Their pitying eyes plague me. “It’s fine. Really. I should focus on Wiley’s and Alice and Earl, and yeah, it’s fine.”
It’s a far cry from fine, but it will be one day—someday soon, I hope. So, today I’m going to embrace rekindling the friendship. The kiss quest can wait. What’s another twenty-two years?
I grab my towels, signaling everyone that they should leave so I can get on with my day. I’m not about to be derailed with delusions of grandeur. I need to email Oscar back about Alice. I also promised my mom I’d stop by before my night shift to help her pack up some of Bella’s Bottles, the painted, light-up wine bottles she makes and sells on Etsy. It’s her side hustle when she’s not the front-desk receptionist at an eye doctor—the one I go to and the reason I can afford my semi-stylish frames and not have to wear the tragic bargain-bin ones I used to buy.
Avery gives me one last look. “There’s nothing wrong with focusing on you for a change. You know that, right?”
Ignoring her inconvenient wisdom, I turn to Mateo. “Thanks for breakfast.”
“Thanks for not firing me,” he says.
The amateur chefs scuttle out of my room.
Before I step all the way into the bathroom, I call into the living room, “Oh, by the way, Mateo’s your responsibility now, Aves. Concessions duty as punishment for his first strike!” Avery’s groan echoes through the whole apartment, while Mateo’s happy shriek rings in sharp contrast.
I turn on the shower with actual intention of getting in. No emotional water wasting today. I need to wash off the Lonely Lass-O. As I wait for it to warm up, which could take forever since this is an old building, I open Derick’s text again and draft a reply:
Too much grainy sugar on a sour gummy worm, too much sauce and powdered sugar on a funnel cake, too much salt on a pretzel (and that’s not even counting the dips!). I make exceptions for unbuttered, unsalted popcorn; Starbursts; Swedish Fish; and my all-time favorite: Twizzlers. ESPECIALLY the cherry Pull ’n’ Peels.
As usual, I select a Spotify playlist to listen to while washing up before setting my phone on top of the toilet to get the best acoustics. I choose Derick’s and my old collaborative playlist. What’s a rousing collection of songs among friends anyway?
Still waiting, I stare at my scrawny frame in the streaky mirror. My mediocre muscles make it clear I’m not equipped to renovate a spooky house all alone. Sure, I can handle the small stuff, but the heavy lifting? My body’s not the powerhouse I wish it were.
I don’t have the money to pay for a crew, and I can’t rope Mateo and Avery into any more of my shenanigans. Which leaves me to wonder: Who am I to turn my nose up at a strapping volunteer?
Because of this, I rush out another reply before I can think too hard about it:
If you were serious about the offer, meet me at Dunkin’ Donuts at 7 a.m. sharp on Wednesday. Bring your toolbox. We ride to Alice’s for 8.
Twitter
@WileysDriveInWV
Don’t mind messy foods? Like eating with your hands? Don’t forget to stop by our snack shack on your next visit to Wiley’s Drive-In! Our updated menu features film-going favorites. Napkins needed! See full details in the photos below.
3 replies. 2 Retweets. 13 Likes.
@MovieFanatic198Dang! Wish I lived closer. I’d kill for a funnel cake right about now!!!
@420BlazinBoiiPerfect food for a case of the munchies
@RolandOnTheRiver14I feel personally attacked by this tweet.
Chapter 11
Dunkin’ Donuts at 7:00 a.m. on a Wednesday is a war zone. Undercaffeinated people grip and grab for whatever sugary, syrupy drink in the largest size they can get their hands on. This is why I avoid mornings like they’re the plague.
Today, I have no choice.
I arrive early to make sure I snag a table. I have an iced oat-milk chai at my side. Picking at my hash browns with a fork, I brush off my nerves.
The nerves, however, come crawling back when Derick pushes through the glass front doors. The mere sight of him is like a thousand little bites.
He’s wearing a purple tank top that I remember from high school, probably plucked from the bottom of a rarely opened drawer. When he spots me, he comes over and dives in for a hug. He’s always been a hugger. He smells like papaya-scented sunscreen and sweat. There’s already a dark triangular stain pointing down from the loose collar.
“Sorry I’m damp. I had to get in my run a lot earlier this morning. I figured there was no point in showering just to work up a sweat again.”
“Makes sense since we’ll be painting and hammering and screwing all day.”
