Page 71 of Betting on the Best Friend
Sami and Madison haven’t bothered with nods to the Hundred Acre Wood—most of the party goers don’t—and instead are cosplaying as Spring. Sami’s in a skin tight romper covered in bright green feathers and bird ornaments. Madison chose an outfit someone must have donated after going to the Eras Touror retiring from Ice Capades, a bejeweled purple minidress she’s wearing with green suede sneakers. “I’m a crocus,” she tells us.
I have to Google crocus, and I’m forced to agree. She’s giving crocus.
I’m not good at crowd estimates, but the park is full of revelers. It’s a festival atmosphere, a gentle energy in the air like the roll of happy waves on a sunny day on the Gulf, or a spring breeze stirring a bluebonnet field.
“Well, if this ain’t the dangedest thing,” Grandma Letty says as we pause at the outskirts of the throng. She squints. “Is that man wearing seashell pasties?”
Without following her grandma’s gaze, Sami says, “Assume yes.”
“Turkey leg booth,” I order, making a scooting motion with my hands. That’s where we’re meeting Charlie.
We navigate the perimeter, moving out of earshot of one drum circle into earshot of another. We admire the fashion—or complete rejection of it—as we go. Mrs. Lipsky coos over any child under six who’s dressed as an animal, while Grandma Letty issues three more “dangs,” and Madison stops two different girls to ask them where they got their spangly bra tops.
I sense we’re nearing the turkey leg booth before I even smell it, like my Charlie detector has gone off. Sure enough, a herd of college kids in boho outfits drifts out of the way, and there he is, wearing a black-striped red tank top, his hands in the pockets of beige shorts.
“Piglet,” Sami calls in delight, and Madison says, “Rude.”
“No, he’s dressed like Piglet,” Sami explains.
Not sure I would have pulled my focus from his bare biceps and shoulders to notice if she hadn’t pointed it out. Charlie looks good. His hair is a shade lighter than it was three weeks ago, his skin a few shades more tan. He must be doing a lot of outdoor climbing.
As we near him, I freeze for a few seconds, not sure what I do here. Waving feels inadequate. Thankfully, Grandma Letty barrels forward and hauls him into a hug. “Good to see you, Chuckles.”
He hugs her back, smiling. “You too, Grandma Letty.”
“Better watch out,” she says as she releases him. “I hear they got boobs here.”
He gives her a serious nod. “Point them out. I’ll protect you.”
She cackles while Mrs. Lipsky steps in for her hug, followed by Sami and Madison, who give him the easy hugs they always do. I like this. It makes everything feel normal until it’s Ava’s turn.
She says, “I hug now,” and gives him a hug that wouldn’t have been awkward without the announcement. But Charlie only returns it with a soft laugh, and then it’s my turn.
I stand in front of him and make no move to hug him, looking up instead to study him, taking in every new detail. A few freckles rest on top of his tan.
“I missed your dumb face,” I say, smiling. I’m making a routine hug between us into A Thing by not giving him one, but I’ve been so wrong about what Charlie has wanted and needed that I don’t want to assume here.
“Missed yours too,” he says as he pulls me into a hug as easily as ever. I relax into it, willing to stay as long as he’ll let me. The me-shaped vapor inside expands like it’s taken its first deep breath in weeks. I didn’t know I knew his scent, but now I’m realizing how much I’ve missed it. It’s subtle. Warm and clean. We often joke about how any book with a romance has a three-word description of the hero’s smell at least once.
I give his shirt a teasing sniff and murmur, “Ivory soap, clean living, and the faint trace of secrets.” But also like nestling with your bestie under a nearby tree canopy and lazy Sunday afternoons when sunlight pools on my living room sofa with my feet draped over his legs while we watch a movie.
He laughs and lets me go. “Or else it’s my Target shower soap.”
I smile back, and I don’t argue, but he’s wrong. There’s definitely the scent of a man who kept a few big secrets from me.
This is not the day for that. I’m not sure what the day will be. I hope it’s the day for the reset button, but I’ll take all my cues from Charlie.
“Lead us to Eeyore,” Sami orders.
He gives my pigtail a light tug. “Got her.”
“The petting zoo one,” she says.
“Yes, ma’am.” He points in the general direction of the pen, and we drift toward it.
Charlie slides his hands back into his pockets, settling into the amble that may be his most defining physical characteristic. I have the urge to reach out and slip my hand through his, as though that’s how we usually walk. But it never has been, and when an elderly man approaches us to hand out shiny pinwheels, I accept one to keep my hands busy.
Grandma Letty—who has the shortest attention span in our crew—gets bored of watching the put-upon-looking gray donkey in “Eeyore’s Pen.” “Better than most of the jackasses I’ve met, but you’re the pooper at your own party. Next?”
