I shake my head as I reach for a bag of popcorn in a cabinet. “No. We’re just friends.”
“Okay. What does he think we are?” He uses his finger to point between us.
“Friends.” I peel the plastic off the bag of popcorn before placing it in the microwave, the beeps and noise a welcome interruption.
“It’s weird seeing him with you,” Milo admits.
I scrunch my forehead, turning back to face him. “Why?”
“Well, he was in Emma’s class, and I always thought Emma liked him.”
“No,” I say immediately. “She didn’t like him.”
“She used to draw hearts along the margins of her notebooks with the letter G in them.”
“No, she didn’t,” I argue, even though I have no idea. I’m not sure I ever watched Emma doodle.
Milo shrugs. “Maybe I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong. I would have known if Emma liked Grant.”
“You’re probably right,” Milo concedes, going as far as to put his hands up in surrender.
The sound of the kernels popping grows louder. We stand there, looking at each other. He’s wearing a navy T-shirt and gray sweats, both of which somehow bring out the blueness in his eyes. I bite my bottom lip, startling when the microwave beeps loudly.
I open it, grabbing the hot bag carefully by the edges.
“I can grab a bowl,” Milo offers. I hear drawers and cabinets begin to open and close quickly as he searches. Then silence. “Why do you have a photo of us in the silverware drawer?”
My feet sprout roots and my pulse ramps up. “Oh, um . . .”
“Man, we were young,” Milo mutters, his voice barely above a sigh.
I finally turn to see Milo holding the photo of him wearing his Dusty Hollow football jersey while he holds me in his arms, both of us grinning, but while I’m looking at the camera, he’s looking at me. It’s a photo I know well, one I’ve stared at for years. Sometimes while eating a pint of Ben and Jerry’s.Half Baked.
I cross the small kitchen, looking down at the picture of us in his hand. “That Sadie thought she had life figured out.”
Milo turns his head toward me, his eyes finding mine. “No. That Sadie knew it was okay that she didn’t.”
I wince because his words are true.
The Sadie in the picture was a dreamer, and while she loved her plans, she loved the idea of not having them. Of living life fully, her arms wide open to possibility—not afraid of pain because she was more afraid of not feeling.
I snatch the picture and put it back in the drawer before I open the correct cabinet to retrieve a large bowl. I walk back over to where I left the popcorn, rip the bag, and dump it in.
“So, are we doing this or not?” I ask.
“Oh, we’re doing this.”
We walk into the living room, and Milo cues up the DVD player and TV.
“You’ve really never seen an R-rated movie?” he asks.
“Did we ever watch one?”
He shakes his head. “You said people who made scary movies had psychological issues.”
“I stand by that.”
