“And probably the nursing home too.”
“And picking up garbage in the park.”
“And walking dogs at the shelter.” Teddy laughs. “She totally gave my birthday present to a dog. Was it at least a cool dog? Like a Doberman or a basset hound? Please tell me you didn’t give it to a poodle or a Chihuahua.”
I roll my eyes at them. “You guys are the worst.”
“Here,” Leo says, pulling the pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket and handing it over to Teddy, who stares at the box in his palm.
“What’re these for?”
“You’re eighteen now. Just one of the perks.”
“What,” Teddy jokes, arching an eyebrow, “noPlayboy?”
“I figured you were probably pretty well stocked in that department.”
He laughs, then turns to me. “So what else do I get?”
Just over his shoulder, the refrigerator is covered in photos from when he was little, smiling to display a missing tooth or half-buried in a pile of leaves, and I try to remember what it was like when I knew him then, when I could look at him without feeling this way, without loving him so desperately. I’ve very nearly managed to capture it again—the flatness of it, effortless and uncomplicated—when I raise my eyes to find him watching me expectantly, and I give up.
It’s different now. And there’s no going back.
When I take his card out of my bag, I notice that my hand is shaking, and I realize—swiftly and suddenly—that I can’t do this. How in the world did I think I could?
This envelope—this small, thin rectangle of folded paper—is heavy with hope and possibility. I’ve tucked my whole heart inside of it. There’s no way I can stand by and watch him open it. Not here. Not now. Maybe not ever.
But before I can change my mind, before I can make up some excuse and shove it back into my bag, Teddy snatches it out of my hand.
“For me?” he says sweetly. “Thanks, Al.”
He’s the only one who ever calls me that, and he always has. But hearing it now, I’m overcome by a panic so strong I think I might tackle him to get it back.
“No,” I say, my voice a little choked as I reach for it. But Teddy holds it high with one long arm, oblivious to the look on my face. Out of the corner of my eye I see Leo register what’s happening, and to my relief he points at the card.
“I think that’s the wrong one, actually,” he says, and Teddy lowers it with a puzzled expression.
“But it has my name on it.” He runs a finger underneath my tiny handwriting. “See? Ted E. Bear.”
It’s my old nickname for him, one I haven’t used in years, and something about seeing it there on display, clutched in his hand, makes me go queasy.
“I forgot to sign it,” I say, trying to push the alarm out of my voice, but he isn’t listening anymore. He’s too busy opening the envelope.
I glance over at Leo, who gives me a helpless shrug, then back at Teddy, who is now flipping open the card. I’m so nervous about what I’ve written that I’ve actually forgotten about the lottery ticket, which is right there on top of my words—my awful, misguided, humiliating words—but Teddy holds the ticket up with a smile.
“Hey, look,” he says. “I’m gonna be rich.”
“Reallyrich,” says one of the basketball players—an enormous guy wearing a bow tie that may or may not be ironic—as he tries to elbow his way past us to get another drink. “They were just talking about it on the news. It’s a monster jackpot.”
As he continues to push toward the makeshift bar, he manages to bump into Leo, who stumbles into Teddy, who then drops the card, and for a brief, frozen moment I watch it happen as if in slow motion: the way it falls from Teddy’s hand, sailing to the floor, where it slides underneath the refrigerator with all the grace and purpose of a paper airplane.
We stare at the spot where it disappeared.
“Nice shot,” says Leo, raising his eyebrows.
“Sorry,” says the guy, backpedaling away from the scene.
“Oops,” says Teddy, dropping to his knees.
