Unbreak My Heart(7)

Thanks a lot, Ian, for that fantastic parting shot.

I brandish the fork as I wiggle an eyebrow. “So it’s retro Pie Club time, is it?”

Holland presses a finger to her lips. “Shh. Don’t tell anyone.”

That was one of our things when we dated three years ago: a deep and abiding love of pie. We’d sneak off to bakeries, order the most absurd flavors, then pretend it was a top-secret mission. One day, we discovered the One and Only Pie Shop and its retro menu—pudding cheesecake, pineapple dream, peanut pie.

I eat a forkful and wince. “This pie sucks toenails.”

“Eww.” She laughs and takes a bite. Her lips curl. “Toenails and old socks.”

“You win. You grossed me out.”

She holds up a hand to high-five. I smack back.

“We could chuck it onto the neighbor’s roof,” she offers, since that’s what we used to do with sandwiches we didn’t finish, with old bread growing moldy, and with apple slices we no longer wanted. We’d sit by the pool and toss food onto the neighbor’s roof that hung over the edge of my yard.

“The squirrels in the hood loved us.”

“I bet they built a shrine to us.”

“Dude, they still talk about us.”

I laugh, and when the laughter fades, the memories sharpen from that summer. Ian was well then. Cancer hadn’t struck yet. I’d finished college and hadn’t started law school. Holland was going to head to Japan for nursing school.

It was just us, camping out in my home, having the time of our lives.

I can hear the echo of who we were then, and I want to catch it and keep it, only I don’t know how to hold on to something so good.

Holland stares at my hair. “Do you want a haircut?”

“Do you think it’s too long?”

She leans in closer. Her fingers brush my face. My heart pounds a tick louder at her touch. “Some guys like long hair.”

“Do you like long hair?” I can’t even remember how she likes my hair.

“I like it short.”

“Cut it, then,” I say, my throat drier than the Gobi.

Five minutes later, I’m perched on a kitchen stool, dress shirt off, T-shirt on. A towel hangs over my shoulders, and she’s snipping the ends of my hair.

Hello, nice view.

Good to see you again, breasts.

Yes, let’s spend the day together. Let’s never leave. Stay here and be my Vicodin.

She moves in closer, her thighs brushing against my knees, her arms near my face, her smell drifting into my nose.

Lemon sugar.

I want to breathe her in and let the day fold like a house of cards. I want to nuzzle Holland and curl up with her, and fuck her, and kiss her, and— “Do you miss him today?”

I snap out of my daydream.

“Every day,” I say instantly, relieved that someone has asked, that someone wants to know.

She lines up the scissors. “Does it bother you that I asked?”

“You’re the only one who does. Everyone else tiptoes around me like they think I might break. The other lawyers at his firm, the professors—even the dean. No one wants to say it. Like they might catch it.”

She scoffs. “That’s crazy.”

“I know.” I clear my throat. “I was listening to the Dodgers game yesterday when I was working out before the party.”

She offers a smile. “Bet that made you think of him. How he used to shout at the radio during a pitching change.”

I laugh. “Ian was convinced he could run the bullpen better.”

“No doubt. He wouldn’t have lost the World Series for us last year.”

I smile, thinking of the games I went to with her that summer, the way we cheered from the third-base line, the way she booed at all the bad calls. “We’d have the trophy for sure.”

She finishes my hair. “Beautiful.”

“So are you,” I blurt, and then I blink and push away from the stool. I hold up my hands. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she says softly.

I back up, walking toward the sink, my ass hitting the edge of the counter. “I didn’t mean to say that.”

She narrows her brow, as if she’s trying to figure me out. “It didn’t upset me, Andrew.”

But it’s not who we are anymore.

I grab my shirt and point to the door. “I should go to the reception. My Lyft will be here soon. Thanks for the haircut and the pie that tasted like toenails.”

And then I want to punch myself for the look of sadness I put on her face. Ass.



*

I walk to the podium, take out my index cards, and look at my graduating classmates, my professors, and my friends.

I’ve been asked to speak because I kick unholy ass when it comes to coursework. Like Ian did before me.

I square my shoulders and take a quiet breath.

He was supposed to be here.

I wanted to see him here.

I wince and shove those thoughts away.

I can do this.

I clear my throat and begin. “When I was younger, I didn’t give law school a second thought. I know, I know. Big surprise that as a third-grader, I didn’t carry a briefcase or do my homework on yellow legal pads and call my homeroom teacher ‘Your Honor.’ Back then, I thought I was going to be the starting pitcher for the Dodgers.”