Beside

24 - recovery

"You ever think about how weird the word pickle is? Why is it called that? Carrot. Carrot's kind of weird too if you say it."

"Pickles are good, though."

"I love pickles. Especially the crunchy kind. But 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."

ｃｈｒｉｓ

The sky over Goldwen is a washed-out gray, like bed sheets left too long in the sun. Bed sheets stuck in my head, but that's not the point. This neighbourhood, this complex of townhouses—that's the point.

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 pivot and walk up the uneven path to unit 83. The mint and lemon steam rises with each step, curling up. I hope Whit likes it. I know it's her favourite.

The door looms ahead, paint peeling in strips. A window is cracked, duct-taped together in an X. I frown at that, then knock lightly, my knuckles brushing the worn wood.

Sometimes I wish Whitney could come live with me.

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. She squints out from behind them, her gold hair a wild waterfall of waves. She's forever beautiful.

"Kill me," she groans, stepping aside to let me in without letting go of her head. "I'm never drinking again."

"You said that last time," I remind her, setting the tea gently on the counter. "What happened to your window?"

"Tree branch. Wind."

"Oh." 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. "This time I mean it," she insists, though the words are muffled against the table. "What happened last night?"

I hum, thinking back. Fox said something about Whitney getting a police escort from Faro, but the rest of the night is a blur, bits of it fading in and out of focus like a dream. "Not sure. I was kind of out of it. Sorry, Whit."

She waves me off weakly. "No, it's okay. I'm glad you're okay."

I slide her the tea, the pink steam rising between us in a heart. "Do your memory thing," I say, trying to sound encouraging. Whitney has this gift—if she concentrates hard enough, she can replay the last few hours in her head like a movie reel. Every detail. It's kind of amazing. "You can do it for last night. Because you're awesome."