“No, I’ve got it—” I say, stooping to sop up the mess.
This cacophony ends with Ari and I bumping heads on our way to the floor.
“I said I had it!” Ari snaps, and I’m taken aback.
“I was just trying to help,” I mumble, rubbing my forehead. I hold out the danish. “Will you at least take this, or are you too stubborn for sugar too?”
She scowls and snatches the pastry out of my hand. “The problem is, now you’re more hurt than you were. And now I have to feel even worse about that.”
I’ve had about enough of Aria’s shit this morning. I’m being nice, and she’s treating me like the scum of the earth. “Blame the victim, why don’t you?”
Those marbled green eyes narrow at me and her voice lowers. “You’re right, Brodie. You’re always the victim.”
A lump rises in my throat as Aria scrubs the last of the water off the floor and stands. She tosses the towel into a dish bin by the door and takes a big, honkin’ bite off the danish. The bell over the door heralds her exit as she leaves without a word.
FOUR
ARIA
Gramps always called beingin a bad mood a “bad hair day.” For years, I didn’t get it. I had somewhat unruly hair from all my outdoor romping, but I wasn’t unkempt by any means. Now I get what he meant.
I’m having a bad hair day.
I sit in my parked car, pretending no one can see me despite being on Foxboro’s busiest street. I shove that cheese danish in my mouth like it’s the last food on earth.
“Fuck, that’s good,” I manage, little sprays of flaky pastry blowing out my lips. If someone fun was here, we could laugh about it.
But no one fun is here because the closest friend I ever had was just a drama queen in his sister’s coffee shop.
I can’t shake my irritation all the way to Granny’s house. My car is old and janky and doesn’t have cupholders, so I drive in a haphazard way, my elbow resting on the middle console with the cup in my hand. I’m afraid if I put it between my legs, it’ll spill in my lap.
That’d be a really bad hair day.
Because then, I’d have not only a burned crotch, but Granny to pick on me for having a stain on my dress. She’s probablygoing to bitch about my dress anyway, even though I went out of my way to show her how grown up and suitably feminine I am. Now that Gramps is gone, I don’t have him as a buffer to spare me from her wrath.
You dress like such a mongrel, Ri.
I buy you such beautiful dresses and you only wear them to church.
One time, just to grind her gears, I wore my Sunday best out into the woods. Brodie and I had a field day trashing it: romping in the creek, sitting in mud, rolling down the hill behind Richard’s house, which had become a second home for us. Richard stocked our favorite treats and drinks in his kitchen, free for us to come and go while we hiked the woods. He didn’t make a peep about how I treated my dress, just shook his head and laughed.
To be clear, I didn’t ruin the dress. I just made it a pain in the ass to wash to get back at Granny’s sniping.
When I got home that day, Gramps cracked up, took me out in the yard, and hosed me off like a dog. We made it a game.
My heart pangs. I miss him.
I pull into the driveway of Granny’s single story mid-century home, steeling myself with a sip of Skye’s coffee. Alright. That’s good too. I didn’t even bother with sugar and cream because . . . more time around Brodie that I didn’t want.
It’s all so strange. When I first saw him the other day, it was in the woods. Everything for us happened in the woods. It’s where we became friends, playing pretend and exploring. Where he told me his deepest fears of someone not liking him and dying alone. Where we sat together on a mossy limestone boulder, not daring to look at each other while his sweaty hand clamped over mine. Where, one day when I was thirteen and he was fifteen, he asked if I’d ever kissed anyone while we stood next to the sycamore tree with our initials carved into it. When I said no,he asked if I wanted to kiss him. I was certain, at that time, that if you looked up “the person who hung the moon” in the dictionary, Brodie Campbell’s face would be next to it.
Never mind that phrases aren’t in the dictionary.
So, with clumsy hands and thundering hearts, we kissed. Lips puckered, pressing them together over and over because that’s what we thought we were supposed to do. I tried swiping my tongue into his mouth, and he jerked away from me. I felt like I’d ruined everything.
“What? I saw it on TV,” I said.
I could see his heartbeat in the fabric of his shirt, his eyes wild and breath shaky. “I like it.”
