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upstairs and then stabs me in the chest, as if it’s the most obvious thing since the Cumberbatch sensation swept the nation.
    I pretend it hurts, rubbing the spot. “Hellooo! I think the chicken is getting to you, and frankly, it’s getting to me. What the hell am I supposed to do with all this damn chicken? Huh?” I take a whiff of the oven and gag for effect.
    “Don’t change the subject.” She flicks my forehead. “You know exactly what I’m talking about mensa .”
    “Trust me, I don’t need to fake ignorance.” I cross my arms and lean against the oven.
    “Let me spell it out for you: you plus Charlie equals destiny, chica.”
    I shake my head. “I was never good at math, but I think you have that equation all wrong.” Her mouth is moving and words are coming out, but it’s like she’s speaking another language. It’s not destiny. Bitch is cray cray. I love her and everything, but she’s losing it here, and I should be the hot mess right now.
    She clutches my arms. “Destiny.” She waves her hand like some glittering sign above our heads—more like a dim-lit convenient store sign with dying batteries. Hmph destiny my sweet ass.
    At that moment, Charlie walks in, “What we talking about?” he asks, poking at my first attempt at chicken enchiladas. He promptly spits it back out, “Mmm so good,” he lies, swishing water in his mouth.
    “Destiny.” Vanessa does the whole imaginary sign again and winks her eyes repeatedly. I laugh. She totally looks like Shannon from Superstar. Next thing we know she’s going to break out in dance.
    “Are you having a spasm?” Charlie places his palm on her forehead to check for a fever. “Maybe you’ve been cooking long enough, eh,” he jokes.
    “You two are so blind!” She throws her hands up in the air and stomps out of the kitchen.
    “I feel like I missed something, something important .” He looks to me for an answer.
    “She thinks we’re fated for destiny.” I wave my hands, copying her, “Isn’t that ridiculous?” I laugh, looking over at him to second it, but he just stands there looking at me.
    “You seem to think so,” he says quietly.
    “Well yeah, because it is.” I wait for him to join in, but he still doesn’t. He looks more serious now than he has before. He opens his mouth to say something, but then he thinks better of it. “I need to get home. Nessa is here so you’ll be fine,” he says all business like.
    “You’re leaving already? You can’t stay a little while longer? I’m sure your parent’s aren’t expecting you yet.” I feel like a child asking her parents why she has to leave the party so early.
    “I have a life,” he blurts out, hurting my feelings in the process.
    “Fine. Go have your life,” I point at the door. I’m trying my best to hold back tears I didn’t even knew I still had. I’ve cried a river goddammit! And I will not break my “no crying in public” oath.
    He runs his hand through his hair, and his look softens. “You can call if you need anything. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
    “I wouldn’t want to impose on your busy life,” I choke on the words.
    He nods his head without saying another word. Then he walks out, remembering to touch the altar before leaving. Just then, the timer goes off. I pull the dish out of the oven and angrily plop it down on the counter. Stupid chicken, it’s your entire fault. Why did I have to say that? I know he has a life. I know he has to get back to work.
    “What’s up with him?” I ask, hurt. I walk over to the kitchen table, pulling back the cellophane on a Bundt cake.
    She laughs. “Seriously? You really don’t know?”
    “No. I mean he just got all serious and left. I thought we could all share this cake and watch some Tim Burton movies like old times. But he left,” I say, taking a huge bite of cake.
    “Of course he did. You trampled over his feelings. What man would stay around for that?”
    I roll my eyes. “What are you talking