We drove the few miles south into town, passing sod farms, vegetable and fruit stands, a small trailer park, and several large old barns. With the sun falling in the never-ending expanse of vast, darkening sky, and a sentimental mix of Linkin Park, Alice in Chains, Pearl Jam, and other antiquated rockers creating a soundtrack through the truck speakers, I found calm in words unspoken. There was no need for pleasantries. Obvious questions overshadowed any small talk I could muster.
Matt pulled into the parking lot of the Stop N’ Shop and grabbed a cart for our groceries. My first order of business was to find a cheap coffee pot, followed by sunscreen, bug spray, coffee, deodorant, and soap. I didn’t need lots of food, but I tossed a package of Oreos into the cart. Matt added a canister of barbecue flavored Pringles, smiling at me, igniting memories. Anytime I ate barbecue Pringles, I was instantly transported back to his oversized beach towel.
Old friends are like that, though, I told myself, heaving a 24-pack of bottled water into the cart.They leave you with hyper-specific memories.
In the beer aisle, Matt stopped in front of a refrigerated display of cans and bottles.
“What’ll it be, Roberts?” he asked, grabbing a six-pack of Coors Light.
I considered the options. “I’m not much of a drinker,” I admitted. I hated beer, never could get a taste for it. And, unlike lots of girls my age, I wasn’t into wine, either. I liked sweet, fruity, blended drinks, like piña coladas and mudslides, stuff you would drink on vacation to someplace like Aruba, not that I’d ever been. “I don’t know. Any recommendations?”
Matt laughed. “Seriously? You don’t even know what you like?” When I didn’t respond, he reached for a six-pack of Mike’s Hard Lemonade. “Try this. You won’t even know there’s alcohol in there.”
I tossed in a pack of cinnamon flavored gum at the register and helped Matt load the groceries into the back of the truck. Driving back, he lowered the music.
“So, we’ll drop the stuff off at your cabin and then head down to the cliff. Make sure you grab a sweatshirt. It’s not really cold, but there’s a breeze in the evening. You’ll be more comfortable with an extra layer.”
“I remember, but thanks. You go down there a lot?”
“Not really. A few times at sunset. When there was no one here and I just wanted to think.”
“Yeah. I’m sure it’ll get busy once all the counselors arrive.”
“Big make out spot,” he agreed.
“Just to clarify, I will not be making out with you tonight,” I informed him, my stomach flipping at the very idea.
“Oh. Well, then, what am I wasting my time for?” he joked, pulling the car over to the side of the road alongside a cornfield. “You’ll be fine walking the rest of the way back, right?”
“Are you kidding me?” I cried.
“Only if you agree that we’re making out later,” he taunted.
“I will agree to no such thing.” I laughed.
“Tomorrow, then?” He smirked as he pulled back onto the road. I changed the music to the radio, settling on an obnoxious pop song that I knew he would despise. I cranked the volume.
“I hate you,” he said, turning the music down.
“Nope. You’re so happy I’m here. Actually, this is probably the best day of your life.”
Grinning, Matt turned back onto the camp road. We drove past the Gate House, the sky milking the sun for its last few drops of light before the darkness began to settle in.
“We’re going straight to the cliff,” he decided. “Otherwise we’ll miss the sunset.”
“But what about the sweatshirt?”
“Check the backseat. I think I have one there.”
I turned and scanned the back, noticing the toolbox on the floor and an old home repair manual on the seat. Under the paperback, a gray hoodie was rolled up. I reached for it, the truck bouncing down the uneven road. Unbuckling my seatbelt, I inserted my arms into the oversized fleece-lined sleeves and pulled the shirt over my head. For a split second, I paused before poking my head up through the hood. I inhaled, and Matt’s scent consumed me. Fabric softener, cigarette smoke, men’s deodorant, and the remnants of cologne blended together to create an aromatic cocoon. It lingered in my nostrils as I adjusted the hoodie over myself. I swam in it. He looked over and gave me a satisfied nod, then stopped the truck at the end of the road, about 30 feet from the cliff’s edge.
“Come on,” he said, unlocking the doors and climbing out. He went around and lowered the tailgate on the back of the truck, grabbing a beer and a bottle of Mike’s.
We walked past the gazebo to the edge of the cliff, where all that separated us from the drop was a short lattice fence. Matt sat downon a thick, skinned log that served as a makeshift bench and motioned for me to sit beside him. Fireflies danced along the cliff’s edge against a backdrop of warm, tangerine streaks that sliced through the purple and pink sky like a fresh bruise emanating from the distant, setting sun.
“I forgot how stunning it was,” I whispered.
“Right?” Matt replied, staring out at the horizon.
