cappa frat party.”

  I snorted. “I appreciate that you keep inviting me to these things, even though you know I’ll never go.”

  She smiled. “You think they’re like the ones in movies. It’s not that bad. And it wouldn’t kill you to have a little fun sometimes. What if you look back on your college experience and regret never stopping to smell the roses?” She punctuated that thought with a know-it-all dip of her chin and a stern look. “You’re always so responsible and driven.”

  It was almost impressive that she’d managed to make it sound like responsibility and drive were negative characteristics. But Luna came from a family with boatloads of money, so I didn’t fault her for not quite getting what it felt like to be in my position.

  “Smell the roses? You mean the scent of puke from last night’s frat party outside the dorms?”

  Luna wiggled her head and raised her eyebrows like she was about to say something deep. “It only smells like puke on the outside. Come in, and it…” she trailed off, grinning at herself. “Okay. I thought I had a good point for a second. But it actually smells like booze and a war of who can wear the most perfume or cologne inside. Still, I want to see you date somebody before you’re done at NYU. Or at least hook up with someone. It’d be good for you.”

  “I don’t really have time for guys.”

  “There are so many varieties of guys out there, though. You’ve got your clingers, transients, non-commitals, fuck buddies, wallets, puss—”

  I held up a hand, stopping her. “I’m going to pretend I know what half of that means. Stop worrying about me, though. I know what I want, and I’m going after it. There’s nothing depressing about that.”

  I took a bite of my ramen, which was chicken flavored. Okay, in all honesty, the ramen was a little depressing. But other than that, I was doing just great. Wasn’t I?

  My mind wandered to what she’d said. I wasn’t a robot, and I did often wish some perfect guy would show up and sweep me off my feet. I also wished I’d spent my formative years attending Hogwarts and spoke with an awesome British accent, and it wasn’t like I was wasting time or energy pursuing that dream, either.

  Dreams were dreams, in the end.

  Luna pointed her burrito at me and tilted her head. “You look like you’re trying to unravel the secrets of the universe over there.”

  I laughed. “More like the secrets of my own, stupid head.”

  “Your head isn’t stupid. I mean, it’s maybe a little lopsided, but it’s not stupid.”

  I balled up a napkin and tossed it at her. “I could probably write a thesis statement on all my physical shortcomings, but the shape of my head is perfectly normal.”

  Luna took small, measured bites of her burrito. Almost by magic, she didn’t drip anything or spill. Combined with her princess-like posture and glistening, golden curls, it was hardly fair.

  “Did you start your project?” I asked.

  Luna set her burrito down. “For Professor Boswell? No. Remember that guy who bumped into us outside the library a couple days ago?”

  “Uhh, cuffed jeans and the kind of hipster thing going on?”

  “That one.” Luna waited long enough for me to know I was supposed to figure this out on my own.

  “Ohhh,” I said, forcing a smile. “Did you two…”

  She nodded again. “Eggplant.”

  I choked on my water. “Eggplant?” Luna did this thing after she hooked up with a new guy where she’d give me an object to picture the size of his penis.

  “Oh yeah. I’m still feeling it.”

  I groaned. “I don’t know how you find time for all these guys.”

  “Wait. I’ve always assumed you just sneakily find yourself a little dick on the side. You mean you literally haven’t hooked up with a single guy here?”

  I thought about telling the truth, then decided she’d make it her personal mission to get me laid if she knew. “I didn’t say that.” Even if it was true. “I just don’t get the hype, I guess.”

  Luna was still wielding her burrito like some kind of thick, pointing stick. She waved it around a few times, searching for the right words. “So you’ve never let a guy drizzle chocolate syrup on you and lick it off? No ice dildos? Not even erotic feather tickling?”

  No, Luna. My sexual experience is about as real as my experience walking on the moon. I’ve seen it on TV. Read about it in books. Maybe even dreamed about it once or twice. “Not yet,” I said quietly.

  “What about a chocolate popsicle on your nipples?” She wiggled her eyebrows. “His tongue feels like lava right after the popsicle. And if he’s really kinky, he could—”

  I cleared my throat, cutting her off. “I once had a guy eat an entire
sandwich off my stomach.” The words seemed to blurt out of me by themselves, and I found myself immediately wanting to hide my face in my hands. A sandwich off my stomach? What was even remotely sexy about that? And logistically, how would that even work?

  Luna stared in disbelief, then leaned in. “Like… Without his hands? Or?”

  “Honestly, it was all kind of a blur. Let’s just say I was cleaning mustard out of my belly button for weeks.” I felt my eyes glaze over. If embarrassment was a deadly weapon, I was pretty sure I’d be splattered into a fine, red mist that very moment.

  “Anyway,” Luna said after an appropriately awkward span of silence. “I haven’t really had time to mess with my project yet. Me and Mr. Eggplant have another date tonight. What about you?” Luna set her burrito down and started cleaning her fingers one by one with a napkin.

  “The project? I’m still trying to find the right person to study for it.” I shifted my eyes to a group of students who just came into the dining room behind her.

  Luna turned, following my gaze. When she looked back at me, she wore a skeptical expression. “Are you thinking that you’ll just go up to a random person and ask if you can study them for an experiment?”

  “It’s hardly an experiment. We’re just writing a paper.”

  Luna made a thoughtful noise, then raised her finger excitedly. “What about doing your project on me? I’m super interesting. I only wish I could do the personality study on myself.” There was a long pause, then Luna sighed. “That was supposed to be a joke.”

  “Sorry. It’s just that I really, really need that internship. And the only way I can imagine getting the top grade from all his classes would be finding a completely bizarre personality. It needs to be something that catches his eye and makes him remember my paper.”

  She dropped her shoulders and gave me a level stare.

  “What?”

  “Two things. One is you know you could ask me if you ever needed money, right? My parents are absolutely oblivious. They put more money into my account every month than I could spend in a year. It wouldn’t even need to be awkward. I could just write you a check, and we could pretend it never happened.”

  I could’ve dumped a confusing ball of reasons on Luna, but I opted to just shake my head and smile. “I really appreciate it. But trust me, it’s not as bad as it looks. I’m just a really lazy shopper, and I actually prefer cheap food. It’s just how I’ve always been.”

  Luna pursed her lips, nodding in a way that said she still didn’t believe me. “Well, if you ever change your mind. My offer stands. But the other thing is I’m offended. You don’t think I’m interesting enough to get you a good grade?”

  “You know what I mean. Besides, your personality is about as far from abnormal as it gets. You’re normal in the best way, and I think if I really want my paper to shine, I’ve got to find someone truly abnormal. Like the king of strange.”

  Luna let out a breath. “Okay. And if this ideal candidate turns out to be a guy? What are you willing to do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Luna threaded her fingers and leaned in. “I mean, if you want to know someone well enough to write a paper like this, you’re going to have to know them. I wouldn’t be surprised if a guy could get the wrong message from that kind of situation.”

  “I’d just tell him it was an experiment, so there wouldn’t be any confusion.”

  “And you’d scare him off. The only way you’re going to get the kind of info you want is if you keep your real motivation hidden, and you know it. I think you know you’re going to have to basically date the subject to make it work, too. So the question is whether you’re actually willing to date this king of abnormal you’re looking for.”

  I licked my lips, thinking through what she’d just said. After a moment, I looked up and met her eyes. “I need that internship. And I’ll do whatever it takes to get it.”

  2

  Miles

  Routines are important. Of course, if you listened to my dad, it was more than that. They were the essence of existence. They were the fabric that held the universe together. Without routines, he’d say, we were all just chaotic balls of impulse bouncing around the world without a purpose.

  To him, a worthy purpose in life would be controlling his impulses. He craved order like a good, hand-made butter craves warm bread.

  Personally, I tended to like a little bit of chaos. I liked letting my impulses drive me from time to time, even though I did agree that there were rare instances when one’s impulses should probably be held in check.

  I started every day with a little bit of routine and an extra serving of chaos. The routine was baking something new for Grammy. The chaos? Obviously, that was Grammy.

  She sat in my apartment, swiping through matches on Tinder while she waited for the banana muffins to finish. Grammy was old. Nobody actually knew how old, anymore. My guess was she’d probably been born sometime after the dinosaurs but before the Egyptians, but there was no way to be sure. She wasn’t even technically my grandma, but she had a way of almost becoming your grandma, whether you liked it or not.

  I’d actually thought many times about how Grammy functioned like a highly contagious disease might. You might not want it to attach itself to you, but if it chose to, there wasn’t much you could do about it. Eventually, you just had to learn to live with it, and the way it thought clipping its old ass, nasty toenails on your couch wasn’t repulsive.

  At first glance, you’d probably mistake her for the average elderly lady. Wrinkles, a happy little poof of gray curls on top of her head. But then, when you looked closer, you’d start to notice little chinks in the image. She had the wardrobe of a Russian street thug, for starters, complete with tracksuits and noisy windbreakers. Despite being older than some of the cathedrals in Rome, she also had an active dating life. But the biggest hint of her being extraordinary was the look in her eyes. It only took one glance to know the person inside the frail old body was still very much alive and very much kicking.

  “Fuck,” Grammy mumbled. “Fuck me with a dirty spatula covered in pancake batter.”

  I raised an eyebrow and tied the apron behind my back. She was staring at something on her phone. “It’s not voice-activated, Grammy.”

  “I was talking to myself, not the phone. I may be old, but I’m way smoother than that. You can’t slide into the lives of these spry, young, seventy somethings without a little sprinkling of sugar. They’ve still got their choice of the field, so I have to convince them I’m prime real-estate.”

  “In the historic district, maybe.”

  Grammy grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and lobbed it at me. She had a surprisingly good arm, but I easily caught the apple and set it down, careful not to bruise it. It was a honey crisp apple, and I had a recipe in mind for it tomorrow. I didn’t need Grammy and her anger issues screwing that up. “When are you going to work on that temper of yours, anyway?”

  “When I’m dead.” Like a sassy teenager, she still hadn’t even peeled her eyes from her phone.

  “You mean in another hundred years?”

  “Yes, smartass. And I’d still be dead before those damn muffins of yours finished cooking.”

  I crouched down and looked inside the oven. “They’ll be ready when they’re ready.”

  Grammy made an exasperated noise and leaned back in her chair, spreading her legs out wide. I didn’t remember when our little routine had started, but I enjoyed having someone to test my new recipes on. She’d show up a little after sunrise and harass me while I tried out new ideas.

  Today, it was banana muffins. I used green, ripe bananas, cinnamon chips, and a few other secret ingredients. The result was going to be a crumbly, sweet, and piping hot muffin. I’d also made a banana reduction that I mixed with a little touch of raspberries and sugar to drizzle over the top when they came out.

  Despite Grammy’s whining, the muffins were done a few minutes later.

  Grammy took a bite of
one of my muffins once they’d cooled down. She chewed, closed her eyes, and then leaned back with a sigh. “You cook like my old Robert used to fuck.”

  I grimaced. “With a limp dick and a grimace on my face?”

  Grammy barked out a laugh, pointing at me and smiling. “Robert fucked like his life depended on it. Like I was the only thing in the world, and my pussy held the secrets of the universe—like if he just hit the right angle, his cock might unlock all the answers.” She let out a long, blissful sigh. “That’s how you cook.”

  “Believe it or not, my cock never touched those muffins. Sorry if that’s a letdown.”

  Grammy stared at the muffin thoughtfully, as if she hadn’t heard me. “You know how much I hate giving you wise advice, but your dad wouldn’t care that you like cooking. You realize that, don’t you?”

  “I never said he would.”

  “But you keep it a secret. What’s the cooking equivalent of being in the closet?” Grammy pursed her lips and tapped them, then she lit up. “You’re in the oven, Miles. You need to come out of the oven to your dad. I’m also shit at keeping secrets. I’m bound to let it slip, eventually.”

  I tossed a towel over my shoulder and shrugged. “This is my thing. I don’t need his approval or opinion on it. Besides, he doesn’t need another reason to think I’m slacking off. He still thinks my job is a joke to me. I don’t think it’d matter if I got promoted six times this year.”

  “Then stop giving a shit what he thinks. It’s what I’d do.”