Beside

8 - grit

"Fox, what's better, chocolate or vanilla?"

"Chocolate. It's like mud, but it tastes good."

"I picked vanilla. It's like eating clouds."

"Wait, what? I wanna taste clouds! Gimme—"

"No, Fox!"

"But you said—"

"Get your own!"

ｃｈｒｉｓ

The summer air tastes like melted sugar.

My legs stick to the sun-bleached chair under my skirt, sweat turning into glue that welds me to the plastic.

Whitney lounges across from me like some kind of goddess. She's wearing a white dress with delicate gold embroidery curling along the hem. She's a hazy dream, honey-brown hair tumbling around her shoulders in loose waves, tiny braids woven throughout, and her big hoop earrings glint every time she moves.

She's watching me, though. Eyes narrowed over her ice cream cone, lips pursed, waiting.

"So then that idiot Sean tried to tell me how to use the goddamn jackhammer like I've never seen one," Walker grumbles, taking a bite of his cone. "Fucking dick."

Whit flinches at the language. I almost roll my eyes—as if she doesn't curse. She totally does.

Walker's leaned back in his chair, legs splayed. He's massive, like a lumbering bear. His faded red T-shirt clings to his broad chest, and his denim jeans have more holes than fabric, sawdust clinging to his clothes. His blond hair is tied up in a bun, his beard speckled with flecks of gold from the sunlight.

"I've been working that site for five years. Five! And this kid waltzes in like he owns the place..."

Yeah, I really don't care. Time to tune into a new channel.

The sun's cooking my skin. Maybe I'm just melting. Could be the ice cream. My strawberry cone drips onto the table, little pink puddles gathering around my fingers, sticky and sweet.

I need to talk to Whitney.

"Walker," I say sweetly, leaning forward. "Could you get us some napkins? From inside?"

Walker blinks, his brow furrowing. "A napkin? You've got like five right there."

"From inside," I say again, batting my lashes like a lunatic. "Preferably from a clean stack."

Walker huffs, looking to Whitney for help, but she's staring at the table. He rolls his eyes, muttering, "Fine," as he pushes his chair back. The moment he's out of earshot—

"You were supposed to tell him it was you!" Whitney flicks a stray curl off her forehead, and it unravels into a tiny gold vine, curling back into place. "What the hell, Chris!"

"I couldn't!" I mumble, licking a stray drip of ice cream from my wrist. "I just—"

"Why not?"

"Because... because it's never the right time, okay?" I look away, staring down at my half-melted cone. "He doesn't recognize me, Whit. Not even a little bit. And I just... keep freezing."

Whitney's shoulders slump. "Chris, you've had a week to think about this."

"I'm not the same. And he's not the same. It's like... I'm trying to reach out into my past and it's just so... painful. What if he's happier this way? What if he doesn't want to remember me?"