Page 31 of Something Like Sunflowers

“Thanks, and I’m sorry for throwing a tantrum like a child. I was wrong. Shana’s allowed to have friends who aren’t me.”

“Shana’s been through a lot lately, you know? Becoming friends was just a bonus, but being able to stay at her place and help take care of her dad is the only way she isn’t drowning.”

Lemon’s going on, but I stopped listening.

“Wait, what do you mean, take care of her dad?”

Lemon’s face pales. “You don’t know. She hasn’t told you yet?”

I’m mad right now. I’m really mad. And I’m worried. I don’t like how tight my chest is. How out of control I feel. And I definitely lose my shit a bit when my stupid hair-tie snaps in half with the force of my tug and falls from my wrist to the floor.

I’m the last person in the room to know what’s going on with my own best friend.

“What is going on, Lemon? Tell me straight.”

“Ugh, this is awkward and HIPPA-violation-y now, but shit.” She blows out a huge gust of air, her words rushing out like a wave. “Randall has cancer. I’m a nursing assistant. I moved in to take care of him. He’s stage four, Dev. That’s…” Her eyes shift to the ground. “He’s not doing well.”

“What?”

I don’t know what to say. I’m not super close to Randall, but it’s still Shana’s dad. I grew up with him always being there. Being fine. Spitting lines of Shakespeare to us over breakfast pancakes when I’d stay the night. Vibrant. Alive.

Not dying.

My sorrow right now is wholly for my best friend who has been dealing with her father’s declining health, in her own home, for who knows how long.

“He has a year or less. She didn’t want you to think she needed you. Kept saying you had enough problems.”

“Lemon, what I said to Shana about someone dying…I didn’t know. I feel so—”

“I know.” She places her hand on my shoulder, coming around the bar to sit beside me. “Shana is fine. She went home after she sent me in here to check on you.”

“She did? Why you?” I stumble on my words. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just—she knows how we used to be.”

“Because I understand what it feels like to be isolated and misunderstood. After what I did to you in junior year, I lost a lot of friends. All my friends.” She turns away slightly, maybe not wanting to meet my eyes. It’s not exactly an apology, but I can’t be sure with Lemon. Not this new, strange, different Lemon who honestly seems like someone I wouldn’t mind being friends with.

“I deserved to lose friends after what I did. I’ve never been proud of kicking you when you were at your lowest.”

I hold up a hand to stop her. Not because I don’t accept her apology, but because that past, the one I thought was scarred over and covered up, keeps getting poked and prodded and reopened the more time I spend here in Pine Forest, and honestly?

It’s exhausting feeling sorry for myself.

I shove the twentysomething French fry into my mouth. They’re so warm and crunchy. I didn’t realize just how hungry I was.

Maybe it’s time to put rivalries in the past. I could use someone on my side right now. Lemon twirls a straw in her clear, plastic water cup that I’m pretty sure she just stole from behind the bar and filled up herself, and I find myself entranced by her, in awe of what time can do to people and relationships alike.

“If Shana thinks you’re good people, you probably are,” I say, earning an ear-to-ear grin and a squeal of delight from Lemon, who is bouncing up and down on her toes.

“Jeremy,” she yells, “we need a round of truce shots.”

“You don’t mean to tell me that Lemon Perkins and Devyn Lynn Campbell are calling a truce? This is worthy of Paradise pinkies!” Jeremy shouts the name of the drink into a megaphone, and the whole bar erupts into applause, chanting, “Pinkies! Pinkies! Pinkies!”

“What’s a pinkie?” I ask. But nobody tells me. They just smile and nod, like they can’t wait for the fun to begin.

I’m suddenly regretting remembering Jeremy.

Looking out into the crowd is always how I’ve grounded myself, and this time as I look out, I see that man. The one from before who I called lood-gooking. I mentally roll my own eyes at myself. He really is, though. That isn’t whiskey goggles talking. The French fries seem to appreciate him, too. He’s built, with broad shoulders and tanned skin. Blue eyes, like someone else I know.

He sees me, and my heart skips.

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