Page 42 of Goodbye Days

Haha, he seemed nice.

“Seemed” = operative word.

Well you ditched out on me.

Not by choice.

I know. JK.

BTW, I left my blazer in your truck.

No prob, I can swing it by tonight after practicing.

You wanna hang out for a while when you do?

Sure. Sweat Crew represent.

For a fleeting moment, this exchange makes me feel normal again. As if I lead a rich life full of friendship and possibility. The feeling quickly dissipates and my mind returns to thoughts of prison and Judge Edwards, panic attacks and Adair.

I wonder if my life’s center of gravity will ever shift back to where tiny moments of forgetting aren’t lavish gifts.

I’m not crazy about the idea of telling my parents, but I do. They’re going to find out eventually now that doctors are in the mix. They seem relieved that Georgia finally prevailed upon me to seek professional help. My mom isn’t even mad that Georgia impersonated her to make the appointment. “Dr. Mendez was wonderful for Georgia,” she says. I have all the parents-telling behind me when the doorbell finally rings. I run to answer.

Jesmyn half smiles when she sees me. “Hey.” Then her eyes stray to the lump on my head and her smile fades. “Oh, dude,” she murmurs.

My fingers go to it. “I kept most of the swelling down by icing it. Come in.”

“Oh, here’s your blazer.”

“Thanks.”

I lead her back and peek into the kitchen, where my parents are cooking dinner and listening to NPR. “Hey, Mom and Dad, this is my friend Jesmyn. She just moved to Nashville and we go to school together. We met through Eli.” That last part sounds strange to say out loud. Hey, Jesmyn, meet Carver. Carver, Jesmyn. Okay, I’m just going to die and let you two hang out.

My mom wipes her hands on a dishrag and shakes Jesmyn’s hand. “Hi, Jesmyn. Welcome to Nashville. Do you want to stay for dinner?”

“Oh, thanks, but my parents are planning on me.”

“All right.”

My dad waves from where he’s chopping carrots. “Hi, Jesmyn.”

She waves. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

I wish Georgia were here to meet Jesmyn. After the day I’ve had, I could use some cool-older-sister cred.

We return to the living room. “Want to go for a quick walk? I’m in the mood for walking and talking,” I say.

“Sure. I gotta be home soon, though.”

“Don’t mind getting all sweaty?”

“We’re not the Sweat Crew for nothing.”

We do start sweating the moment we hit the muggy early-dusk heat. By halfway down the block, my shirt is plastered to my torso. The hazy air is fragrant with grilling hamburgers and cut grass.

“Your dad has a cool accent,” Jesmyn says.

“Apparently it was way thicker when he and my mom met. It’s faded over time.”