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He taps his fingers on the console. I want to reach out to still them, but I’ve already pushed my luck in the hand-holding department tonight. “A few bad memories can taint everything.”
He’s talking about the divorce. By then his older sister had already left the house and was living a wild college life and hardly speaking to the family. I know Rockwell took the brunt of the news. From the stories my mom tells me, he put himself in between his parents and played mediator for two long years even after he left Bearwood. It wasn’t an amicable parting, and by the looks of it, the scars run deep. I hurt for him. I’ve wished a bazillion times that he would have let me be there for him. If he’d just answered one of my calls. I don’t know why he insisted on doing it alone.
“Whether you admit it or not, you had a lot of good times here too.” I say it teasingly, trying to lighten the mood. We have hundreds of ones we’ve made together—first as friends through middle school, to best friends in high school, to when we finally stopped worrying about ruining our friendship and started dating senior year. I want all those memories to count for something.
He pulls the car up to the carport on his side of the duplex. He shuts off the engine but neither of us move. The silence isn’t oppressive like before, but it gives space to allow my whirling thoughts to settle.
Rockwell slouches in his seat. “Remember the time we went to Bob’s Grill and tried all of Patricia’s desserts to see which one was the best?”
I’m not expecting him to relax next to me or for him to want to reminisce. Just thinking about that day though makes me laugh. “You spent over a hundred dollars on cream puffs and pies, and I had the worst stomachache afterward.”
“So did I.” His hand goes to his stomach. “I don’t know if I could ever bring myself to eat one of her pies again.”
I groan. “Especially her pumpkin. Remember how rubbery it was?”
Rockwell laughs—a real, deep laugh I haven’t heard in years. “It was like chewing gum. What was in there?”
I shake my head. “We shouldn’t be making fun of her pies. Patricia is the sweetest old lady.”
“Sweetest? She’s trying to kill people. Does anyone still buy her pies?”
I nod. “Her peanut butter chocolate fudge mousse isn’t bad.”
He puts up his hands. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe she can make a decent pie. I’ll buy all her eclairs, turnovers, cinnamon rolls, and dipped chocolates, but no pies.”
“And no bacon cupcakes.”
He busts up, and I’m a little in awe of it. “I forgot about those nasty cupcakes.”
“I won’t ever forget.” I hold out my finger like I’m underlining my next words in the air. “Don’t go bacon my heart. Let’s ice up prom together.”
Rockwell chuckles. “I get points for being creative.”
I give him my best death glare. “You get negative points for giving me stomach poisoning.”
“All blame goes to Patricia.”
We laugh and talk about prom and some of the other high school dances, swapping awkward moments and wardrobe fiascos. Then we switch to stories about people we know and where they ended up.
“Do you remember how I always bemoaned not having a middle name?” I don’t know where the memory comes from but we’re both blurting random things.
Rockwell nods. “It’s the only time I’ve ever christened anyone. I still think Brie Marie has a nice ring to it. My eighth-grade self was shockingly original.”
“It was instantly perfect because you came up with it. Did you know I actually wrote Brie Marie on my school papers all through high school?”
“I feel strangely honored by your dishonesty. What if I would’ve suggested Myrtle or Bertha?”
“You wouldn’t have.”
“No, I was a goner back then. I wanted to impress you.”
I sense an awkward vibe forming, and I quickly throw out another memory so neither of us have time to think too hard. We swap more stories, and I laugh until my abs hurt. We spent way too much time together back then. I hardly have a memory without him. I lose track of time until Rockwell unclicks his seatbelt. “It’s getting cold out here. You should get inside.”
I smile because his voice is reluctant like he doesn’t want to call it a night. I’m allergic to the cold, but I could stay here forever, reminiscing. I know it’s better to leave on a high note, so I reach for the door handle. One last glance at Rockwell shows me some of his grumpy facade is missing, so yes, I consider it a successful night. Maybe I don’t need a boyfriend or even a fake boyfriend, but I definitely needed this night with Rockwell. I feel happier than I’ve been in a long time. Could this be what closure feels like? I wonder if I’ll wake up and be over him.
Chapter 8
Rockwell
