“I’ll come to your party,” I blurted.
Cade’s grin broke out across his face and a dimple popped up on one side. I’d never seen a dimple before, and suddenly, I wanted to do anything possible to see it again.
Cade’s birthdayparty was a blast. Owen and I both trekked next door, a colorfully-wrapped gift in hand. I’d always felt sorry for my school friends that had summer birthdays, thinking it would be hard to get friends to attend. Cade didn’t seem to have that problem, though, and we spent the day in the Adlers’ backyard, surrounded by Cade’s cousins. Bryan and Sammy showed up, too, with Bryan’s grandparents.
Cade’s dad manned the barbecue, grilling burgers and hot dogs. Kids ran around the backyard in swimsuits throwing water balloons, shrieking with mirth.
After hot dogs and chips, Cade’s mom, Mrs. Adler, had us all line up in front of a long white folding table. Atop it she had plain white t-shirts in various sizes. She taught us how to tie-dye, and we got to take our creations home with us.
When we finished our crafts, Cade’s dad brought out the slip-and-slide. Once we were thoroughly soaked and worn out, we had popsicles in the yard. It was the perfect end to the perfect summer birthday.
The Adlers had the coolest yard—it seemed to stretch for miles in the back, with trees all around and an actual babbling creek running through it. My house backed up to the creek too, but a fence and a thick wooded area prevented direct access. Cade’s yard was a dream.
When the sun began to set, most of the families had trickled home, and we assumed we’d have to trudge back next door.
Instead, Cade asked Owen and me, “Do you want to see The Fort?” His eyes gleamed with sugar-fueled excitement.
Owen shrugged his indifference, so I said, “Sure. Let’s go.”
We entered the cozy and simple home, with its typical 90s decor of wood grain cabinets and inexplicably popular rooster decor in the kitchen. I glanced around, expecting to see a blanket draped over some chairs or the earth-toned couch, the kind of “fort” Owen and I often built in our own living room.
To my surprise, Cade led us downstairs to a basement hangout, complete with a couch and miniature TV/VCR combo. Once settled down there, we had a movie marathon ofGhostbustersandAce Ventura, and his mom ordered pizza and brought down popcorn and Pepsi.
As Owen and I walked back to our house that night, I felt a sense of peace and happiness—the start of something beautiful.
PART I
THE FIVE-YEAR REUNION
1
CADE
Ientered my shoebox-size SoCal apartment, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and propped my feet on the coffee table. I switched on the TV to a random sports channel and turned the volume down to a faint buzz.
Echo, my Australian shepherd mix, put his chin on the sofa, silently requesting permission. “Up,” I allowed, and he curled on his favorite blanket by my side. Stroking his spotted fur absentmindedly, I tried to clear my mind and decompress from the day.
My eyes caught on the dark blue envelope near my foot—the reunion invitation. Five years since graduation. Could that really be right? I pulled it from the envelope and scanned it:
I had only been back to Vermont once in those five years. Every other year, my parents flew out to sunny California to visit me. I had loved growing up in Vermont, especially watching the seasons change. I enjoyed the mild summers, the vibrant fall colors, and the briskly cold winters. By graduation, though, Vermont just felt... empty, and my desire to escape outweighed my childhood nostalgia.
I had packed my bags just weeks after graduation, hopped on a Greyhound bus, and started college in California. I hoped for a fresh start, though it turned out I found surfing far more appealing than stuffy college courses. Over beers one night, a buddy talked to me about joining the fire department, and it felt like a sign. I dropped out of the university, switching my focus toa 2-year program that led to an EMT certification and California State Firefighter Certification.
Firefighting was made for me—flexible shifts, time off to surf, and adrenaline-pumping action to stave off the boredom and loneliness that crept into my solitary life. I missed my parents and all my cousins back in Birch Hollow, but I never let my mind focus on that. I was young, fit, and had a kickass job. They even had a softball team I could join, which was a nice throwback to my baseball-playing years of childhood. I bonded with the guys at the station, occasionally meeting them for drinks after shifts, and I had all the long-term companionship I needed in Echo.
Knowing the uniform worked for me, I had a string of female companions, but none that lasted longer than my days off before my next 48-hour shift. The guys at the firehouse nicknamed me “Casanova.” I was upfront with these women, and it was transactional more than companionship. It kept things how I liked it—no commitments, and with no chance of heartbreak. My heart had been broken clean in half once already, and I wasn’t ready to face a repeat performance. Casual suited me much better.
On my third beer, my thumb was still picking at the invitation, and I felt a sentimental longing wash over me. I went over to the cheap faux-wood bookshelf in the corner of my small living space, bent down to the bottom shelf, and pulled out the photo album my mom had given me for graduation. Mom collected photos almost obsessively, especially after we had lost nearly all of them. I flipped past the baby pictures she’d collected from our grandparents and landed on the photo I was looking for, sliding it out of the album’s protective cover.
Seven kids, varying in ages from five to eleven, stood in front of an old swing set. They were a sea of worn-out denim, backwards caps, and dirty knees and elbows. We could’ve easily been on the cover ofThe SandlotorStand by Me. Three boysstood on the left side—little Jared, proud Jace, and Owen, the tallest. On the right side stood Sammy, then Bryan, then me. And right in the middle, with her toothy grin and big brown eyes, her long brown hair in a ponytail... was Brooke.
My chest squeezed as I lost myself in those soulful, deep chocolate eyes. In our ten years of friendship, I’d never gotten tired of catching those eyes, desperately trying to read the emotions hidden inside. Here she looked happy and carefree, one arm slung across her brother’s shoulder, and one across mine. She had a large Band-Aid on a busted knee, and a smudge of dirt on her cheek that I longed to rub off. I was so grateful we’d gotten another copy of this picture from Brooke’s mom, after ours had been lost. You never know how precious these frozen moments of memories become until you lose them.
My mind flashed back to Brooke and me, age eight, the summer that we met. We were laying on the pullout couch in my basement, our bodies stretched out facing each other. Our eyes locked as we whispered secrets. The movie playing was long forgotten.
“Tell me a secret,” Brooke would whisper into the dim room.
“I hate raspberries,” I’d blurt out, or some other inane, meaningless fact. Brooke’s eyes would crackle with humor as she’d try to hold back her giggles, her two front teeth still too big for her smile. She had the greatest laugh, and I’d do anything to hear it. I wished I could bottle it and save it and play it over and over. Her laugh was like music to me, an instant source of happiness.
