“You know, I like you better in this side of the closet,” he said, pointing to the more me side with denim and cotton. I blushed a little at his comment.
He turned the light off and shut the door and I continued to watch him. I was trying to think of something witty to say, but nothing was coming to mind. I walked over to the window and slid the blinds up and cracked open the window to let in some air. “I like to sleep with it open at night. I like the way the crickets sound,” I shrugged, turning around to see him looking through the various bowls and boxes on my dresser now. Suddenly I gasped a little and lurched forward as he was lifting the lid to my old jewelry box. I felt like my knees were going to buckle underneath me when I caught myself on the corner of my bed. I just sat down and stared, fear stinging my eyes a little, with a touch of mortifying embarrassment. I watched as Reed pulled out the overly worn paper, the creases tearing a bit on the edges. I caught the smirk forming on the side of his lips when he looked at me from a side glance. “Is this what I think it is?” he asked.
“Oh, uh… yeah, I guess. I don’t know. I forgot what I put in that thing,” I lied. I knew exactly what it was because I looked at that letter from Reed almost every night for two years. I gulped slowly, hoping if I did it slowly enough he wouldn’t hear it.
He unfolded it and read over his own words just a little. He carefully folded it and then put it back in the box, replacing the felt lid once again. I just sat there motionless, watching his hands as he slid them in his pockets and tensed his arms just a little, his back to me. He slowly walked sideways, taking in other things in my room, looking at the pictures of Sarah, Sienna and me on my mirror. He ran his finger through the chains and necklaces that were hanging from the small hooks on my cork board. My aunt and mom had a tradition of giving me charms for my birthday, and I had saved every single one since my fifth birthday.
I was starting to feel a little light-headed, probably from holding my breath for so long, when Reed slowly turned to look at me. I both anticipated and dreaded meeting his gaze. I looked down just before his face was looking at mine, staring at my shoes and fidgeting my feet together. I chewed on the inside of my cheek a little and then slowly looked up at him to find him wearing a warm smile. He came over and sat next to me, not too close, but close enough that I could feel the warmth of his body. Thankfully, our silence was broken by my dad’s hollering down the hall.
“Hey, Nolan! Bring your guest out on the porch when you can. I made some fresh lemonade and we can wait for your mother to come home. She’s on her way,” he said.
“OK, be right there,” I said, leaping to my feet. I didn’t turn around once, just got to my door and said ‘come on’ over my shoulder, flipping my room light as I turned the corner and headed back to the main room. I could hear Reed’s giant shoes clomping behind me and cringed a little that the floor of my house sounded so hollow. Just one more nuance about living in a manufactured home.
I stuck to my mission and flung the screen door open and held it out behind me waiting for Reed to catch up. When we got out on the porch my dad handed Reed a glass and then gave me one, too. “Taste this, son. Right from my own tree. Pretty good lemons this year, I’d say,” he said, toasting to his homemade creation.
I stared at the McDonald’s glasses we were holding, freebies we’d scored years ago from some giveaway. Suddenly everything in my house didn’t feel good enough. I stomped over to the porch swing and sat down folding my legs up underneath me.
“Thanks, Mr. Lennox… uh, sorry. Rich. It’s great,” Reed said, taking another swallow and puckering a bit at the sourness.
I couldn’t even look at him. And here my dad was, trying to impress him with sour lemonade in our pokey mismatched glasses. I just stared at my lap and sighed. Suddenly, the swing was moving and I realized Reed had sat down next to me. I looked up and gave him a closed lip smile, shrugged and took a swig of my sour juice. My dad had gone back to tinkering in the carport – clearly the lemonade was a rouse to keep Reed out of my bedroom alone with me.
“This is actually pretty good, you know?” Reed said, holding up his glass. “I don’t think I’ve ever had fresh-squeezed anything! My dad picks out ready-made everything. Either that or Rose, who comes in to cook sometimes, leaves ready-to-heat leftovers stacked in the fridge.”
I smiled a little and then just took another drink, looking out down the dirt road. My mom couldn’t get here quick enough.
“So…” he started, then began swinging his legs back and forth like a child. “You kept my letter.” He was grinning and looking out into the distance, clearly ready to tease me. I had a choice, be embarrassed or just own it all.