Page 82 of That Friendzone Feeling

Ineed to step back, stop trying to get her to accept we’re meant for each other, and let her dateChaseif that’s what she wants to do.Butbeing able to actually do that is a whole other thing.So,I’veretreated for a couple of days to get my head together.Andthere’s no better place to do that than here, aroundMaggieandJim.

“Looksdelicious,”ItellMaggieas she wipes out the frying pan.

“Rememberwhen you had that terrible flu when you were, what, twelve?Thirteen?” she asks. “Youlay under a blanket on the sofa watchingTVfor three solid days.Imust have fed you four of these a day.”Shepoints at the sandwich that’s now in my hand and on the verge of burning my fingers. “Itwas the only thing you’d eat.AndIwas sure you’d be so sick of them afterward that you’d never want another one for the rest of your life.”

“Youwere very, very wrong.”There’snothing more comforting than melted cheese and warm white bread. “Iswear it’s because you spread it with mayo rather than butter.”

Theouter shell of the toast crackles asIsink my teeth into it.

“Whateverit is,I’mhappy it’s put a smile on your face,”Maggiesays. “Youseemed a bit sad when you got here.”

Onthe drive up,Emily’swords about easing my guilt over my parents’ death by talking toTomorMaggieshifted from rattling around the back of my head to knocking on the front of my skull.

I’vegradually felt better sinceIspilled my guts toEm, so maybe she’s right that talking to my brother and aunt would help even more.I’venever even considered it before.Alwaysthought they’d hate me if they knew, andIplanned to take the story to my grave.Thethought of the pain it could cause them all over again is unimaginable.

ButEmilywas so sure they’d understand.

Icould just dip my toe in the water, though.Seehow it goes.Feelit out.Idon’t have to dive right in with the whole “It’smy fault my parents died” thing.

Isuck my fingers clean. “AuntMags?”

“Thatsounds ominous,” she says, sliding onto the seat next to me.

“Haveyou ever done anything bad?”Iask her. “Imean, like, really bad?Andkept it to yourself because you were worried the people you love would hate you for it?”

Sheblows out a big horse breath that ripples her lips. “Lord.I’mnot sureIwant to know what’s behind that question.”

“You’rejust so thoroughly good,”Isay as if it’s a perfectly ordinary everyday thing to ask. “Iwas wondering if there were any dark secrets lurking in there.”

“Ofcourse,I’vedone bad things.Haven’twe all?”

“Imean really bad.”

“Well,Iguess what feels really bad to one person andplays on their mind and conscience forever might be water off a duck’s back to another.”

“Haveyou, though?”Itake another bite of the soothing sandwich.

“Ibet everyone would answer yes to that question.Everyonehas something.”

Shemight be right.Maybewe all carry bags of guilt on our backs, and it’s just the size of them that varies.

“Ibet your thing wasn’t actuallybad, though,”Imumble through a full mouth.

“Huh.”Shetwists to face me and rests an elbow on the back of her stool. “Okay, then.Wantto be the first personI’veever told this story to?”

“NotevenUncleJim?”

Sheslowly shakes her head. “NotevenUncleJim.”

GoodGod. “I’mterrified.Butgo on.”

“WhenIwas seven,Iwas chosen to bring the class hamster home for the holidays.Anadorable little thing.Hisname wasLincoln.Wehad to name him after a president.”Shewafts away the irrelevant fact. “Anyway, one afternoonItook his cage outside so he could get some fresh air.ThenIthought it would be nice if he could feel real grass under his feet.SoItook him out of the cage for a second.”

“Oh, shit…”Thisis not going to end well.

“Well, he liked the grass under his feet so much he scooted off into the bushes andIcouldn’t find him.”

“Youlost the class hamster?”Thethought ofMaggiedoing anything irresponsible, even when she was seven, is unimaginable.