Page 16 of One for the Road
Maybe it’s creepy. Maybe it’s pathetic. It still doesn’t stop me from wanting to share the things that happen to me and picturing what she’d say in return. As I watch her peel the wrapper off her sandwich and take a tentative bite—one of the only tentative actions I’ve ever seen her make—I realize that there are two DeeDee’s in my life: the one who knows how much she means to me and the one who doesn’t seem to have a fucking clue.
This is the first time their images have ever crossed paths.
“Merci,” she says through a mouthful of ice cream. She pauses for a second to swallow. “Thank you. I, uh, I just...Monroe was busy, and—”
“DeeDee,” I cut her off, “I’m glad I could be there for you.”
The words hang heavy between us. In all the time we’ve spent together, we’ve hardly ever done heavy, but there was nothing light or easy about the way I found her tonight. I barely recognized her voice on the phone. For a second, I thought someone else had picked up, but the lurch in my chest heard her pain before my head had time to catch up. I didn’t know where I was going as I pulled my shoes on and ran out the door. We hadn’t even hung up yet. I was halfway down the street before she gave me the address, and if I hadn’t needed to look it up on the map, I would have kept her on the phone the whole way over.
She stepped out of the apartment building as soon as I came into view. She was right on the edge of a pool of light spilling from a streetlamp, like someone about to step into the glow of a spotlight. I paused before I could move into the circle of illuminated sidewalk, and I know I must have been imagining it, but I swear there was a moment waiting for us under that glow. She was shaking and timid, but if she’d stepped forward, and if I’d had the courage to do the same, I would have taken her in my arms and given her all the strength I had.
Maybe that’s not what she needed. Maybe it’s not what she wanted. She crossed over and met me in the dark instead, and all she did was lay a hand on my shoulder before she turned and started walking. It was like she didn’t trust her own voice to speak, and if the brightness in her eyes was anything to go by, that voice was on the verge of breaking.Shewas on the verge of breaking, and all I wanted to do was get her home in one piece.
As we walked through the dark and silent streets, I knew I’d go to pieces too if I couldn’t.
“How do you think they get the ice cream in the middle?”
“Huh?”
I look up from the corner of the carpet I’ve been staring at and find DeeDee licking her fingers, her sandwich completely demolished. My own is melting in its wrapper.
“Like, it’s just so perfect,” she continues. “How do they get it all to line up so well?”
“I mean, it’s a sandwich, DeeDee.” I can’t hold back on the sarcasm as I pull the wrapper open and inspect the ice cream inside. “You’ve made one before, right? Alignment is usually the goal.”
She uncurls one of her legs from underneath her and stretches it out to whack me in the shin. “Don’t make fun of me,connard! I have a curious mind!”
I keep teasing her. “Are ice cream sandwiches really such a source of mystery? What exactly is there to be curious about?”
She sits up straighter, a trace of the explosive energy that always seems to catch the eye of everyone around her sparking in her body once more.
“Well, like, do they put one cookie on first or both at the same time?”
“I think it’s probably a machine that does it.”
She makes a show of rolling her eyes. “Duh it’s a machine, but what does the machine do?”
“You really want to know, don’t you?” I glance between her and my sandwich before taking a bite. “Personally, I think it tastes great either way.”
“It’s just one of those things, you know?’ she continues. “Now it’s going to bother me.”
“We could look it up,” I suggest. “There’s probably a video about it.”
She laughs long and loud—maybe a little too loud for me to be convinced she’s back to normal, but it’s better than seeing the wilted girl she was just a few minutes before.
“We don’t have to look it up. I’m being cray-cray.”
“Jesus lord!” I wave my ice cream at her. “How many times do I have to tell you no one says cray-cray anymore?”
“I say cray-cray!” she fires back. “And how many times do I have to tell you no one says ‘Jesus lord’ unless they’re an old person or they live on a farm?”
“That is just stereotypical!”
“You’re stereotypical!”
Her accent makes it come out ‘tee-pee-cal,’ which just has me laughing even harder. She does her best to glare at me while she tries not to laugh too.
“Grab me my laptop,” I order, pointing to where it’s sitting on the side table next to her. “We are going to satisfy your curiosity.”
