Scott rubbed the heel of his palm over his temple. “Yeah, well, I don’t like him.”
“Why?”
“Just don’t,” he replied, and then turned around, heading back into his bedroom.
I wiggled out from under Carson’s arm. “Well, I’ll see—”
“Hey.” He caught my arm, stopping me. “Where were you heading in such a hurry?”
“I was just going to... take a walk.”
“It’s almost nine.”
I shrugged, and my stomach took that moment to grumble. “Or get something to eat. Maybe some ice cream. I saw a carton of double chocolate earlier. I can’t remember the last time I ate ice cream.” I was rambling, but I couldn’t stop. “Granted, I can’t remember much of anything, so that doesn’t say much. Yesterday I discovered I love hamburgers without tomatoes. No pickles, but extra bacon.”
Carson’s grin grew the longer I talked. “How about cheese?”
“I’m ambivalent toward cheese.” I grinned. A few days ago, I had one of those moments where I couldn’t stop talking with Del, and he’d been less that amused by it.
Carson let go of my arm. “So, back to the ice cream ... you sure you saw some?”
“Yep.”
“Mind company?”
My heart got all kinds of happy at that suggestion. “I thought you were here to see Scott.”
“He can wait.” Carson nudged me with his shoulder. “Can’t he?”
I peeked at him, deciding that sharing some ice cream wasn’t a cardinal sin and I could use the distraction. “Sure.”
Carson followed me downstairs and through the rooms. It took me a couple of moments to find the bowls and silverware. Then I dug out the ice cream. He piled his bowl high with mound after mound of chocolate goodness. I added three large scoops to mine, and then we sat at the bar, facing each other.
“Where are the parents?” he asked, smashing the ice cream with the back of his spoon.
“I don’t know where Dad is, but Mom’s in bed.” I leaned forward, lowering my voice. “I think that’s all she does. Was she always like that?”
He glanced up as he took a bite. “I didn’t see her often. She kind of has a problem with me being in the house, so I usually try to limit my visits.”
I frowned. “Why?”
He smashed some more of his ice cream. “Your mom isn’t big on me hanging out in the house because of my dad.” Pausing, he shrugged. “She probably thinks I’m going to steal some of her art.”
I clenched the spoon so tightly I wouldn’t have been surprised if it bent. “That’s so messed up. Your dad is no different than mine. They just do different jobs. I don’t get what the big deal is.”
He had that look again—the one that made me feel as if I were a puzzle he couldn’t even begin to figure out. “You know what I always thought was funny?”
“What?”
“From what Scott has said, your dad was very much like mine, before he met your mother. Didn’t have a lot of money, came from the working class and whatnot, so I could never figure out how he ended up with your mom.”
And that was a puzzle I couldn’t figure out. “Me neither, because Mom comes from—”
“Old money, and they tend to stick together. Maybe he just swept her off her feet.”
I started to grin at that, picturing my dad winning my mom over through all kinds of romantic gestures, but then I thought about how they were now. There was more romance between me and my hairbrush than between those two.
Carson took a huge bite of his ice cream. “This is good stuff.”
Watching him dig in, I waited until most of my ice cream melted, and then I twirled my spoon around the bowl, turning it into something like pudding. When Carson laughed, I grinned at him. “I think I like it like this.”
“Yeah, you did that as a kid. Drove your mom insane.”
Chocolate slipped off my spoon, plopping into the bowl as I studied him. “Were we really best friends?”
He nodded. “Yeah, we were... inseparable for a long time.”
As I’d done a thousand times since learning Carson was the answer to my security question, I tried to picture us doing things together—running, playing, getting into trouble. Sadly, like everything else, the memories just weren’t there no matter how hard I tried. If I was being honest with myself, I think it was the possibility of those memories that I missed the most.
“You have that look on your face,” he said, brushing his hair off his forehead with his free hand. “You’re not happy about something. Bad company, eh?”
“No. Not at all,” I assured him. “It just sucks not being able to remember anything. I think ... I would’ve really liked those memories.”
His eyes met mine for a moment. “I still have them, though. If you want, I can share the highlights with you.”
A grin pulled at my lips. “I’d like that.”
And so Carson did. He went through the greatest hits of our childhood while we finished our ice cream. Riding bikes, climbing trees, swimming, and making forts with branches—we’d done it all. It turned out I’d gotten Carson’s arm broken, too. This time by jumping from one of the rocks on Devil’s Den, taking him along with me. He’d missed an entire season of Little League.
Scott was right—Carson and I had been closer.
The whole time he talked about us, the skin around his eyes crinkled, and I was drawn into his steady gaze, infatuated with eyes that shone like lapis lazuli. Through it all, pressure built in my chest. Some of it was good, because it felt as if I were about to fly off my seat, but there was a tightness to it, tinged with sadness and shame.
“I really am sorry for being such a tool to you,” I said again. The fact that I had been kind to his mom and then him after she had passed didn’t make up for everything else. “You didn’t deserve the way ... I ended up.”