Page 55 of Betting on the Best Friend
“Not an A-plus? You surprise me.”
“Some of those haircuts . . .”
Charlie nods. “I’ll give it a C.”
“What?” I squawk like Ahab. “Thatsceneis iconic.”
“Some of those dudes are playing beach volleyball in jeans.” He shakes his head. “Sand, Ruby. Jeans.”
“Oh, fair. Scene downgraded to a B-, film still an A.”
We continue like this as we reach the park and wander toward the south end and the Treehouse. It’s been a major draw since it was installed a few years ago. A happy squeak escapes me when we find it empty.
It’s an open-air globe made of rebar, bisected horizontally by thick mesh netting. Stone blocks set directly on the ground invite gathering. Ramps to a steel bridge access the second level where you can lie on the net, looking at the tree canopy through the open top. The net can accommodate up to twenty people, and often does. Today, we get to be the only two.
Without needing to discuss it, we take the bridge to the net, then crawl into the center and flop back to stare through the opening above us. It reminds me of a paper lantern.
After a couple of minutes of quiet, I scoot against Charlie’s side. “It’s chillier than I thought it would be with the airflow beneath us.”
He folds his hands behind his head to give me more room to nestle. So what if this is the kind of thing the girls have been side-eyeing? I don’t need them to understand it. This is perfect, lying here and listening. Birds trill and chirp. We’re surrounded by trees, leaves rustling as squirrels go about their business.
“Do you know much about this?” I ask in a lazy murmur suited to the mood.
“About what?”
“The Treehouse. I read up on it when they announced it was reopening.”
“Tell me.”
“The idea is that as the canopy grows denser over time, it will feel as if the trees define the shape of the enclosure, not the rebar.”
Charlie ponders that for a bit before he says, “Neat.”
He means it. That’s Charlie. Succinct but sincere.
We’re lying side to side, the top of my head up near his armpit, and I press my arm against him, a brief touch to emphasize what I say next. “I’m glad we’re like this. That I can tell you I researched a playground attraction to understand the designer’s vision, and you not only don’t think it’s weird that I did it, but you think it’s interesting.”
We fall quiet again, but after a couple of minutes, I sense the mood has shifted. We haven’t moved, but it feels like Charlie has drifted back into the mood that held him as we walked here. I tilt my head to see if he’s fallen asleep. He’s looking up through the globe, but his gaze is distant.
The silence changes. It feels like things not being said, and I have a premonition that this isn’t about Sydney.
His body tenses as he gathers himself to sit up, and I move to give him room. He leans back on his hands and looks down at me, his eyes serious.
“Can I talk to you?” he asks.
My fingers curl around the mesh. “Am I in trouble?”
He grimaces. “I’ll rephrase. Can I tell you something?”
I push myself up to a sitting position, and we shift until we’re facing each other, cross-legged. I rest my elbows on my knees and prop my chin on my fists. “What’s up?”
“Sydney and I were never dating.”
“Huh?” So eloquent, but what the heck? I was there for both of their dates.
He rubs his hands over his face, and when he drops them, I notice for the first time the faint circles under his eyes, the light stubble on his jaw. His hair looks like he’s dragged his fingers through it several times today. This is more than a scruffy Sunday aesthetic.
“I’ve been thinking nonstop about how to explain this since yesterday.” He sighs. “I still don’t know.”
