Beside

32 - friends

"I tried to build a sandcastle, but the sand keeps falling down."

"Did you use water? You need wet sand, Jellybean."

"Oh. I thought it was just being mean to me."

"Sand can't be mean. It's sand."

"You don't know that."

"Um, yes I do."

"Um, no!"

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

c h r i s

Fox has been gone, these days, and I feel it—his absence is like a missing chapter in a book. I don't want to read the next one. It feels wrong. I'm missing something.

I open my last honey stick. A thick dollop lands on my tongue, melting into that floral, golden taste that makes me sigh. My throat's better now, but I still love these.

I strip my sheets and blankets for a reset. I bundle in my arms before heading to the laundry across the hall.

Then, Jed and I have cereal for dinner and sit down on the couch. We watch a show that shows how stuff is made—tonight it's caskets—and we talk about death, but not for long because he has to go to his room and wait for a call from Mick, his boyfriend. So I finish the show by myself.

I clean the kitchen, and then I go to bed, curled up in my blankets with a book. It's that book, but he's not here to read it. It's that story, but he's not here to Foxify it. Eventually, I sleep just so I can dream of the things I want.

Anyway, when I wake up the next morning, my eyes are swollen from crying, and the whole day follows like the others—no stardust, and no kiss.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

F O X

When someone calls "McDonald's," you go. We used to come here all the time, just a trio of 18-year-olds with no fucking clue how to be adults. I miss that.

The smudges on the plastic seats and the fingerprints on the tables have been making me cringe since we sat down with our food. All I smell is fry oil. All I hear is screaming kids somewhere past us in that melted-plastic, cacophony of a PlayPlace.

Noah's rolling a crinkly bottle of water between his palms. He can't eat anything here—deathly allergy to nuts and all that—but he came anyway. That's the rule. He eyes Jed. "You called McDonald's. What is it?"

But Jed's meticulously dissecting a French fry with a plastic knife, peeling the crispy exterior from the soft interior. I watch him, finally able to use both eyes. My bad one can open half-way now, though the swelling still draws a lot of stares. Especially from the parents here.

Noah hits Jed with his bottle. "Dude, look alive. I just hiked forty miles. I need sleep. Speak."

"This is not about me." Jed's dark eyes slide slowly to me. "Pain demands to be felt, but it doesn't have to be carried alone."

"You're off, again," Noah says. "Cam's worried."

"There's nothing to worry about," I say. "I'm fine."

Noah leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Look, it's been rough lately, but you have to talk to us. "Isolating isn't helping."

"I appreciate the concern, but I'm handling it."