Page 65 of Friend Me

He set the pizza box on the wide porch railing and tugged me to him. “Sorry, I can’t. You’re my friend.” He held me tight, and it had to have been the pressure that squeezed the tears out of me. I rubbed them on the soft cotton of his Galaga shirt. It smelled like citrus and sunshine, and I wanted to wrap it around me like a blanket. But, too soon, he stepped back.

“Want me to leave this and go?” He waved at the box.

Go? And leave Dad and me alone again? “Don’t be ridiculous. Come eat with us.”

“You sure?”

Dad shouted from inside the house, “Marlee! You still out there?”

“Yeah! Just a sec.” I grinned up at Tyler. “You coming? We have beer.”

He picked up the box. “Sold.”

I opened the door. “Dad, you remember Tyler from the other night, right?”

Dad looked up quickly but then focused back on the game. “Tyler from the train station. Tyler with the muscle car. Sit the fuck down and be quiet.”

Tyler froze. I laid a hand on his forearm. “He’s always like that during baseball,” I whispered. He’d never been a big swearer, but nowadays TV sports brought it out in him.

“But Oakland’s not even—”

“Shh. Doesn’t matter. It’s the Series.”

“Ah.” He snapped his mouth shut. He set the pizza on the coffee table and took a seat on the end of the sofa closer to Dad.

Be right back,I mouthed and went to the kitchen for plates, napkins, and three bottles of beer. In the plus column, I’d tidied the house this morning. Too bad I’d picked up my novel instead of showering, brushing my hair, or putting on makeup. I didn’t usually let people from the office see me when I was less than put-together. But Tyler had seen me the other night at the theater with mascara tear tracks. It couldn’t get much more real than that. I finger-combed my hair and put it back up in a ponytail.

When I returned, a commercial played, muted. The men looked away from each other, Tyler at the floor, his cheeks pink, and Dad at me, smiling too brightly.

“Thanks, Sunshine. Nothing better than beer, pizza, and baseball. I like this one.” He pointed with his thumb, and I hadn’t thought it possible, but Tyler’s cheeks went even more blotchily red.

I handed Dad a beer and then a slice of pizza, supreme, my favorite.But supreme is everyone’s favorite.

I passed another slice to Tyler and took my plate to the other end of the sofa. The game came back on, and Dad turned up the volume.

“Who’s your team, Tyler?” Dad asked at the next commercial. No one had to ask him whohisteam was. He’d been cheering loudly for them.

“In this Series? I don’t really care. I’m an Astros fan.”

“Bunch of cheaters.”

Tyler blinked.

“Dad! Be nice!” I scooted closer to Tyler to whisper, “He gets really emotionally invested in sports.”

“Didn’t Marlee tell me you’re from Dallas?”

On his good days, he was sharp as a tack.

“I am.”

“Then why aren’t you a Rangers fan?”

Tyler’s lip curled. “My brothers are all big Rangers fans. I guess I just wanted to be different.”

“Good thing,” Dad said. “When’s the last time the Rangers won the Series?”

“Exactly.” Tyler clinked his beer bottle against Dad’s.

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