“Don’t say that, Brett.”
“I’ll say it to his face.Havesaid it to his face. I’ve never met a more emotionally guarded moron in my life. I love him to death, but fuck is he stupid.”
“He didn’t do anything.”
“That’s the problem! He didn’t doanything.Just allowed it all to go to shit.”
“It wasn’t his to fix, Brett. He didn’t ask me to have feelings for him. I created this.” My voice cracks with the admission, and I look away, off in the direction Bowen drove away just a few minutes ago. Ihatethat my heart is begging for him to come back. To be the Bowen he used to be and fix it. Fix all of it. To brush my too-long hair out of my eyes. To bump his shoulderagainst mine, quiet as we both listen to Brett go on and on about how cute his girlfriend is.
I’d take him tiptoeing around my flustered feelings like it started overthis. If I could go back and tell thirteen-year-old me anything, I would tell him to grow up and accept Bowen’s love in the way he could give it, because having it taken away completely? I don’t know if I’ll ever fully recover. Certainly doesn’t feel like it now. All I can hope is that in a few years, this will be an old scar that barely registers when poked. And itwillbe poked. I get to see him in Brett every time I look at him.
“This is probably for the best, anyway. We had to grow up sometime, right? Couldn’t all be attached at the hip forever.”
Brett is quiet. Something he is more often now. I hate that, too. Like he has to choose his words carefully now instead of blurting out whatever feels right, like he used to. Like he has to be a watered-down version of himself for me.
Hate. It.
But it’s something else I can’t fix. Something that evolved over years of me being soft and sensitive. Years of me telling them I was strong and then proving how fragile I actually am. Being a selfish, broken brat. So, yeah.
The mess I created. How fun.
“Wanna have a sleepover?”
I blink. That’s not at all what I expected to come after the silence. But Brett’s face slowly breaks into a devastating, dazzling smile that warms his eyes. “Yeah. Fuck, yeah, Kat-boy. That’s exactly what we need. The attic. Too many snacks.Shrek.”
“Brett…”
But he’s already hopping up off the porch, smiling and holding his hands over his ears. “Don’t wanna hear it, Kit. We’re having asleep. Over.”He jogs back to his Jeep but stops and yells, “Be there, or I’ll come over here and Kat-nap you, Kit Meyer. Right in front of your parents—and youknow I will.” He goes to get in, but yells over his shoulder, “And wear those PJ pants I got you with my face on the crotch!”
Kit
Age 18
The attic is hotter than hell. I’m a sweaty starfish on the floor, in my pjs, wondering how the hell this used to be our hangout at their house when it was hot outside.
Now, apparently, it’s Bowen’s room. Judging entirely by the bed where the couch used to be and all of his clothes in the closet that we used to store snacks and board games.
We’ve got three mismatched blankets spread over the worn carpet; two fans propped in the corners doing absolutely nothing, and a half-eaten bag of gummy worms melting into the snack pile between us.
It feels like we’re twelve again.
Brett has his feet propped on the old bean bag chair, fiddling with his ancient DVD player. “We’re doingShrekfirst,” he declares, giving me araised brow like he dares me to argue. “ThenThe Hangover. Then we cry overThe Notebook. Tradition, Kat-boy. Don’t fight me.”
“I would never dream of defying tradition,” I say, flat on my back. My voice comes out easier than I had expected. Maybe it’s the sugar rush. Maybe it’s Brett’s presence, his ability to pull the sun back into my orbit even when I’m floating away out in the dark. It’s nice to feel the sun again. Even if it's only for a little while.
He flops down beside me and stretches out, one arm behind his head. “It’s good, right? Just us. Like old times.”
“Yeah,” I agree, and I almost believe it.
He hums a little, fingers drumming a nonsense beat against the carpet. “You ever think about when we were little?”
I don’t have to ask what he means.
“Every day,” I admit softly. Though I wish I didn't.
There’s a beat of silence, and then Brett says, casually…toocasually…” I think he misses it, too. Even though he doesn’t act like it.”
I don’t answer.
