Page 38
13
To get to the roof we need to go out the front door of our apartment, open the window on the landing, and climb out onto a narrow fire escape with a wrought iron ladder that extends up to the roof.
Mackenzie takes two trips.
The first is to bring up a big wool blanket, and a second to carry his hot chocolate, which I’ve poured into a Tim Hortons insulated cup with a lid.
“Careful. It’s a lot slicker than it looks.” He waits on the fire escape below me as I climb. The back of his hand hovers above the small of my back. My stomach doesn’t like the way my running shoes don’t quite grip the thin rungs nor the fact that I’m holding my own hot chocolate and therefore only have one free climbing hand. But a part of me knows that if I do slip, Mackenzie will be right there, and he won’t let me fall.
When I’m safely on the roof I look up. The sky is as clear as Mackenzie promised. In the middle of the concrete roof is a red wool blanket spread out enough for two people to sit—that is, if they are very, very close.
“Here, lemme take that for you.” Mackenzie holds out his hand for my drink, assuming I’m worried about spilling my hot chocolate and not the way my brain is playing Tetris, trying to figure out how both of us are going to fit while also not being awkwardly on top of one another.
“Thanks.” I hand him my cup and opt for a cross-legged position with my butt to the absolute edge so my left knee hangs off.
“Here.” I hold out my hands. Mackenzie hands me both cups, then plops down beside me, stretching his long legs out in front of him.
He takes his cup back to take a small sip and then smiles. “Mmmmmm, anchovies. Ten out of ten.” He sets the cup down beside him and lies back, stretching his hands behind his head.
I take a sip of mine and then follow his lead, pulling the hood of my puffy jacket behind my head to cushion it against the concrete.
“My brothers and sister and I used to do this all the time when we were kids,” he says, his eyes on the sky. “We’d climb up onto the garage roof back home—terrifyingly steep moss-covered shingles, sheer drop—my mom would have murdered us if she found out. But the sky out in West Lake? Man, you can see everything.”
I consider how different our lives were growing up: his big family and small town, my big town and small family.
“Technically, this might be my first stargazing experience,” I tell him. “Unless you count my eighth-grade trip to the Science Centre. They had a planetarium.”
He turns his head toward me, and I catch the slightest whiff of his aftershave. “You’ve been missing out. Stargazing is the ultimate reminder that we are tiny, insignificant blips. The universe has been doing its thing for billions of years, and yet, somehow, you and me—we ended up right here, right now. What are the odds?”
It’s something my Uncle Larry would have said. And something that would have definitely made me roll my eyes at him, then promptly remind him that that feeling of awe he’s experiencing is just his brain trying to make sense of the incomprehensible scale of time and space.
However, tonight, listening to Mackenzie say it—the sentiment somehow hits me differently.
“Hey.” He points to a bright light flashing through the sky. “Shooting star. Quick! Make a wish.”
I catch a glimpse of the streak of light right before it fades.
He turns to me again, this time letting one of his arms drop so it rests between us.
“Did you go big, or take the altruistic route and wish for peace on earth?”
I roll my head so I can look at him. “Neither. I don’t really believe in wishes.”
His eyebrow lifts. “Really? Why not?”
I shrug, the nylon of my jacket making a rustling sound as I move. “I just don’t think that a hot rock flying through space has any ability to alter my life in any meaningful way—unless it’s about to clock me on the head.”
Mackenzie turns to face me. “Is it just hot rocks you’re against, or do you feel the same about birthday candles and turkey wishbones?”
I shake my head. “The whole gamut. I also call bullshit on astrology, predestination, reincarnation, and Santa Claus.”
His jaw drops in a mock attempt to look shocked, then he schools his face and narrows his eyes. “Question for you, when is your birthday?”
“September first, why?”
He nods as if that was the answer he was expecting. “Typical Virgo. Too logical for your own good.”
He grins, and I actually do roll my eyes this time.
