Vincent Cooper
PAST (2016)
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“If you wanna write a song, ask a guitar.”
Neil Young
Nova hops down from the bus first, her long brown hair bouncing against her shoulders as she adjusts the strap of her backpack. I follow right behind, while Steven lingers, still buried in the last pages ofThe Green Mile. He walks with the kind of focus that makes you feel invisible, like the world could end around him and he wouldn’t notice until he’d reached the acknowledgments. Along with his backpack, he’s carrying a small duffel bag—his overnight kit for yet another sleepover at my place.
It’s been like this ever since we met: twice a week, without fail, Steven crashes at my house. Sometimes we talk until dawn; other times he just raids the fridge, watch movies, listen to music, grumbles about homework, and passes out on the couch.Either way, his presence has become part of the rhythm of my weeks.
Steven White is, hands down, the best friend I could’ve stumbled into.
Not because he’s perfect—he’s far from it. And honestly, I’m worse. But that’s okay.
He swears like a sailor, snaps when he’s tired, and carries a chip on his shoulder big enough to bruise anyone who gets too close. But ever since we became friends, I’ve seen him change in ways I don’t think even he notices. He doesn’t bark back at teachers anymore. He doesn’t slam doors just to prove a point. And once in a while—when he thinks no one’s watching—he smiles.
Plus, the guy is basically a pastry wizard. I’ve been to his family’s bakery more times than I can count, and I’m telling you: no one bakes like Steven. Not even my dad. And Daniel is ridiculously talented when it comes to baking. Steven just... has something extra. Something that makes every bite unforgettable.
I fall into step beside Nova, about to ask if she wants to come over, but then a little voice cuts through the air and beats me to it.
“Na-na!”
I barely have time to register the shout before Asher comes barreling toward us, his stubby legs pumping like pistons, his beloved stuffed Toothless clenched tight in his arms.
His hands are streaked with paint—blue and red and a weird shade of green—and his cheeks are smeared with what I’m willing to bet is apricot jam. That kid lives for apricot jam. He’d put it on spaghetti if someone let him.
“Ashy-boo!” Nova squeals, her whole face lighting up. She drops her backpack right in the middle of the sidewalk and bolts to meet him, scooping him up and spinning him aroundin circles. His giggles are loud and unrestrained, the kind that make strangers smile even if they don’t know why.
I grab her abandoned bag and sling it over my shoulder, watching the two of them with a grin tugging at my lips. Beside me, Steven pretends not to care, but I catch the flicker in his eyes as he glances at them. He hides it well, though, and goes back to pretending his book is the only thing in the universe worth acknowledging.
Nova comes back to us, slightly out of breath, with Asher clinging to her back like a little monkey. “So, we’ll see you t—”
“Vi-vi!” Asher interrupts, his voice bubbling with excitement.
He squirms so much that Nova nearly loses her balance, stumbling forward a step as she tries not to drop him.
“Easy there, Ash,” she laughs.
“I’ve got him, Marshall,” I say, already holding out my arms.
Asher doesn’t need convincing. His whole face lights up as he throws himself at me, wrapping his tiny arms around my neck. His sticky hands leave faint smears of color on my shirt, but I don’t even care.
“Vi-vi!” he shouts again, his laughter bursting out of him like fireworks.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, holding him steady. “Ashy-boo wants a cookie with jam?”
He grabs one of my fingers in his messy little hand and nods furiously. His eyes are sparkling, and then he whips his head toward Nova, tugging on her sleeve.
“You want a cookie, Ashy-boo?” she asks, pressing a kiss to his jam-stained cheek.
Another eager nod. This time, though, Steven finally speaks up. “Lucky for you, I know the recipe for the best apricot jam cookies.”
The three of us freeze and turn to stare at him. Like,really stare. Steven looks back at us, unimpressed. Then he justshrugs, shuts his book with a casual snap, tucks it under his arm, and starts walking toward my house.
“What?” he says flatly. “You look like you just caught the principal fucking Mr Jones.”
