Beside

7 - glimmer

"Jellybean, do you believe in magic?"

"Yes! When you're around, things are brighter."

"That's not magic. That's friendship."

"Same thing!"

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c h r i s

Whitney, Walker and I are back at the ice cream shack in the sunshine. 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 in a sheer caramel-coloured dress with delicate gold embroidery curling along all hems. Her honey-brown hair tumbles around her shoulders in loose waves with tiny braids woven throughout, and her big hoop earrings glint every time she moves. My best friend is the most stunning woman in the world.

"So then Sean tried to tell me how to use the goddamn jackhammer like I've never seen one," Walker leans back in his chair like a lumbering bear in a red T-shirt and denim jeans that have more holes than fabric. His blond hair is tied up in a bun, beard speckled with sawdust from work. "I've been working that site for years and this kid waltzes in like he owns the—"

"Walker," I say sweetly, "could you get us some napkins from the stand?"

"You've got like, five, right there."

"Please?" I say, batting my lashes like a lunatic.

He rolls his eyes, muttering, "Fine," as he pushes his chair back. He dodges a group of kids running around with waffle cones. The moment he's out of earshot, Whitney locks in.

"Speak."

"I didn't tell him," I begin, licking a stray drip of ice cream from my wrist. "What if he's happier these days? What if he doesn't want to remember me?"

Whitney reaches across the table, grabbing my sticky hand in hers. Her fingers are covered in band-aids, tattoos of stars, and gold rings. "Don't assume the kinds of things that'll hurt your heart, love."

I slump forward and drop my temple on the picnic table. "We kissed again. We used to feed toads jellybeans at lunch, you know? He's not supposed to make me feel like my body's on fire."

Whitney's thumb traces a line over the back of my hand, and tiny daisies bloom along the path. "What's really bothering you?"

I look away, watching two kids share bubble gum ice cream at the table next to us. My eyes well up and I hate it, the sting I feel. Whitney doesn't understand. Even if I'm wrong, he might feel obligated to care for me again. Cancer kind of does that to people. He might feel guilty for not recognizing me sooner. And if I'm wrong about that, it means he doesn't care at all.

"Tell me why you're angry," Whitney whispers. 

Walker drops the napkins onto the table with a grunt. "Happy?"

"Euphoric," I mumble.

"What would you two do without me?" Walker mutters, planting a kiss on Whit's head.

I can't kiss Fox again. I'll be more in control this time, then I can figure out how to navigate my predicament.

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F O X

The punching bag is ripping apart. The leather thuds under my fists, the weight snapping back on impact. Sweat's dripping down my face, stinging my eyes, but I don't slow down.