The first one read:
Then:
And so on.
But my favorite is the one on my biggest cactus. It reads:The only prick worth dealing with. Each sign had a small graphic that went with the corny saying. It was perfect! I don’t remember the last time anyone did anything even remotely this nice for me.
That’s a lie; I do remember the last time—the last person. It was Liam. He’d leave me little notes everywhere when I was a kid. Apparently, his mom would often leave notes for him and his siblings in their lunchboxes and he thought I’d appreciate it. I did. AfterTheIncident, it was probably what I missed the most. But I didn’t miss it for long.
I found notes as I packed for Montreal, and again when I unpacked in my dorm room. I even found some when I moved backin with my dad—when I was packing up all my belongings to move into this house. I like to say I threw them out as I found them, but the romantic in me kept them all in a couple of shoe boxes under my bed.
I pulled one of the boxes out last night after I saw the signs. There must be hundreds of them. I don’t remember when he started leaving them for me, exactly, but I do know that I rarely went a day without one. There was one for every test, every struggle, every happy event like birthdays and graduations—even when I received a participation trophy because I suck at sports—and every academic event and award. My favorite, though, were thejust becauseones. The ones wishing me a good day, or the ones with a corny joke.
I’d like to say I pushed the box all the way under my bed, never to be looked at again, but that would be a lie. The box has been pulled out—like a comfort blanket—after every bad date, every time I wasn’t invited to a party, every time I aced a test, every time I felt lonely. It’s been my ultimate guilty pleasure.
I could say that I got over Liam Jones years ago. That my feelings disappeared for him that night, but I’d be lying. I never understood the sayingthere’s a fine line between love and hate, until Liam. He was the one person I always thought I could never hate, and would always love.
Now, I’m sitting on my bed with the open shoe box on my lap wondering if I ever really hated him. Would I have kept these notes if I truly hated him? Did I keep them hoping that one day I’d get the validation that I wasn’t crazy—that Liam felt something for me. Or that one day,when I was in a steady, healthy relationship, I’d find these and laugh at my childhood love for a man that never saw me as anything more than his best friend’s, clingy little sister.
Looking back on that night seven years ago, as an adult with a little bit more life and maturity under her belt, I can understand Liam’s reaction . . . well, a little, I guess. I can honestly say I don’t know what I would have done at the age of twenty-seven if a barely-eighteen-year-old—who I had known my entire life, and who was my best friend’s younger sibling—had drunkenly thrown themselves at me.
His reaction wasn’t his fault. And I’m more than certain that if I would have stayed at his house, and not run away like a scared teenager, he would have made me pancakes the next morning and would have apologized. Because if there was anything Liam hated in life, it was for me to be upset.
I close the box back up and I’m hit with the realization of how much growing up sucks. The older you get, the more you start to realize how stupid you were, and how quick you had big emotional outbursts, in your teen years. Because no matter how right you thought you were at sixteen, seventeen, or even eighteen, you realize, with a little growth, that you definitely had no idea what you were doing. That you were probably in way over your head.
I get up off my bed with a huff, knowing I need to make nice with Liam. He extended an olive branch with his funny little puns; I can’t just leave him hanging. But what to do?
Not knowing what to do, I send Cassie a quick text.
What do you do when you mess up and Ro is mad at you?
She wastes no time responding.
I really don’t think you want the answer to that question . . .
Eww. Before I can respond, she says:
Just kidding, but that does work. Usually, I start off with cooking his favorite meal.
Sending off a quickthank youtext and a promise to call her later, I set off to the grocery store to get what I need to make Liam some homemademac and cheese.
Four hours later, I’m nervously knocking on Liam’s bedroom door, letting him know that I made supper, if he wanted to join me. I should have asked him if he wanted to eat with me before going through the effort of making his favorite meal. Is it even still his favorite meal? Does a thirty-five-year-old still eat mac and cheese?
Nervously, I pull at the hem of the old T-shirt I’m wearing as he follows me to the small dining room off the kitchen in the front of the house, where two plates and a dish full of mac and cheese is waiting for us.
“Is that macaroni and cheese?” Liam asks me, voice full of excitement, the minute the smell hits his nose. His instant excitement at the dish calms my nerves.
“Yeah,” I tell him, feeling myself relax as I sit down in my chair.
“Jesus, Sloane. I can’t remember the last time I had homemade mac and cheese!” he says, walking around the table to his spot. He graduated to a cane a few days ago and is getting around a lot easier, though I’ve caught him wince in pain a few times a day.
“It’s your mom’s recipe,” I tell him, after dishing servings out onto both of our plates. He doesn’t respond to me right away, instead taking an enormous bite before I can tell him to be careful because it just came out of the oven. Unable to help it, I let out a giggle at his attempt to not burn his mouth.
“It just came out of the oven!” I say, as I pour him a tall glass of cold water from the pitcher I had placed on the table.
“This is amazing!” he says, once he’d swallowed his bite and drank half the glass of water. “You really didn’t have to make me supper, though,” he says, taking another careful bite.
“I should have done this the moment you moved in instead of being difficult. Seriously, I was a complete bitch and you had just gotten hit by a car,” I tell him honestly. “I mean, I never even asked how you were doing.” I hear the shame seep into my voice as I look away from him.
