My fingers ache after thirty seconds. As if there wasn’t something else to admire about the woman, the muscles in her hand are right up there at the top of the list.
“I invited Miles to dinner. Is that okay?”
I search both of their faces for approval. My dad pays little attention to anything but the can of olives he’s trying to open with an electric opener. His frustration mounts with each failed attempt.
“Of course it is. We love Miles,” my mom says. “Speaking of Miles, how’s his dad doing? We heard he’s been in the hospital.”
What? His dad has been in the hospital? How am I the last person on earth to hear about this?
A rapping sound comes from the front door.
“Why don’t you ask him yourself,” my dad says to my mom as she hollers, “Come in.”
The handle twists at the same time the door cracks.
My mom abandons her smoothed-out dough next to my glob and races to the door, wrapping Miles in a hug with her forearms. Flour flakes from her fingertips all over the tops of his tennis shoes.
I swallow at the sight of him. He’s dressed up. Well, as dressed up as I thinkfisherman Mileswill ever be, in a short-sleeve button-up shirt and jeans. He gives me his trademark side smile as my mom squeezes him.
“We’re so glad you came!” she sings. “Aren’t we, Arch?”
“What? Oh, mhm,” he mutters over the sound of the can opener whirring in midair.
My mom releases Miles and gives me an expectant look. “We were just talking about your dad, weren’t we, Teddy?”
His eyes snap to mine. All I can do is stare in his direction to see how he’ll react. Does he want me to know?
“Is he doing better?” my mom continues.
Miles and I are standing there staring at each other like two people stuck in a crazy time warp. Miles looks away first.
“He is. Thank you for asking, Mrs. Fletcher.”
He is? He is, what? Hurt? Dying? I wouldn’t know because someone who I thought was my best friend doesn’t tell me anything anymore.I can feel everyone’s eyes volley between me and Miles.
My mom, now back at the counter, uses a rolling pin to flatten the balls into crust and lays the compressed rounds on the top of a pizza stone.
“Dinner should be ready in about fifteen minutes if you two need to catch up.”
I can feel the anger bubbling up and boiling over as I stammer, “There’s nothing to catch up about. I’m not feeling very hungry.”
I push my way up the stairs, and I hear Miles call from below, “Teddy, wait…”
“I’m so sorry,” my mom apologizes. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her.”
“No, it’s okay, Mrs. Fletcher. I got this.” I can hear the hardwood groan as he climbs up after me.
I don’t care that he’s just a few steps behind, I shut the door when I get inside my room and pull out my sketchbook, throwing myself on top of my bed and opening to a blank page.
If he’s going to tell everyone about his life but me, fine. He doesn’t get to know a damn thing about mine anymore either.
Three soft tapping sounds rattle my slatted door.
“Teddy, can we talk?” he asks.
“I don’t have anything nice to say.”
“That’s okay. You don’t have to say anything at all. I’m the one who needs to do the talking,” he says.
