“Are you really going to let a little salt ruin all your plans?” His eyes smile, and there’s a lilt of lightness in his tone.
At that, the tears are back, and I pull my hand from his to quickly wipe them away. “It was more than a little salt, Miles.” I cringe to think of the cups and cups that had gone into those desserts.
“Life has a funny way of showing us what we’re made of and of bringing us exactly what—and who—we need.”
My gaze travels from our hands to his face, stopping when I meet his eyes.
“I’m terrified,” I say.
“So was I,” he says. Then, slowly and firmly, he says, “But you’re not alone.”
He’s right. I’m not. The thought is humbling, and I feel undeserving somehow.
“You think doing this big thing, on your own, means handling everything by yourself, but it doesn’t. It’s okay to ask for help.” He puts a hand on my shoulder and gently squeezes. “That’s what friends are for, you know?”
I draw in a breath and look around, thinking about everything Miles has been through. I’m amazed that he’s come out of it strong enough to create something as beautiful as the park we’re sitting in.
But I’m not sure I have the same strength.
Miles pats my shoulder twice, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone and what looks like a blue hockey puck. “Okay, so I have a confession.”
“Not the greatest way to start a sentence with me.”
He winces. “Ope. You’re right. Sorry. It’s nothing bad. Just... when everything happened earlier, I reached out to Minnie.”
“You did not,” I say, instantly embarrassed. “Did you tell her what happened?”
“She already knew,” he says. “She follows all your accounts, and she has it set up so she’s alerted every time someone mentions your name or your business.”
I close my eyes and groan, hoping that John isn’t tech savvy enough to do the same. But as soon as that thought enters my head, another one replaces it—Who cares what John thinks?
He clicks around on his phone, then sets the hockey puck—which I now see is a small Bluetooth speaker—down on the bench. “She told me that when she was little, if she ever had a bad day, the two of you had a tradition.”
His phone. A speaker. My eyes widen.
“And sinceshecan’t be here, she made me promise that I’d do it with you.”
I think back to the years I spent dedicating every free second to being Minnie’s mom.
I’m momentarily struck with a wave of sadness that this time in my life has come and gone, in some ways, when I wasn’t even looking.
But then I hear the familiar a capella opening of ABBA’s “Take a Chance on Me” on the speaker.
I’m instantly transported back to Minnie’s very torturous middle school years. They were marked with mean girls and first crushes and embarrassing puberty mishaps, and somehow, showing up in her room, blasting ABBA and forcing her to get up and dance with me, was usually all it took to shift the mood.
In spite of everything, I smile.
Miles looks right at me, holds up his phone, and clicks the volume all the way up. It’s loud enough now to where people around us hear it.
He stands and offers me a hand. “Dance with me?”
I look around. “Here?”
He shrugs. “Why not?”
“There are people,” I say dumbly.
“Who cares?” He shakes his hips as the drums kick in, and he starts to sing along—badly. A few of the kids notice him and start laughing, but Miles doesn’t seem to care. He starts doing a strange disco move, pointing his fingers and undulating his shoulders, first to one side, then the other.
