Page 21 of Hate You Later
Sounds expensive,Oliver protests.
Cut back on the cat snacks,I advise.Nothing but the finest, fair trade wardrobe for you. Clothes maketh the cat. There’s some great stuff out there, and it’s always a good idea to support your local artisans. Loads of them support great causes too.
I hope I’m not laying it on too thick.
Fine, Cookie. I was going to offer to send nudes in the event I had nothing to wear, but now I guess I’ll have to go shopping after all.
My face gets hot. I can actually feel myself blushing. Once more, I resolve that I will nevereverlet Kenna read these texts. She’d have an absolute field day and for sure accuse me of being a closet furry. I’vesaid enough for one night. Time to wrap this up before it gets any weirder.
Good night, Oliver. Later, Hater! Xoxo, C
Good night, Cookie. Hate You Later! Xxoo, O
hudson
“Rodney!Stop splashing your brother! He’s already soaked!” a young mother admonishes her son as he dashes around the fountain, pausing to throw water at a smaller sibling who is careening after him.
I pass the plaque and dedication to my great-grandfather at the center of the square, beside the large gazebo. Despite my decades-long absence, Ephron, WA still feels like home to me. I have to begrudgingly admit this.
Perhaps it’s the familiar imprint of making most of my earliest memories here. Park bench picnics with my mom. Watching fireworks in the town square. The “before” days. Before my parents divorced, before I got whisked away to a Swedish boarding school, and before my father remarried his cleaning lady, then the au pair, starting his second and third families.
The park is full of afternoon visitors. The benches are populated by clusters of gossiping moms pushing strollers. Bouncy toddlers eat snacks off their trays while older siblings run and play together.
There are some teenage boys by the gazebo stairs, doing tricks on their skateboards in a blatant attempt to impress a group of girls sipping brightly colored smoothies. Although they’re a few years older, the girls make me think of my sister, Lilly.
Except, if Lilly were here, she’d probably be the one showing those boys how to land their jumps.
Perhaps if I’d spent a little more time here, that would have been me and Jackson skateboarding in the park. I snap a photo of the town square and text it to my old friend.
Same old Ephron. Weird to be sitting here. Get together soon?
He responds immediately.
At a conference this week, but next week for sure! You should come on my podcast. We can riff about prodigal sons returning.
He punctuates his text with a devil and winky emoji.
This reminds me to add Jackson’s podcast to my queue. Apparently, he has a wise-cracking podcast that is all about romantic literature and culture. I haven’t had a chance to listen to it yet, but it doesn’t surprise me at all that my tech-guru friend is into romance novels and has a literary podcast.
Jackson’s always been a bit eccentric. As a kid, he liked to run statistics for superhero story arcs. In his late twenties, a very successful IPO on his first startup made him wealthy. He’s now free to do whatever he wants, which, at the moment, includes teaching logic at the local college, building new apps, and apparently, this podcast. I addLit Loversto my queue before I forget and then look for a place to sit for a moment. I need a few minutes to process and just be here.
There’s one mostly open bench a few yards away from the fountain. A tall, angular blonde girl in an apron is sitting alone, off to one side. Her blonde hair is twisted in a curly topknot, held together with a pen. She’s entirely engrossed in whatever she’s doing on her tablet. It looks like maybe she’s editing photos.
“Mind if I take a seat?” I ask.
“Sure, sure.” She waves a hand magnanimously without taking her eyes off her screen.
I sit down and relax a bit in the sunshine. If you’ve lived in the Pacific Northwest long enough, you know what comes immediately after these idyllic fall days. Long, dark, wet winters. Best to soak up as much vitamin D as you can while you can.
Light filters through the sprawling sycamores, dappling the ground. The air smells of earth and juniper. I watch as the mom of the splashing boys hands them shiny, copper pennies to toss into the fountain.
That fountain’s been refurbished recently, I note. Gone are the elaborate, bronze downspouts and copper snails I recall loving. Now, the water pops up from hidden jets, at irregular intervals, landing with a sploosh. The smaller boy shrieks with delight when a sudden spurt startles his big brother.
I recall tossing pennies here as a child, too, though I can’t imagine what I might have wished for at that point in my life. Everything was pretty idyllic back then. I do recall believing my great-grandfather was the one who granted the wishes. I’d half-expected him to pop up out of the fountain himself, like a dungaree-clad, mid-nineteenth-century version of a genie.
“Hey.” The girl suddenly looks up from her tablet, scrutinizing me. “I think I know you.”
“I highly doubt it.” I smile, lowering my sunglasses and leaning back with my eyes closed. I fold my arms across my chest, enjoying the warmth of the sun on my face. She couldn’t know who I am, could she?
