“You know I wouldn’t mind,” I said, watching her carefully. Not quite believing. “You’re allowed a life. Just disregard my disgust at the thought of you getting it on with anyone.”
“I appreciate that, honey.” She gave me a dry look. “But Edie, I’m not seeing anybody.”
Slowly, I let out a breath. “Okay.”
“Coffee and cake-pop?”
“Would be potentially lifesaving right now.”
She grinned. “A girl after my own heart. C’mon.”
And all was well again. Mostly.
On Monday, I put a bag of homemade cookies on John’s desk in English. He raised a brow, then stowed them in his backpack. We didn’t talk.
On Tuesday, I handed him a cupcake as we passed in the hall. The word sorry hadn’t quite fit on top, but I thought the S done in green icing said a lot. We still didn’t talk.
On Wednesday, out of both baked goods and money, I slipped a haiku titled “I’m the Worst” into his locker. Writing a song was out. At first I’d attempted a sonnet, until the realization that I sucked at poetry struck home, and anyway haikus were shorter. I didn’t actually see him that day.
On Thursday, in English once again, I placed a small, neatly wrapped brown paper package on his desk. Tired shadows lay beneath his eyes. He cocked his head, curious or confused, I couldn’t say.
“Lettuce, ham, Swiss cheese, and pickles,” I supplied.
“You made me a sandwich?”
“Yes.”
“Huh.”
“You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to.”
“No,” he said, placing a proprietorial hand on the sandwich. “I want to.”
“Okay.” With that settled, I turned in my seat, facing the front of the class.
“Edie?”
I looked over my shoulder. “Yes?”
“You’re forgiven,” he said. “You can stop with the presents.”
I exhaled slowly. “That’s good. I’m running low on ideas. Tomorrow it was probably going to be me offering to carry your books.”
“You were gonna carry my books?” Amusement filled his eyes.
“Sure. Why not?” I asked. “If it went on into the weekend, I figured I’d wash your car or something.”
He paused. Then shook his head, long hair falling forward to hide a grin. “I should have held out.”
“John, I don’t think you’re a bad person—and I do trust you.”
He just stared at me. “Thanks.”
Suddenly, breathing came easier. Like my now healed ribs had shrunk, but now returned to their normal size. If John had decided I’d been too much drama, I’d have survived. I know this. Forgiveness felt much better, though. The clip-clopping of heels announced the arrival of our teacher. I faced forward with a smile.
That night . . .
Me: You awake?
John: Yes
Me: What are you doing?
John: TV. You ok?
Me: All g. Want to study?
John: there in 15
Guess he was antsy because as soon as he arrived, he suggested a drive instead. We went to a roadhouse out on the highway leading into the state forest. It was a long, cabin-type building with a big Bud sign lit up on top. Bet they hung dead animal heads on the walls. Even in the middle of the night, a few trucks and bikes were out front.
“I don’t have a fake ID,” I said, asphalt crunching beneath my feet.
“You won’t need it. Owner’s an old friend of my dad’s.”
“Wow. First time under-age drinking in a bar.”
He held up a hand and we high-fived. A warmth filled my chest that had nothing to do with alcohol or drugs. It felt good to have my friend back.
Inside, there were booths and a long wooden bar, tables in between. Country music poured out of an old-style jukebox. Dead animal heads—I knew it. A small dance floor and a couple of pool tables sat to the side.
“Do you play?” I asked, heading in that direction.
“Sure.”
“John.” A waitress in her mid-twenties sidled up to him with a very welcoming grin. Very pretty with a tight denim skirt. Next came a full-body-contact hug. They either already knew each other in the biblical sense or she wanted them to. Lay your bets.
“Ruby. Hey.” He gave her a squeeze before stepping back. “This is my friend Edie.”
“Hi.” Her smile wavered slightly as her eyes flicked over me. They’d definitely done it. “Welcome.”
“Can we get a cider and a beer?” he asked.
“Coming right up!” Ruby sashayed off, throwing a little extra something into the sway of her hips. Of course, John watched.
I set up the balls and selected a stick, rubbing a little chalk on the tip. As for me, not jealous because that would be pointless. Completely and utterly futile. The stupid part of me that insisting on mooning over him could just shut up.
John cleared his throat. “Hope that’s okay?”
“What?”
“Cider? I noticed you’re not really that into beer, so . . .”
“Oh, right. Cool. Thanks.” Shoulders relaxed, breathing easy. “Do you want to break?”
“No, you go.”
Leaning over the table, I lined up my shot. The white ball smashed into the side of the neat triangle of colored balls, sending them scattering in every direction. One kerplunked into a corner hole. Very gratifying.
“Nice,” said John.
I loved this, the brush of the felt against my fingers and the feel of the stick in my hand. Especially the satisfying crack the balls made upon impact followed by the sound as they rolled through the tunnels beneath the table down to the end. I was in the zone now. For the next shot, I sent another ball down. And then another.
“You’ve played before,” he said.
I squatted a little, lining up the next shot in my head. “Mom had this boyfriend for a while. He was great. He had a table, taught me how to play.”
John made a noise in his throat.
“I think he wanted to take things further with Mom, but she wasn’t ready. Pity.” The shot went wild and I winced. “Damn. Your turn.”
Ruby came back with the drinks, setting them on the tall table beside John. She winked. He smiled. I gulped half of my drink.
“Here’s to friendship,” I said, and set the glass back down.
John took down a stick and bent over the table, taking his shot. I tried not to look at the way his jeans melded to his butt, and failed. As per usual, what I screwed up he achieved with reckless ease. One ball went down, followed fast by another.
“Have you seen your brother lately?”
“Yeah.” A storm cloud moved across his face. “He came over the other night, wanted to talk to me about getting back into selling. I told him no. Again. My uncle won’t have him in the house; he knows what shit Dillon’s into. There was some yelling. It wasn’t good.” He missed the shot, came over to the table, and started in on his drink. “Anyway, how’s the therapist going?”
“Well, we’ve moved beyond only talking about movies.” Guess we’d hit the no-holds-barred part of the night. I took my shot and the ball sunk. “I told him about you.”
John’s face went blank. “Yeah?”
“His professional opinion was that our being friends after going through such a traumatic experience together could be both beneficial and harmful.”
He said nothing, bringing the bottle of beer to his lips.
“Therapists talk in circles sometimes.”
A grunt. “But you’re talking to him about your focus and insomnia and stuff now?”
“Yeah.” I nodded. It hadn’t been easy, but I’d done it. And been given another prescription and some coping techniques in the process. We’d see if they worked.
“Good,” he said.
Another ball sunk. “Should I not have mentioned you?”
“Whatever helps, I guess.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “I can stop talking about you with Mr. Solomon if you’d rather I not. He was just asking about my friends.”
“It’s okay, Edie.”