Page 7 of Canned & Coated

“Yeah,” I nod. “We do.”

“So?”

“You first.”

“I can’t stand up right now.”

“Okay, well… neither can I.”

Tanner starts toward us, hands disappearing into those sweats as if he’s searching for courage at the bottom of his pockets.

“Oh god, incoming,” Milo whispers.

Neither of us moves. We’re frozen in place, caught somewhere between fight, flight, and whatever third option involves your ex-best-friend-turned-unfortunate fantasy walking toward your car.

I shift the donut box a little higher on my lap.

Small mercies.

Tanner stops beside the passenger window. He doesn’t knock or speak right away. He leans down and looks in, mouth set in that neutral line I remember all too well as the face he made when he was trying not to show his hand.

We stare back in total silence, as if staying perfectly still might somehow make us invisible.

The car’s off, so I can’t roll the window down. Which turns the whole thing into a long, deeply weird standoff. Him crouched outside. Us trapped inside.

Three grown men somehow recreating the energy of animals at a zoo exhibit.

Finally, he says, “You two gonna sit in there all day?”

The sound of his voice is the same deep timbre I didn’t realize until this exact moment I’d missed so badly. It catches somewhere low in my throat.

“Weren’t planning on it,” Milo says, leaning across me to answer through the glass.

Another beat of silence.

Then, as if we’re psychically linked by shared humiliation, Milo and I both open our doors at the same time and step out.

I’m hit with a crisp autumn chill. It seeps through my clothes and settles in my bones. It mixes unpleasantly with the prickling awareness crawling up my spine from having to face something I’ve been avoiding for years. My sneakers crunch against the gravel as I plant my feet, knees still embarrassingly unreliable.

Tanner straightens up. Taller than I remember. He gives us both a hesitant smile.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I echo.

Too much time has passed to act normal, and not enough to know what to say. Then he opens his arms, more invitation than request.

Milo steps in first. A quick hug, a thump on the back, a laugh that sounds mostly like relief.

Then Tanner turns to me.

For a second, I forget how to move. But I do eventually. I step into his arms, and he folds around me with an ease that feels dangerously familiar.

There, pressed against his chest, breathing in the faint smell of coconut and vanilla from his sunscreen, I try very hard not to notice how perfectly I still fit.

Suddenly I’m eighteen again. Caught between what I want and what I can have, between who I was and who I’ve become.

Five years gone between us, and somehow we’re right back where we started: me, wanting something I shouldn’t, and Tanner completely unaware of the chaos he creates by existing.