“Your van is, like, nice.Suspiciouslynice.”
“Suspiciously nice,” he repeats.
“Seriously, how can you pay for this?” I ask, reopening my bag of Dove chocolates. My stomach is starting to settle, and I’m ready to get hurt again.
He shrugs. “It’s how I make money.”
“As a van-life influencer? Should I be filming content for you right now?”
“No,” he answers, rolling his eyes. “I renovate clunker campers and resell them to van-life influencers.”
“I thoughtyoulived in your van.” That’s how it looked on social media at least. We weren’t exactly on speaking terms when his life went off-road.
“I do, for a little while. Then I sell the van and buy another one to fix up. But I’m hoping to hold on to this one for myself if I can swing it.”
My eyes trail around the van’s interior again. “That’s a really good idea.”
“I know it is. I’ve been doing it for…” He squints to perform simple mental math. “Over two years now? Should I be offended you’re surprised that I’m able to come up with a solid business?”
“I’m not surprised. I just only ever picture you playing music. How do you run a business when you don’t live anywhere?” I ask.
“I was working out of my buddy’s place in LA for a while, but I did the last two builds out of my parents’ place. They’re getting older, and it’s nice being around them more. Plus, it’s closer to my gigs on the Midwestern college circuit.”
“Never thought I’d see the day you went back to Lewellen,” I respond, choosing a chocolate with performative concentration, while trying my best to conceal the way the memories of the two of us coming and going from that place pick at an old wound.
“It’s not so bad,” he says. Then he holds out his hand for a chocolate. I read the wrapper before handing it over (“Hug the sunlight!”) and debate whether to say what’s on my mind.
But I might as well have a ticker tape on my forehead publicizing my every thought.
“Say it, Beekman,” Ethan demands, calling me out around a mouthful of candy.
I want to be irritated, but it’s too satisfying to be seen this clearly again. The sensation carves most of the annoyance out of my voice when I spout out, “But you said you’d never come back.”
My body waits for Ethan’s response, desperate for him to tell me everything’s different now. That he’s staying. To skip over the part where the texts get further and further apart and his littlejust checking in, Beekmessages get less frequent as he becomes impossible to pin down. Now that he’s in front of me, I don’t want to go back to mailed bags of chocolates after he thoughtlessly double-books himself for Petey’s playoff game when Rich, who was still my doting new fiancé, pulled every string to get box seats for us.
When Ethan and I are together it’s as though no time has passed. We’re us. But then he goes, and he’s still my best friend, but also, he’s not. He gets distant and flaky. He becomes the kind of guy who feels comfortable sending a last-minute cancellation to my wedding via text, even though he’s the best man.
It already aches—the way I’ll miss him when he disappears on me again.
“I’m not, like, investing in property. I’m just visiting,” he says dismissively, and I don’t allow the rush of disappointment to settle into my lungs. The prospect of tying down Ethan Powell to a single zip code? Ridiculous.
“But the road lifeishard,” he continues. “I’d like to expand the van business. Play fewer college gigs. Get a cat. Live in the van for fun, not because I have to, you know?”
“Only you would live in a van because youwantedto.”
The lowering sun reflects off his irises. “Say it, Beekman. You know you want to.”
I smile, shaking my head. “Could never be me.”
“There it is,” he says, finding amusement in my utter predictability, I’m sure.
Something flickers across his face, like a momentary glitch in the system, but then he smiles, his profile exposing that elusive dimple that few can resist. Oh, to have that dimple in my arsenal. I’d probably rule the world. He turns to look at me, then back at the road. His eyes are bottomless.
The thought drifts through my mind. A dandelion in the wind.
So beautiful.
But it’s gone just as fast and I chalk it up to the divorce, our proximity, the Eggland’s Best shower, and my Dove-candy-coated nostalgia. It’s not real. Our fifteen-year friendship depends on those feelings never amounting to more than a fleeting fantasy.
