The plastic supermarket basket August carries is teeming with candy and chips, but even so I cram in a box of mint cookies. My parents went to some black-tie event in Boston and left us take-out money, more than enough to get pizza and then drain our local grocer of its sweets. They’ll likely gripe about it later when they come home to find us passed out on the couch in a sea of candy wrappers, but I’ll have no regrets.
“Entire bag of tiny Kit Kats or two jumbo?” I ask.
August and I share a look, and in unison we both say, “Bag.”
“Now all we have to do is make the momentous decision of ice cream flavor, and we should be good to go,” I say, and for some reason I’m struck with a pang of nostalgia. “Man, I’m going to miss the candy shopping here.”
August laughs. “How can you miss something we’re currently doing?”
“I mean when we go to California,” I say.
He shrugs.
“What? You’re not?”
“Not really.”
For some reason his reply irks me. “How, though? This town is where we grew up. Where we learned to swim and started all our businesses. Had our movie nights.” Suddenly, I’m uncomfortable, not even sure where that came from or why I felt the need to say it so adamantly.
He gives me a questioning look. “I know. And you’ll have summers here.”
My stomach drops fast. “Me? As in you won’t be coming home for summer?”
He shrugs. Again. “Not sure.”
My eyes widen. “I’m the one who said I couldn’t wait to leave.” I point to my chest as though, somehow, I have dibs on the sentiment.
“Right. And I agree with you.”
I look at the candy, trying to reign in the freak-out that’s threatening to come. How could he just trash our entire childhoods like that? But when I turn back to August, he’s not looking at me. He’s staring down the aisle. And when I see who he’s staring at, I freeze.
There in the chip section is Kyle, Des’s Kyle, who has been away at college, who hasn’t come home for summers, who for all we knew (and hoped) dropped off the face of the planet. And is now right here, picking out a bag of chips as though he had any right.
I touch August’s arm, as if to say, Let’s just go. He doesn’t brush me off, but he also doesn’t respond. Then Kyle sees us. And for what feels like the most awful eternity none of us moves. My heart thumps in my ears, and I’m consumed with the knowledge that I can’t fix this.
Anger flashes across August’s face, and yet we all remain in the same uncertain posture, like we’re mannequins in a store window fighting to come to life.
All of a sudden Kyle snaps out of it, his look of shock transforming into the self-assured posturing we used to admire before we knew better. “If it isn’t little Mariani in the flesh,” he says with a tone that’s way too familiar.
Hearing his voice say August’s name only further solidifies the awfulness of the moment, and I consider regaling the grocery store with profanity that would make small children’s ears fall off. But no insult hurts enough. Instead, I settle on a lame and vague, “How about we don’t,” giving Kyle a back-off glare.
For a second Kyle looks like I slapped him. But he brushes it off with a shrug and an uneasy laugh. “I see your girlfriend’s still talking for you,” he says, something he used to playfully tease us about years ago.
But Kyle’s delivery is awkward, and August’s expression edges past angry, transforming his bad joke into a perceived insult. Kyle sighs and turns, breaking eye contact and disappearing around the corner.
My breath escapes in an audible whoosh.
But August remains uncomfortably still. He’s got that controlled angry look that makes me think if he moves at all he might charge after that douche like a raging bull.
“August?” I say, unsure.
His lips form a hard line, but he doesn’t look at me.
“August?” I try again, and when he still doesn’t respond, I begin to doubt myself. A zing of fear shoots through me that maybe he thinks I made it worse. “Wait . . . you’re not mad at me, are you?”
“It’s fine,” he lies.
“You know I was only trying to protect you, right?” But my words don’t sound supportive the way I intend; they sound cheap.
“I definitely don’t need you to protect me.”
His tone is accusatory, and I get my back up. “And what’s so bad about protecting my best friend?”
“Tiny,” he says, and the annoyance in his voice sends me into full-on defense mode.
“You weren’t saying anything,” I say quietly. “What was I supposed to do?”
He looks up at the ceiling, taking a breath. “I’m not going to fight with you in the middle of the grocery store.” He holds out the basket of junk food. “Take it.”
I shake my head. “Grocery store or not, you never want to talk about this. Ever. I’m your best friend and I have no idea what’s going on with you.”
“You’re right. I don’t want to talk to you about this, because you have no respect for boundaries.” His frustration tumbles out fast and harsh. “Not everything is about you.” He puts the basket on the floor and walks away.
I pull in my arms as though the gesture could protect me from the sting.
He keeps walking, and I don’t try to stop him.