Page 51 of If This Gets Out

“A little.”

Ruben crosses the rooftop, his shoes crunching on the gravel. There’s a metal ladder attached to the side of the building. With no fear, Ruben steps up to it and then swings out over the roof edge. My heart lurches, but he’s smiling.

Seriously: does anything scare this boy?

I climb down after him. The metal is so cold it burns my fingers. When we reach the end, I hear him jump down, landing heavily on his feet.

Shit, it’s actually a decent jump. I grip the metal tight.

“It’s easy,” he says.

I jump. I stumble on the pavement, but Ruben catches me. He holds me there for a moment, his hand on my chest. I wonder if he can feel how fast my heart is banging against my ribs.

“You okay?” he asks.

I step away from him. “Yeah.”

He puts his hood on. I copy him. It’s cold enough to warrant it, and it’ll help us be a little more anonymous.

Together, we set off down the street.

This city truly is gorgeous, like something out of a fairy tale. The streets are wide and spacious, lit by iron streetlamps. Everything is soft and gold and black. The roads are all quiet, but a few of the restaurants are bustling, with people talking and laughing. We go around a corner, and in the distance, I can see the canal. It cuts through the city, broken apart by stone bridges every second block. We go toward it.

“What are you thinking about?” asks Ruben, turning his head toward me.

I shrug, because it’s my default response when someone asks me that. But we’re going for a new normal. That means I should be different, too.

“I’m thinking about Mom,” I say. “I was wondering if I should take a photo of this and send it to her, but then decided against it.”

“Why?”

I shrug again. It’s a damn disease. “I don’t think she’d like knowing I’m here.”

“How come?”

“This place probably doesn’t bring back the happiest memories for her, after what happened.”

“Oh. So… why’d you want to see it so bad?”

“I dunno. I just always have.”

He gives me a searching look, but doesn’t reply.

Up ahead, there’s a small stall selling something called stroopwafels.

“What the hell is a stroopwafel?” I ask, as I point at the stall.

“Want to find out?”

I nod, and go up and buy a packet for us from an excessively cheery saleswoman in a blue checkered outfit. Luckily the stall accepts credit cards, and I go back to Ruben with my haul. They look like small, compressed waffles, but sort of seem crispy, and are sold in stacks wrapped in clear plastic.

“I love this word,” I say.“Stroopwafel.”

“Please don’t write a song called ‘Stroopwafel.’”

I grin, and feel my notebook in my jacket pocket. “Don’t tempt me.”

Up ahead is an iron bench, overlooking the canal. It’s lit by one iron streetlight.

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