Beside

21 - flames (part 1)

"Fox, if you could be anywhere, where would you be?"

"Here."

"No, I mean somewhere far where you could fly."

"I know. I pick here."

ｃｈｒｉｓ

May in the forest feels like an exhale. The sky is slipping into dusk, the air cool and soft, carrying the smell of pine needles on the damp ground.

Camila's moving through the trees collecting sticks wearing a bright orange hoodie. Maybe that's so we don't lose her. I watch her from where I stand near Fox's fancy white Lincoln car... thing. Cam explained what it was, I just didn't retain it.

My head's a little light, the world gently tilting. It's one of my off days, where the edges of things blur. But I want to have fun anyway.

Noah's making the firepit, setting rocks in a circle, wearing, yet again, something he might choose for a presentation on ancient Greek poets—button-down, slacks, etc. He's got a meditative way about him. I appreciate it. And there's something in the way he watches Cam that makes my chest swell. I wonder if she knows he's always got an eye on her. Like an angel.

Fox stands on the outskirts, a beer bottle dangling loosely from his fingers, watching but not quite part of it. He's in his own space, just too far from the set-up. I hope he's okay. We haven't talked much today, or yesterday. Cam said he needs space sometimes. Maybe he's like Whitney that way.

Charlie's at Fox's feet, gnawing on a stick. But as soon as Cam builds a loghouse of sticks and newspaper, and lights her fire, Charlie grabs his stick and runs over, resettling by the flames.

The breeze picks up, carrying a soft shiver through me. I pull my cardigan tighter around my body—Dad's old creation, the pink yarn fuzzy and worn in all the right places.

I'm thinking a lot tonight. Not that I don't think all the time, but there's a lock on it. I can't stop thinking about thinking. Maybe it's the dizziness. Maybe it's this strange calm that's settled over our piece of the forest—I hear the earth breathing with us. Rise, and fall, and—

Whitney!

She's stepping down from Walker's pick-up, bell-bottom jeans clinging to her curves, a flowy white blouse on her frame and her hair—oh, her hair. It's woven into two long Dutch braids, catching the last light of the day.

Walker's out next, shutting his door. He's all denim and flannel, baseball cap pulled low. They kind of match tonight. Cute.

I'm on my feet, stumbling a little from the rush of standing too fast. I walk over to her, my arms wide, and she laughs, wrapping me in a tight, familiar hug. She smells like lavender and something warm, like cookies.

She pulls back, her eyes sparkling. "Love the pants." She winks and I flush, caught. They're her pants, all swirling tribal print and pretty earthy colours.

"Hey Chris," Walker says, holding a six-pack of beer cans.

Then I remember something—a small flutter in my chest, a knot. Whitney hasn't met Fox yet. And while I don't want to do this, I have to.

I grab her hand, pulling her toward where Fox is still lingering on the edge. It's strange, this moment. My childhood best friend, the one who used to chase me through summers and winters, meeting Whitney, the girl who helped me survive all the sick nights after.

"Whitney, Fox," I say. "Fox, Whitney."

Fox nods, but his eyes flicker, sizing her up, a quiet assessment. Whitney's doing the same.