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On our way out of the cemetery we passed an older man struggling with a collapsible easel, a canvas, and a bag of painting supplies.
“Can I give you a hand?” Rhys called, and jogged over. He picked up the easel and took the man’s bag with the easy grin that made most people smile back. They chatted as they walked to the man’s car, and I trailed behind them. The man thanked him and waved at us as he drove away.
“You’re such a Boy Scout,” I said, elbowing him.
He held up three fingers in a salute and said solemnly, “Live long and prosper.” Then he grabbed my hand and held it all the way home.
Chapter 2
Some days I woke up and thought I was back in St. Jerome’s. Usually it was just a flicker—a momentary reorientation. This morning, though, it stayed with me as I struggled to surface from a dream.
Bunk beds and cold concrete floors and hundreds of boys as angry and confused as I was. Grin and me playing cards with a deck so shabby we knew what hand the other was holding based on the pattern of creases and worn-off corners. The smell of sweat and industrial bleach and, beneath it, something cold and mineral, as if the entire building was a basement. Taunts and challenges. Rigid muscles and clenched jaws. Acne and hormones and fear.
Rhys was still asleep, so I dragged myself into the shower to try and get back to the present.
I took my phone in with me and fired off a quick text to Grin: Just checking in. All right?
Grin was my best friend, though we hadn’t seen each other in five years, since he’d moved to Florida. I’d met him on my first day at St. Jerome’s. We were twelve, and we’d been inseparable.
They’d called us Grin and Grim because Grin always had this goofy smile and I . . . didn’t. It wasn’t until months later that Grin and I realized we also had the same birthday. We liked to joke that this was convenient because it meant each other’s birthdays would be easier to remember. But the truth was that we wouldn’t have had any trouble remembering each other’s birthdays no matter when they were. It was easy to remember when you only had one person in your life to keep track of.
Now I knew Rhys’s birthday too.
When I got out of the shower, Grin hadn’t responded yet, and I clicked over to the text of his that I’d screenshot. I’d looked at it more times than I could count over the last year and a half, much the same way I would reach out and touch Rhys sometimes: as a reality check.
Grin’s text had said: Holy fuck, you are ridiculous. Only you would get married and not invite me and text me at four in the morning about it like happy our birthday, p.s. I got married yesterday. U r deeply damaged and I hope this dude is rich as fuck. Or has a big dick or w/e yr into. P.S., congratufuckinglations, bro. I hope you can be happy or whateverthefuck normal people are.
I smiled at the text like I always did and went downstairs to make coffee. Coffee, unfortunately, is one thing you can’t make on a grill. Rhys didn’t drink it because his default personality was energy, so I had to make it myself.
Grin’s text came through as I was burning my mouth on the first muddy sip.
All good here. Hot as balls and my turd neighbor started airbnbing his house so now theres like hipster children carving driftwood in my backyard and probably taking shells to sell on their etsys or some shit.
You love etsy, I wrote back.
He sent me a picture of himself glaring at me. Even while glaring, I could see the grin lurking. With his laughing eyes, dimples, smooth dark skin, and boyish smile, Grin was one of those guys that people found adorable. Until he opened his mouth and spewed a constant stream of curse words, filth, and rants. We got along great.
No joke its a wild fucking world of weirdos w a lot of enthusiasm for shit, he replied. I mighta bought a spoon thats screaming.
I didn’t ask what the hell that meant, but he immediately sent me another pic, this one of a wooden spoon painted with a face on it that said eeeeeeee up the handle, like it was screaming as you stuck it in hot food. This was followed by another picture of Grin, grinning evilly. And, sure enough, I grinned as soon as I saw it.
Come on Matty send us a pic, he wheedled. I sent a middle finger emoji. Come ooooonnnnn. Send me one of u and yr boy!
Speaking of, a sleepy-eyed Rhys walked into the kitchen and gave me a grin of his own. “Hi,” he said and wrapped me up in his arms. The hug seemed to be a ruse, though, since he just buried his face in my neck and slumped like he was snoozing while standing up. My phone chimed again, and Rhys made a sound of protest as I shifted to reach for it. I showed him Grin’s text: Maaatttyyy show me ur butt face, and Rhys snorted. He scrolled up and saw the message before it too.
