"You ever think about how weird the word pickle is? We should call them bumpy greens."
"Nobody would eat them if they were called that."
"Exactly!"
"You're confusing me."
"Names are important. So, I demand, from here on out, that you call me Ch—"
"I'll call you Jellybean anyway."
"Fox! You're nine years old! You can pronounce my—"
"Jellybean."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
c h r i s
The sky over Goldwen is a washed-out gray. This complex of townhouses is even worse.
Everything's damp and as I walk down the cracked sidewalk, the broken edges catch the tips of my flats. The units lean on each other, old and sagging and connected. Next door, a group of kids are fencing with plastic swords, the clatter of their battles a tinny sort of echo. One boy stands triumphant on a broken crate, crowned by the halo of the afternoon light, his sword raised high above his head.
I balance the cup of tea in my hand, careful not to spill it as I walk up to Whit's door. A window is cracked, duct-taped together in an X. I knock on the peeling paint.
The door swings open, and there's Whitney, draped in a long-sleeved striped blue shirt, the kind that was crisp and pretty once. Flowing white linen pants hang off her hips, and she's clutching a pair of oversized sunglasses to her face like a shield.
"Kill me," she groans, stepping aside to let me in without letting go of her head.
I set the tea on the counter. "What happened to your window?"
"Tree branch. Wind."
I nod, slipping off my flats. The place is messy, even more than usual—a work boot by the couch, a flannel tossed over the back of a chair, fast food wrappers all over the coffee table and empty mugs that had coffee by the stale smell.
Whitney sits on a stool by the counter, slumping forward so her forehead hits the cool surface.
I slide her the tea, the pink steam rising between us in a heart. "Tell me what happened last night."
Whitney has this gift—if she concentrates hard enough, she can remember anything. It's kind of amazing.
She takes a breath, removes the glasses, and rubs her temples. Her face scrunches up in concentration. "Did I... did I climb a tree?"
I stifle a giggle. "Did you?"
Whitney's eyes fly open. "I was a bad squirrel."
"A what?" I laugh, just as Walker appears from down the hall, rubbing his eyes. He's in a white T-shirt, and he holds up a small square of fabric—black and slightly crumpled.
Walker sees me first, narrows his eyes—so I roll mine, ugh he's so dramatic—and then he sees Whitney. "You wouldn't happen to know how this ended up in your purse, would you, Whit?"
I glance at the fabric, not recognizing it, but the moment Whitney catches sight of it, her face goes pale.
"What is that?" I ask. "A headband?"
YOU ARE READING
Beside
Romance''Tell me how it feels,'' he whispers. "Good," I gasp, my entire body trembling. Deeper. Harder. Perfect. Like we've been doing this for years. His hand finds my jaw, fingers firm as he tilts my head up, making me look at him. And that's it. Waves...
