Page 115 of Cream & Sugar
I suck my teeth. “Guess not.”
He goes back to scrolling through socials.
“Good evening?” he asks.
My obnoxious grin returns in earnest. “About as good as it gets.”
“Glad you had fun,” says Rory, bitter as an unsugared grapefruit.
“Seriously, what have you been doing all evening? Did you go to the gym?”
“Rest day,” he grunts. “They’re important.”
“I know. It’s just not like you to sit around doing nothing.”
Rory reaches to the floor and picks up a fourth, hidden can of protein beer and takes a swig. It sounds… thick.
He wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “I feel bad.”
“Well, the new telly will be here Tuesday—” I start, but he shakes his head.
“No, idiot. I feel bad about you. About how I’ve treated you. It’s not been nice.I’venot been nice.”
I shrug, unable to disagree. “Well, I feel bad too. You were right; Iwasirresponsible and even though I could see it was causing you stress, I didn’t change. I was a bit of a dick.”
Rory considers this for a moment, then drains the rest of his beer.
“Alright. Well as long as we both feel bad.” He crushes the can in his fist and tosses it on the table. “Let’s try to treat each other better, yeah? Maybe spend a bit more time together or something.”
I recall what Shaun said over dinner and an idea springs to mind—a wild, stupid idea that probably won’t work in a million years, but I’m still high from my amazing evening and right now, I feel fucking unstoppable.
“I agree,” I say, backing away from the sofa. “Be right back.”
Spurred on by strange forces, I march into the hall and reach up to grab the toggle for the attic door. Pulling it sharply down, the hatch opens and a metal ladder unfurls at my feet with a clunk.
“What are you doing?” Rory calls after me, but I’m already halfway up the ladder.
It’s dark up here, but I have just enough light to spot what I’m looking. Its silhouette is unmistakable in the gloom. I grab it and descend backwards down the ladder.
“Freddie, what are you—” I turn to find Rory standing at the end of the hall. When he sees what’s in my hands, his eyes grow to the size of saucers. He shakes his head. “Uh-uh. No way. Absolutely not.”
I approach him, holding the bongo drums aloft. “Yes way.”
“I don’t play anymore!”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t.” I sweep past him and place the bongos down on the coffee table before hurrying back to my room to grab my guitar. “Come on, it’ll be a laugh!”
When I return, Rory’s still frozen by the doorway, eyes darting between me and the dusty bongos on the table.
“I told you how playing makes me feel,” he says, though I can see the spark of interest in his eyes.
“So what, you’re never going to play again?” I lean my guitar against the back of the sofa and head to the sink to grab a damp cloth. “Come on, Rory. You used to love playing! The best memories I have are of the three of us playing together.”
Rory’s jaw visibly unclenches. “Really?”
“Are you kidding?” Cloth in hand, I return to the bongos and start wiping the dust off them. “You basically taught me how to play. Without you, I dunno what I’d be doing with myself. Probably something really boring and soul-destroying.”
Like working in a bank.
