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She’d just looked at him for a long moment. He’d looked back.
“Fine. Yes. I’d rather make good brownies.”
He’d nodded. Of course she would. That just made sense.
“And wouldn’t you like to not be an asshole to people who are just trying to be nice to you?”
He’d thought about that. Yeah. He didn’t want people to think he was a jerk. “Yeah. I guess so.”
“If I make more brownies, would you try them and tell me if they’re good?” she’d asked.
“Yes. And I’ll be totally honest.”
“Okay.”
“And if I’m an asshole again, will you tell me?” he’d asked.
“Oh, definitely,” she’d said. Emphatically.
And she had. Over the next eight years they hadn’t beenfriendsin the way of friends who hung out and texted all the time and told each othereverything, but they always went to one another when they needed an unvarnished opinion about something. Or when they saw the other doing something that needed an intervention.
Like when they were fourteen and he’d started just ignoring the girl he wanted to break up with instead of having a conversation with her. Becca had stomped over to his house and let him have it right on the front porch.
Or like when they were fifteen and overnight she’d started wearing the same baggy black hoodie Every. Single. Day. And her hair in a ponytail. And the stupid black converse tennis shoes she’d had since they were twelve. He’d gone over after twomonthsof her dressing the same way and told her she needed to knock off whatever crazy, emo shit she had going on.
He’d told her that wearing black made her look whiter than the inside of a potato—he had not been great at thinking on his feet at age fifteen—and that low ponytails in tangled hair made her face look too thin and kind of like a rat, and that her Converse were falling apart and they kind of smelled.
He’d actually had no idea if her shoes smelled. But she’d had them for three years and all of the shoesheowned for more than about six months definitely smelled, so he’d just assumed.
And her dad was the principal of the high school and her mom was a teacher over in Bad, the next town up the bayou, and so they had enough money to get her new shoes.
Dressing like that was stupid. He’d told her that too.
Then she’d told him that two months before, Remy Hodgin had tried to feel her up in the parking lot after school and told her she should consider his attention a favor.
So he’d also told her that listening to anything Remy Hodgin said was stupid. And letting his opinion take up space in her head when she didn’t even like him being in her personal space wasreallystupid.
Of course, he’d also gone and beat the shit out of Remy right after that.
He wasn’t sure which of all of the things he’d said had gotten her out of that hoodie and those shoes, but he’d never seen them again.
In fact, she’d come to school the next day in a cute yellow top and denim capris with sandals on her feet and her hair loose and falling in long spiral curls and he’d felt like someone had punchedhimin the stomach.
He’d really enjoyed watching Remy walk up to her in the common room with all the lockers and apologize to her. Publicly. With his black eye and swollen lip. And he’d really loved the little look she’d givenhimacross the room that said she knew he was responsible for Remy’s eye and lip.
The smile and thethank youshe’d mouthed to him had made his gut clench in a brand new way than it ever had for Becca before. But he’d liked it.
Now, sitting at her mom’s kitchen table, surrounded by pumpkin spiceeverything, his gut had clenched again. Because of Becca.
He just wasn’t sure if it was a good clench or a bad clench.
She just sat, studying him, chewing on her bottom lip.
He took the opportunity to finish off his cheesecake. Then he set his fork down and said, “Okay, come on, what do you need an opinion about?" He glanced around the table. "That I'm the best one to give you?"
"It's about a guy," Savannah offered.
Becca shot her a frown. "It's not really about a guy. It's about a Halloween costume."
