“Yes!” I shout into the wind and pump the pedals hard.
I wish I could trade places with Scott so he could feel what I feel, but I can’t steer for him and I don’t want anyone else to.
This unexpected thought, the selfishness of it, shocks me. Why wouldn’t I want my best friend to feel this thrill just because someone else would have to be on the bike with him? I know the answer as soon as I ask. It makes my stomach flutter that I suddenly want something so much that it makes me feel… possessive.
As soon as we open the door to Jody’s Diner we’re greeted by shouts: Sarah, Faith, and Philippa. (This was before Philippa moved back to Greece and before Faith had traveled down her path to becoming part of the Dynamic Trio.) Scott confesses that he texted everyone once I agreed to go to breakfast and Dad rounded them all up and dropped them off while we were pedaling over. For the next hour and a half we eat strawberry pancakes and get sticky with syrup and throw strawberries and shriek and nobody who works there complains at all.
When we’ve exhausted the possibilities we call Dad for a pickup. Philippa hints that she wants a ride on the bike. I don’t say anything, hoping it’ll just fade away, but she says it again and Scott says we can all take turns on it later since it’s rented all weekend. He says it in a way that makes it nice to Philippa but also clear that I’ll be riding home with him.
I pedal slower on the way back and not because I’m tired.
“You said you wanted to show me something. Was it the bike? Or was it breakfast?” I don’t think it was either of these—I hope there’s more—but I don’t want it to sound like I’m expecting anything or ungrateful getting this much.
“Nope,” he calls over the wind. “It’s at your house.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll find out.”
When we get home everyone is waiting and they make fun of how long it took us to get there. After a few chaotic minutes, including a strange request to make sure we’ve all gone to the bathroom, Scott lines us up on the long sofa in the living room and turns on the TV.
“We’re going to watch TV?” I ask. “You know I can’t see, right?”
“There will be no seeing today!” he says.
He plops down on the sofa next to me. “Hold out your hand.”
I do and he lifts it to his face. He’s wearing a blindfold.
I laugh and he says, “We’re all wearing them.”
We thrash around so I can feel everyone’s blindfolds. Sarah’s wearing my White with Blue Polka Dots, Philippa has my Yellow with Smiley Faces, Faith my Solid Scarlet, and Scott my Starry Night. I had chosen Googly Eyes this morning, which now seems appropriate.
We settle down again, sort of, while we wait for the movie to start. I think about how much Scott and I are touching: our arms, our hips, our thighs, smashed together on the couch. This much contact isn’t all that unusual; what’s new is how much I’m noticing it.
For the next eleven hours it’s the Lord of the Rings trilogy with Descriptive Audio turned on. It’s hilarious. Listening to the narrator quickly and dispassionately give deadpan descriptions of Frodo’s weepy expressions, arrows penetrating eye sockets, Arwen’s soulful looks of immortal love, and the decapitations of countless orcs have us roaring with laughter one moment and shushing each other the next.
Dad makes sandwiches for lunch and orders pizza for dinner and we eat both without stopping the DVDs or taking off our blindfolds. It’s night when the final movie ends.
Scott and I squeeze together into the front of the car while the girls sit in the back and Dad drives them each home. Scott comes back with us.
He and I walk to Gunther Field to get his CD player, and after spending so much time squished together on the couch we’re freely bouncing off each other as we walk drunkenly down the sidewalk. Halfway to the field, we bump again and he grabs my hand.
This doesn’t startle me and I realize I’d wanted this as we walked, touching “accidentally” off and on, but hadn’t put words to it. I squeeze his hand.
In the center of the field, I stop. I want to say something but I’m afraid it’s going to come out wrong or sound stupid or somehow ruin everything. I’m overwhelmed, and I don’t just mean because I’m holding hands with my best friend.
It’s obvious what happened today. After four years watching me be a basket case on this anniversary, he orchestrated a way to keep me busy and laughing all day long. And he did it as though it was just another day, without saying a word about what he was really doing.
I’m so grateful and warm I don’t know what to do, yet I have to do something to tell him I understand and how much this means to me.
“Parker?” Scott says. “You okay?”
He’s facing me, holding my left hand. I raise my right hand a bit and he clasps it too.
“Thanks,” I say.
I want to say more, but I just add, “For today. Thanks for today.”
Scott laughs softly.
“What?”