He leads me to the center of the largest cement bowl. Someone has already defiled a wall with “Candy hearts Larry” in fresh white spray paint. He drops his backpack with a shifty thud and sits, pulling me down with him. Cold leaches through my jeans. I tug sweatshirt slack under my butt.
“An empty skate park,” I say, nodding, my lips tucked. “Charmingly weird.”
“I chose it because I wanted you to feel safe. Look around.”
We are surrounded by cement stairs, curbs, and half-pipes; lips, bowls, and banks.
“No trees,” I say softly.
“As man-made as it can get. Don’t you see, Julia? I. Get. You.”
Silence settles between us. For once, I have absolutely no idea what to say. But I try: “What’s in the backpack?”
He unzips his backpack and removes a block of cheese, a bag of grapes, a jar of fancy shriveled pickles, and a can of beer.
“Where did you get the beer?”
“The fridge. You don’t have to drink it.”
“We can’t sit in the middle of a public skate park and drink.”
“I know. It’s for celebratory effect. Oh man, I forgot the knife. You won’t mind gnawing the top off that cheese, will you?”
I hold the murky jar to the sky. “I don’t mean to be rude, but what are ‘bitter gourdpickles’?”
“I’m not sure. I was rushed. I spent most of the morning scouting treeless locations. They call them leafy suburbs for a reason. Who knew the best one was right next door to your doc? Oh. I got you this, too.” He removes a dented brown cardboard box tied with twine and sets it on the ground proudly.
I stare at it.
“Are you going to open it?” he says, crossing his arms and patting them. “You know, not all of us have a nice thick Chieftains hockey sweatshirt.”
I untie the string and the box falls apart. Inside is a smooshed purple cupcake, the kind sold in an expensive bakery, with layers of frosting flowers now smeared on the box flaps.
“Aww, dang. It got banged up in the Jeep,” he says.
I stick a finger inside and scoop some frosting. “That is so good. Do you want some?”
“It’s all for you.” Kellan cracks the beer and takes a sip, then tips the can to me. “You?”
“Nah.”
“Do you mind if I drink?” he asks.
“There are worse things.”
He grins and takes a long draft. “Steadies the nerves.”
“I count stars. Statistical probabilities. Whatever’s convenient in the moment.”
He looks at me quizzically, then his eyes pop. “Oh hey, you’re still cold! Come closer.”
The soft cave under his shoulder looks like a place I’d like to spend a while. I scoot closer.
“So. You said the beer was for celebratory effect. And a cupcake is, technically, cake. What are we celebrating?” I ask.
“I hadn’t thought that one through. Again, working out the treeless angle just consumed me.” He takes another sip of beer. “When’s your birthday?”
“May.”
“I’m February. That doesn’t work. Wait. Aren’t we coming up on the anniversary of the abduction?”
“November twenty-second.”
“Happy almost-abduction anniversary!” he says.
I stiffen, pretending to be furious. “That is so wrong. How dare you?”
I feel him hold his breath. Then I lose it and burst out laughing. Soon he’s laughing too.
“I love that you want to celebrate the anniversary of my abduction,” I say. “Sorry: ‘the public’s abduction’ would be more accurate. And if we’re getting all semantic, it’s worth noting that ‘happy’ is relative.”
“I’ll rephrase: bittersweet anniversary!”
“Now that works. Bitter and sweet, like pickles and cupcakes. Because on the one hand, I got abducted. On the other hand: this.”
“I like this,” he murmurs.
Kellan’s face is closer to mine than it’s ever been. His nose might have been broken once. His ears stick out and his smile screws sideways into a dimple. Separately, his parts are oddball; together, they are devastating. Do I want to be devastated?
“But there’s the question of cause and effect,” I say, pulling away. “Would ‘this’ be happening if ‘that’ hadn’t?”
“What are you saying?” he asks.
“I just mean, your usual … interests … diverge from…”
“I’m not seeing anyone, Julia.”
“… me. Like Liv. She’s someone I’d expect you’d be with.”
“You’re still hung up on that one night with Liv? That was the littlest, nothing hook-up. I barely knew her.”
His face is open and honest. Relief sweeps over me like sweet air.
I sigh and relax. “I feel like I barely know Liv lately, either.”
“Because she’s seeing that dirtbag Shane Cuthbert?” he asks.
“There’s that.”
“Dr. Phil doesn’t have me on speed dial, but did you ever think maybe Liv feels guilt over what happened in the woods? I mean, you sacrificed your life to save hers.”
I pull back, because his face distracts me from his words. “Say that again?”
“Maybe degrading herself by hanging around with a bottom-feeder like Cuthbert is the way Liv punishes herself for letting you take her place,” he says simply, taking a long sip.