“Good,” Mr. Brockwell said.
“Are you guys neighbors?” Brandon asked.
My head whipped around toward him so fast I thought I had given myself whiplash. Why would he ask that? Why was he asking questions?
“What? Oh no, I was a friend of Marissa’s mother.” His words hung in the air like smoke after an extinguished fire. Stale and poignant. The words “was a friend” stabbed at my heart.
I prayed someone would drop a plate or spill a coffee on somebody. Something, anything, so we could stop talking. As if in answer to my silent wish I heard the cashier yell, “Can I help who’s next?”
“Oh, that’s us.” I grabbed Brandon’s arm and tugged him toward the counter.
“Okay, well it was nice seeing you, Marissa.” Mr. Brockwell said, but I didn’t respond. I didn’t look back. And I kept my eyes on the floor as we left with our coffee and baked treats.
After we started driving I dove into my chocolate chip scone. I touted its texture, its taste, the juxtaposition of the chocolate chips to the dense pastry. My scone small talk was something to be admired. I wondered aloud how many scones they must bake each day. What time of day must the bakers come in to make the scones? How many scones do they sell versus how many they’ve baked? What do they do with all the extra scones? Why are scones so popular? Are they more or less popular than muffins? How many people dunk their scones in coffee? Are there any mix-ins that just don’t work with a scone’s texture? I don’t know how long I talked, but my throat was starting to feel sore. Brandon finally cut me off.
“So, seeing that guy kind of threw you for a loop, huh?” He grabbed his coffee with one hand and took a long sip. I looked at his profile, which was strong and solid. I liked how his sideburns had blunt edges; he must have used a beard trimmer to shape them.
“Me? What? I mean, what do you mean?” I picked at the last few crumbs of my scone.
“You’ve been giving me a dissertation about scones for maybe ten minutes, and since I don’t think you have any plans to get a doctorate in scone-ology I’m thinking it has something to do with that man.”
I was glad he kept his eyes on the road, that way he couldn’t see how fiery red my cheeks were. I sat silently. This was not something I was ready to get into.
“Sore subject?” he asked.
How bad would it be to tell him, I wondered. I mean we were going to spend the day together. Wouldn’t it be better to come clean about what had happened in my life rather than harbor the secret? Especially to someone who just might understand it.
“Look, I know what it’s like when you run into one of your parent’s exes.” He glanced over to me on the last word.
“What?” Again I played the idiot.
He let out a heavy sigh. “My mom dated this guy, Richard, a few years ago. He was a jerk. His name may have been Richard but I always called him Dick.” He chuckled. “Anyway, he was always trying to buy stuff for us kids. Skateboards for me, video games for Bobby and Nick. But at the same time, he treated my mom like garbage. He was always late or standing her up. Just a jerk.” He stopped at a red light and looked at me so deeply that I was afraid to blink. “So one day I’m in the mall doing whatever, and he comes up to me like we’re old friends.” His eyes were intense. “He slapped me on the back, and was like, ‘Hey kiddo, long time no see!’ and all I’m thinking is, ‘You jerk, you made my mother cry.’“
Just then a car honked behind us, and I was grateful Brandon had to return his gaze to the road. Something about when he looked at me made me want to melt like a marshmallow fresh from a campfire.
“I’m sorry if I’m totally going off here. For all I know, he could’ve been your exterminator. I just figured since he said he was a friend of your mom’s, like they ‘used to be friends,’ that he was an ex.” He had made air quotes around the “used to be friends.”
And I realized that I could go with that story. I could leave it at that. Or I could jump right in with both feet and set him straight.
“Exactly.” I stared at the road ahead. “He’s my mom’s ex.” The back of my throat had a lump in it and I washed it, along with the guilt, down with a large sip of my vanilla flavored coffee. You didn’t lie, I thought. Technically, he was an ex. Technically.
****
One of my favorite parts of going to the beach is the first moment you realize you’re there. When you’re driving with the windows open and suddenly you can smell the salt water. Then you can taste it in your mouth and an impulse takes over, and all you want to eat is some saltwater taffy. The sounds of seagulls echo through your ears, and the sun seems just a bit warmer right where you are.
Brandon found a parking lot close to the boardwalk, and we began our walk. As we strolled, our hands lightly brushed up against one another. I shoved my hands in my pockets. Even though I wanted to hold his hand, I couldn’t. I rolled my shoulders inward, and in my head I pictured a bubble surrounding me. Then Brandon playfully pushed against my arm.
“You’re funny,” he said, and I felt the bubble pop, but my hands stayed in my pockets.
We strolled through the customary souvenir shops. We made fun of the tie-dyed clothes and the custom screen-printed T-shirts. We tried on a variety of
