She opens her palm and there’s a beaded bracelet.
Thiago gasps, grabbing it. “A friendship bracelet? I love it.” He slides it on immediately.
“Do you like the colors?” she asks.
He flashes his wrist at the camera. The bracelet is blue, white, and yellow.
Thiago practically beams. “Are you kidding? This is elite. World-class jewelry right here.” He turns his wrist like he’s showing off a trophy. “Did you make it?”
She nods, and he pulls her into a bear hug, lifting her off the ground, all warmth and joy.
Lucky bastard.
Then it’s my turn. I step forward while my heart pounds so loud I swear everyone must hear it.
She reaches into her bag and pulls out a single bracelet. When her fingers brush my palm, heat shoots up my arm like someone plugged me back into my life.
It’s simple. Green and orange beads strung in a neat little row, white letters spelling my name.
My voice comes low, strained. “Thank you, lass.” I stretch the bracelet and slide it onto my wrist.
“Do you like the colors?” she asks quietly.
“I love it,” I say, and I mean every word.
June shoves her wrist toward me, still filming. “We got bracelets too.” Light pink beads spell JUNE. “Show him yours, Cat.”
Catalina lifts her sleeve. She holds out her arm.
Green and orange beads, just like mine, with white letters spelling her name.
Her cheeks warm, turning pink. It nearly undoes me.
I manage a small smile. “Thank you, lassies.” My voice is rough in my throat. I nod and step onto the bus before I embarrass myself in front of the lot.
I drop into my seat next to Thiago. He studies his bracelet like it’s gold.
“Feels like we’re going to a Taylor Swift concert,” he says, spinning the beads.
I glance at the bracelet on his wrist—Uruguay colors, and when he turns it, I catch two tiny beads showing the number 13. I look down at mine and turn it, and the back beads show my number too.
23.
My chest tightens.
I look at her bracelet across the aisle as she climbs aboard. She tucks her arm close, sleeve covering the beads.
What number did she put on hers?
Is it mine?
Am I still hers?
Or am I just a ghost in a friendship bracelet, praying I haven’t already lost the best thing that ever happened to me?
The winter wind hits the moment I step off the bus. Proper winter sharp, the kind that wakes you whether you want it to or not. Pine, wet stone, river chill cutting straight through the jacket. We’re in the Gorge, at Multnomah Falls, and even though I’ve been here before, it still gets under the ribs the way old memories do.
The lads hop down after me in their Strikers sweats, laughing, stretching, talking over each other. Thiago’s already announcing facts about moss, narrating a documentary none of us asked for. Someone pulls him in for a selfie, and he nearly fumbles the phone. Groans everywhere. The cold doesn’t dim them; they’re still buzzing.
