Page 118 of Offside Angel

He plops the album in the middle of our cafe table and grabs his coffee. “Nothing. I just still think a scrapbook would have been a better idea. We could have put little descriptions with the pictures. ‘Here’s everything you’ve missed since you abandoned your son.’”

I roll my eyes. “The goal here is to build a bridge between Zane and his parents. I don’t think accusing them of abandonment sends the right message.”

“Suit yourself. The pictures are fine, but they lack the judgment I think his parents have earned.”

Daniel was fully supportive of sending a letter to Zane’s parents when he thought I was going to drag them for not supporting Zane in his sobriety or being around to meet their new grandson and daughter-in-law. I may or may not have kept the ruse going just long enough to get their address from him before I confessed the truth.

Now, he’s my reluctant chaperone for this errand while Evan watches us from some parking space nearby.

“The way Zane explains it, the situation was complicated. He hurt them over and over again. They thought cutting him off was the best thing for him.”

“Yeah, to help him get sober,” Daniel argues. “I don’t know if you’ve looked around recently, but Zane is sober! He’s doing amazing.”

“Which these pictures will prove!” I fan the photos out in front of us. “Now, stop being a butthead and help me pick an appropriate first kiss photo.”

“Impossible. You two were tongue-fucking before God and your gathered guests.”

“Taylor is rubbing off on you,” I accuse. “And that is not a compliment.”

“All I'm saying is, skip the first kiss photo unless you want Zane’s parents to think he’s taken up a side gig in public softcore porn.”

I roll my eyes again, but Daniel has a point. I might hide the first kiss photos in my bedside drawer and only pull them out once every blue moon. Maybe on nights Zane is traveling for work and I’m alone… and lonely.

My cheeks flush as I slide the photos into my purse. “Fine. No first kiss photos. Now, we need to go through all of these pictures and get rid of every picture with a champagne bottle or someone holding champagne. Or something that looks like champagne. Or pictures where someone looks like they could possibly be drunk.”

Daniel sets the entire stack aside. “You better start looking at stock photos online and get really good at Photoshop, because all of these pictures are out.”

Getting rid of any picture with alcohol in it actually does get rid of most of the reception photos, but I end up with a healthy stack of ceremony photos inside a manila envelope, on which I write Zane’s parent’s address in my best handwriting.

“Here you go.” I hold the envelope out to Daniel.

He stares at it like it’s a dead frog. “What am I doing with that?”

I point to the USPS collection box at the end of the street.

He immediately starts shaking his head. “When I signed up to come with you today, the job was described to me as ‘intimidating muscle with a side of eating pastries.’ This is a job for an errand boy.”

“Yeah, well my actual muscle—” I point to Evan’s hulking frame in the car three spaces away. “—told me I can’t leave this seat unless it’s to get in his car, so you have to do it for me.”

Grimacing, Daniel snatches the envelope out of my hand and mumbles something about how marriage is going to my head, but all I feel is a spark in my chest.

This is what it feels like to have friends.

People I can count on. People who will stick around even when I’m being my most annoying self.

I sip on my chai latte and watch Daniel walk down the street to the post box.

The coffee shop is tucked on the side of a narrow strip of businesses. We’re out of view of the main road and the only people pulling into the lot are here for the coffee shop or an elderly woman coming for a glass bead workshop at the art studio next door.

So, when a dark car with deeply-tinted windows circles the lot once and then again, passing by the only empty spaces and making their way closer to me, I notice.

Evan does, too.

Through the windshield, I see him sit up. He reaches for the volume knob in the car. He checks his mirrors.

I know he’s seeing the same thing I am. I can tell he’s worried.

It’s better and worse that way. This is the one situation where I’d rather be crazy than right.

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