Page 65 of We Can't Be Friends

PRETTY BOY: This isn’t show-and-tell

There is no showing anything

PRETTY BOY: Pretty sure you already did

November 8th

PRETTY BOY: Do you want to come over for dinner tonight?

18

CHLOE

My phone is aggressively going off in my fanny pack, continuous vibrations against my back. Groaning, I slip the bag to the front of my body and pull out my cell to silence it.

EDITH (4A): There’s something going on in your house

I dial her number, thankful she picks up immediately. Edith lives in the apartment directly above me. She’s a quiet, older lady with the sweetest cats and makes unreal lemon poppy seed muffins. When I moved in, every day that following week, fresh muffins were outside my door. She’s lived in the building since it was built I’m afraid.

“Hello, Edith, it’s Chloe.”

“Chloe, sweetie. I used the bread pan you bought me. Left a loaf of pumpkin bread outside your door.”

“Thank you.” She rambles on, and I stop her. “Edith, your text said something was happening in my unit?”

Surprisingly, for her age she’s quite savvy on her phone.

“Oh, yes. Yes. When I dropped off the bread, I heard a loud crack. I assumed you were home. I knocked several times, but when you didn’t answer, I went back upstairs to call you.”

“I’m on a walk with Tucker.”

“Oh, sweetie, isn’t it going to rain?”

“I have a jacket,” I reassure her. Edith never married or had kids, and part of me believes she views me as a daughter. Thus, the concern. “We are heading back right now. Thank you for letting me know.”

“Call me later?”

“I will.”

The call ends as the blue skies vanish, chased away by cloud-filled gray skies. It only took minutes for the entire city to start weeping, the epitome of an autumn day gone.

Chicago isn’t a winter wonderland by November. Fall and the occasional summer day fight to maintain their position. Days like today are fleeting. I love the snow, but I’ll miss autumn. I always do. Mornings that need a thicker, more practical coat that ends in filled patios with your favorite jean jacket. Chilly enough for soup but warm enough that you can still feel the sun’s kiss on your skin.

Glancing up at the sky, rain sprinkling my face, I don’t know where one cloud starts and the other ends.

“Come on, Tuck. Do your business quickly,” I beg my prima donna dog, who, if he gets his paw near wet grass or a droplet on him, recoils. “Please.”

Tucker loves snow, hates the rain.

Out of nowhere, lightning cracks across the sky, thunder rolling behind us.

I throw the hood of my sweatshirt-jean jacket over my head, the fabric sopping wet.

Tucker shudders, looking up at me.

“I know, buddy. Let’s go.”

We take off running, our feet hitting the pavement in tune with the rain. As we cross the street to our block, a car drives too close to the sidewalk, hitting a puddle, soaking whatever dry spots are on my body. Tucker lets out a growl.

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