Page 28 of One for the Road
When I look at him again, Zach’s watching me the way dogs do when they’re trying really, really hard to sit still and wait for their treat.
If I didn’t know better, I’d sayIwas the treat.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say I like it.
Bad DeeDee.
“Well?” Zach’s voice is all wheezy. He clears his throat. “Uh, well? Do you like it?”
“It kills me to say it, Zachy Zach, but I think maybe you’re right. This is pretty good.”
“I knew it!” He does a fist pump and waves the rest of his sandwich in the air.
“You dork.” I lean into the squishy back of the couch and take another bite. “Tell me more about your sisters.”
I already know their names: Emily and Hope. Emily is two years older than Zach, and Hope is three years younger. Hope and him are the closest, and he video calls her a few times a week, even though she lives in a different time zone. She was a troublemaker when they were kids, and she was always getting Zach into these crazy adventures around their small town.
I remember every story Zach has ever told me about where he grew up, but I always pretend I forget the details so he’ll tell me again. It sounds just like a story book: that tiny town with its little school and its little corner store and its little parades for every holiday.
Everybody knows each other there. Everybody says hello when they cross paths in the street.
Nobody is ever alone. Nobody ever leaves.
“I always tell you about my sisters,” Zach complains. “You should tell me about your family.”
I shrug. “Ben, there is not much to say.”
“Come on. I know you grew up in Trois-Rivières and that you have a sister and some step-siblings, but that’s literally it.”
“Half-sister,” I correct him, “and she wasn’t really...around. Her dad got custody after the divorce with mymaman, and he took her far away. My step-siblings from the guyMamanmarried after him are a lot older, so they were only around for a few years too.”
I shove a few bites of bread in my mouth to keep myself busy with chewing. I want to hear Zach’s stories about the scary small town librarian or the time the mayor got drunk and went home to the wrong house. I don’t want to talk aboutmauditTrois-Rivières.
I don’t want to talk about the day I watched my sister get put in a car and driven away. I was nine. The two of us were playing with chalk out on the sidewalk, and her dad just scooped her up and took her. I remember him telling her to drop the piece of chalk she was holding, but she wouldn’t let go. He buckled her into the backseat with chalk dust all over her hands, and even though he told us both they’d be back soon, somehow I knew it was the last time I was going to see that car’s tail lights.
I felt the same thing when I watched my own dad drive away for the very last time.
“I’m sorry.” Zach pushes a few crumbs on his plate around. “That must have been tough.”
I shrug. “It was a long time ago.”
“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t tough.”
I just shrug again. My throat is getting tight, and I don’t want him to hear how close to choking up I am.
“So...what was growing up in a city like?” he asks after a moment. “I can’t even imagine it. My sisters and I would just jump on our bikes and see what was going on around town if we felt like hanging out with people. Did you have friends in your neighbourhood or anything?”
I think back to our long street lined with duplexes, to the afternoons I’d spend walking up the sidewalk when I was way too young to be out on my own.
“I had some friends on my street and stuff. There wasn’t a lot to do at my house, so I would just go say hi whenever any kids walked by. It’s probably why I like being a bartender. I get to say hi a lot.” I force a laugh, and Zach laughs too as I toss my hair over my shoulder like an actress posing for photos. “I was pretty popular in high school, you know. I won the ‘Most Fun At Parties’ vote.”
I pulled that page out of the yearbook and had it hanging on my wall for years.
“I don’t doubt that.” Zach nods and strokes his beard. “You’re pretty popular now. I’m sure if I said, ‘You know that bartender with the pink hair?’ to anyone in Montreal, they’d all go, ‘Oh, you mean DeeDee?’”
“And if I said, ‘You know that weird guy who likes peanut butter and pickle sandwiches?’ they’d say, ‘Oh, you mean Zachy Zach.’”
He glares. “No one calls me Zachy Zach.”
