Then I glance past Cinna’s shoulder and catch sight of the ice cream truck again. A kid is walking up to the window. The man inside, who has a handlebar mustache, leans down, holds out a cone, and the kid reaches up for it.
Don’t,I want to scream at the kid.
Get away now!
My stomach clenches. The backs of my knees go numb. My fingertips tingle and my vision narrows to a pinpoint. I grip the edge of the table because I feel like I might pass out.
“I need to grab food,” I say, standing. My voice comes out steady and that’s its own small miracle. “Want anything?” I’m addressing the entire group, I guess. Except Dorien.
The question prompts everyone, except Dorien, to all talk at once. Aubrey wants pizza. Carter wants a gyro. But they’re actually not asking me to get those things, just announcing what they want. All of them, thankfully including Dorien, scatter toward different trucks.
Then Cinna returns to the table quickly and says, “Never mind. I don’t want anyone taking our spot. Can you bring me something, please? I don’t care what it is.”
I nod and then make my way to the taco line. Waiting to order gives me a moment to stand still with my arms crossed and my eyes closed.
Four in. Hold. Four out. Hold.
The line moves after ten minutes, so I order. The guy in the truck hands me two trays and I pay. My hands are almost steady by the time I step away.
Once I’m back at the table, the panic has retreated to a dull tension between my shoulders. I sit between Cinna and Aubrey, eating, listening, and trying to be present with these people who showed up on a Friday evening to sit in a park and be young together.
That’s all we should care about. Just being young with the rest of life’s possibilities ahead of us.
The vibe shifts once everyone has food. Cinna brightens and starts telling Aubrey about an artist whose installations involve suspended dried flowers. The way she describes the work, hands moving, voice animated, you’d never guess she was crying twenty minutes ago. Aubrey tells a story about her tutor that has Carter choking on his gyro. Even Aeron lifts his head from his sketchbook and just stares, like he can’t believe what she’s saying.
Aubrey gets way too graphic sometimes.
Through it all, Dorien never looks my way.
He’s at the other end of the table, talking to Aeron now, leaning back like he has no care in the world. I watch him say something that makes Aeron actually grin and close his sketchbook to talk. I’m happy my brother actually has a friend but…
I hate that it’s Dorien. I hate that Dorien is good with my brother. I hate that Aeron opens up for him in ways he won’t for me.
I try to focus on Cinna and Aubrey, but my eyes keep drifting. That man hasn’t apologized or texted or even fucking acknowledged that what he did was wrong. He’s right there. He could speak up. Yet heignoresme.
I set down my taco.
“Excuse me,” I say to my friends, standing again.
I cross to Dorien’s end of the table and stop next to him while he’s deep in conversation with Aeron. I force myself not to sound too murderous. “Can I talk to you?”
Aeron glances up first, giving me an irritated frown. Then he glances at Dorien, and I watch the openness in his face close like a shutter. I’m sure he’s upset that I interrupted, and I love my brother, I do, but I can’t carry his feelings and mine at the same time. Right now, mine are louder.
Aeron pulls his sketchbook closer and turns away, shoulders curling inward. Carter slides down the bench toward Cinna and Aubrey, filling the gap without comment.
Dorien—still not looking at me—stands. He follows me into the maple trees, out of earshot and out of sight. We stop beneath a maple whose leaves are the color of fresh grass, and the fading light through the canopy turns Dorien’s face warm and golden. I hate that I notice.
“You’ve been ignoring me,” I say, doing my best to keep this conversation calm and rational.
His head is turned and he’s staring at a tree trunk. “I’m giving you space.”
“No. You’re ignoring me. It looks like you don’t care that you did anything wrong.”
He’s quiet for a second and his shoulders stiffen toward his ears. His posture is no longer so relaxed. Then, without any buildup, he says, “Sorry.”
A single, bored word.
Fuck, why am I even doing this? The man clearly doesn’t care.
