“Your last…?” His eyes flick to Doug. He knows. Everybody knows. Nobody does shit about fucking Doug because he’s a good player. They don’t care enough about Cody, but I do. “We’ll talk later, Meyer.”
My shower is rushed, but I want to smell nice. I’m gonna sit with Cody in his concession stand. He’ll be working, I’ll be making a statement.
I’m too late by the time I make it to the concession stand. Rachel’s already with him. Yeah, there’s room for me, but my little sister being there says everything for me. I join my family at a table.
“You have competition,” Bea points out.
Cody smiles at her, but then he smiles at me. The smiles are completely different.
There’s no competition.
It’s just me and Cody. He wouldn’t let me do anything, so I’m watching him put stuff away and lock up. He joins me at the table, reaching across, almost locking his hand with mine, pulling back then purposefully, finally, placing his hand on mine. It’s an ice block, so I use both of my oversized palms to cup it, willing my warmth to infuse with his skin. A chill runs through him.
“I hurt you. I’m sorry.”
Lists. People who make lists. Mom. Leaving. Cody makes lists, too.
I remember all that.
Every instinct wants to pull my hand away. I can’t bring myself to do it. What’s wrong with me? All I know is, instead of running from the tiger that wants to eat me, I’m placing myself in his damn mouth.
Not a tiger, Ari. Just Cody.
That’s worse. All a tiger can do is eat me. Cody can break my heart.
“It was … was nothing,” I force out, voice rasping as if I’m using the last of my oxygen.
“It was something. Any chance you’d tell me so I can never do it again?”
Does he mean that? He’d do that for me?
His teeth chatter.
“C’mon. I’ll drive you home.”
“My car’s here. How will I get to work tomorrow?”
I shrug. “Guess I’ll have to pick you up.” The longer I keep him with me, the longer we get until the goodbye comes.
His teeth chatter some more. “Kay.”
I have to heft my hockey bag onto my shoulder, but I don’t let go of his hand. “It’s gonna sound so dumb,” I say as we walk.
“Try me.”
“Lists are…” How do I say it? My mom made a list, too, and she’s been gone since I was eight. That’s too heavy. “Maybe you don’t make a list about us?Ever.”
I toss my bag up and over. It lands in the bed of my truck with a heavythucksound. I open his door like a gentleman, then get in the truck, turn it over, and crank the heat for him. I’ll die of heat stroke, but he’ll be nice and cozy.
“I won’t, Ari. No lists. No lists about us. Lists about other things, are they okay?”
“Like what?”
“I dunno. Like a grocery list?”
“Fine.”
“Adventure goals?”
