Page 86 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

And… a chipped Ninja Turtles coffee mug. The green cartoon character smiles up at me with an orange bandana tied around his face.

“One of these things is not like the others,” I observe. “Is this… Rafael?”

“Michaelangelo,” he replies, retrieving the items from me protectively. “Rafael is the red one.”

“Ah,” I say. “My apologies, I’m not exactly up on Ninja Turtles fashion.”

“I actually used to have this great costume, when I was a kid. My mom made them for us one Halloween, back before she left. She made the shells out of cardboard and pillows. They had straps like a backpack.”

“Resourceful,” I smile.

“Yeah. Anyway, my brother always got to be Michaelangelo, and I got stuck with Donatello.”

“I’m assuming from the look on your face that nobody wants to be Donatello.”

“Well, I’m sure somebody does. But I didn’t,” he smiles.

“Well, I’ll totally let you be Michaelangelo,” I say.

“Yeah? Which one are you gonna be?”

“I dunno. That big rat?”

He bursts into laughter. “Splinter?”

“He seems wise,” I defend. “And like he knows how to use the fact that people underestimate his abilities to his advantage.”

“Nobody in their right mind would ever underestimate you.”

“Thanks,” I offer wistfully. “So, are you gonna call me sensei?”

“Absolutely not.”

We’re grinning as we continue to the next pin on our map. It’s easier, with this stretch of road ahead and this bag of thrift store finds between us, to forget why we’re here.

“About last night” lodges itself in my throat, itching to tumble out so many times, but I can’t form the words. It’s easier to listen to the steady crunch of our shoes along the bike lane, watch the sweep of seabirds across the sky, and pretend I’m on vacation.

22.

The Pole turns out to be exactly that – an electrical pole at the lazy little intersection by the bank, the bottom of which is so covered with old rusted staples and nails that there’s no exposed wood anywhere within arms reach. It is littered with flyers advertising yard sales and local auctions, but also repair services available for hire, a free hot tub, and a notice that someone is looking for a missing rooster.

Some neighborhoods have apps; Santa Lucia has The Pole.

“There is a five hundred dollar reward for this rooster,” I tell Quentin with a laugh.

“Oliver, 6 months old,” he reads. “Very friendly and petable. Petable?”

“I mean obviously we just need to start trying to pet every rooster we see today,” I reason. “That way we’ll know if it’s Oliver.”

He laughs, scanning the other weather-crinkled flyers and poster boards and pointing out a wanted poster for a local racoon. A grainy security camera image has been printed to help with proper identification.

“Do you think he’s the one who snatched Oliver?” he asks.

“Damn, I hope not. Maybe they’re secretly best friends. Maybe they ran away together.”

“The rooster and the raccoon?”

“It’s an enemies to lovers story,” I offer.

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