Page 32 of Best Friends for Never

I smile right back, one that says,Oh, I’m definitely yelling later because what the frick, Mom? I thought you were on my side!

I set my bag of toppings on the island, then roll up my sleeves to wash my hands.

Mom’s already set out a dish for me, so when I’m finished washing up, I dump my tots into the bottom and begin spreading them out how I like them.

I’m spreading the seasoned crumbled beef my mother made ahead of time when the music comes to a sharp end.

“Ah, crud. Gotta flip the record. You two keep going. Mine are ready, anyway,” my mom announces, wiping her hands on a dish towel as she shuffles from the room. It’s an apparent attempt at getting Noel and me alone together.

I love my mother more than life itself, but right now, I want to put her in a nursing home and never visit her.

No, wait. That’s too mean.

I’ll replace all her treasured photos with pictures of Clifford, the gardener from next door. They’ve been feuding for nearly fifteen yearsbecause he ran over her violets. He swore he didn’t and that she’s the one who killed them, and they haven’t been able to let it go since.

Yes, that will be my revenge. She’ll hate it.

“Well, that was obvious,” I say once she’s out of earshot.

“To be fair, subtlety has never been Astrid’s thing,” Noel remarks, and he wouldn’t be wrong. She’s never been one to shy away from telling it as it is or letting people know her exact feelings about things, like her strife with Clifford.

We work in silence for several minutes, me probably putting a bit too much force into throwing meat on top of my tots and Noel watching me like a hawk.

Why is he here? He hasn’t bothered to show up over the years, and now, on his second day back in town, I can’t escape him. What gives?

And why did he say those things to me this morning? Why did he get jealous of the idea of Axel and me together? Why did he imply that he still has feelings for me? Why does he have to keep calling me Peter? Why—

“Did they offend you?” he asks quietly.

I whip my head toward him. “What.”

It’s not really a question, more of a demand.

He dips his head toward the pan. “Your tots. Have they done something to offend you? Because mine haven’t said a word all night, and I’m going to be pissed if you got the magic talking Tater Tots and I didn’t.”

It’s a ridiculous thing to say, and it almost makes me smile. Then I remember that this night is mine, and he’s intruding.

“Why are you here?”

“She asked.” He shrugs, tossing a few tomatoes onto his already overly topped tots. Did he learn nothing over his years of attending Tater Tot Tuesdays? If there’s one thing to avoid, it’s too many toppings. They’ll never crisp up the way I know he likes. They’ll get mushy and gross within minutes. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have come if I knew—”

“That’d I’d be here?”

“Well, yeah.”

“It’s my house. She’s my mother.”

“I know. I just . . .”

“I just find it funny that you’ve been gone for ten years, and suddenly you’re everywhere I turn.”

His hands stop, and for the sake of his tots, I’m glad. He sets the bowl of tomatoes down with a gentleness he wasn’t showing the boards he was ripping off my wall this morning.

He turns to me, crossing one leg over the other, his hip resting against the island we’ve spent so many nights at, up late talking, doing homework, or making dinner as we are now.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re heading the theater project?”

Of all the things I thought Noel would say, it wasn’t that.

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