The Thing About Flip Flops

Chapter Thirty Five: The Treehouse Talk

It's two weeks later, and Jack and I are sitting in the treehouse, our legs dangling out of it, and playing footsie. I link my ankle around his and kick him, and he kicks me with his other foot.

"Wait, that's not fair, I want a rematch. Only one foot is allowed," I complain, changing the rules and making him snort a laugh.

"You're petty."

"You forgot the 'r' in pretty," I say cockily.

"Someone thinks highly of herself."

"Dickhead."

He kicks my foot again.

I humph and cross my legs away from Jack just to annoy him.

We quiet down, enjoying the silence.

"How's Henry?"

I sigh. "He's home. He's in a wheelchair right now, but he'll start physical therapy in a few weeks. The doctors are saying he'll be okay."

It's not the answer I would like to give, if I had it my way I would say that he's back to his usual bubbly self, but it's the answer I've been repeating to everyone.

"How are you doing?" Jack asks. I'm about to give the same noncommittal "I'm fine" that everyone else has gotten, but I can't bring myself to lie to Jack.

"It's hard. It's really, really difficult to see him like this."

He puts a soothing hand on my shoulder, and I lean into it. "I'm always here, if you want to talk about it."

"I know," I smile at him, meaning it.

It's early enough in the morning that the air is cool despite the spring warmth. Long sleeve weather, but not the kind that makes you uncomfortable. It's perfect. It feels like we're somehow away from the rest of the world, like we exist in some other, more peaceful reality.

He texted me earlier, and I was only awake because of pure luck. For some reason, I decided to meet him out here despite the time.

The slight breeze is making my hair blow all over the place, so I take the spare hair tie from my wrist and tie it up. The sharp air stings my neck. My ears are chilly. Jack watches me.

The quiet sounds of nature only interrupted by our voices is calming. The sound of the woods is quiet yet loud enough to hear. If I listen closely, I can hear the water from the stream and chirping from the birds. I want to stay here forever, in the early morning, not feeling tired at all. It's so different from what either of us are used to.

I think inexplicably of the concert that Chris took me to. The loud music, the crushing crowd of people, and the overwhelming sense that I didn't belong. But I belong here, I think.

I lay back onto the tree-house floor, feeling the wooden planks digging ridges into my back despite the rug. I swing my feet back and forth, letting them dangle out above the ground that's so far below us.

"Hey, A?" Jack murmurs, but it comes out smooshed together and ends up sounding something like "Hay."

"Yeah?"

I look up at Jack, who's still sitting at the edge of the treehouse, and have the urge to pull him away so he doesn't fall out.

He isn't looking at me. His gaze is fixed along the line where the horizon would be if it weren't obscured by the tall trees. The wind makes his dark hair look soft and messy, and his face also looks softer and less stressed. He looks good. He doesn't look like he does when others are around. This calmer Jack is a Jack I've only seen a few times, and only when we're alone.

He doesn't look far away or untouchable. He looks like something I can have if I simply reach my hand out, and he looks like he will not laugh or jump away if I do.