11

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The following Friday I’m eating a bowl of cereal on the couch when Jerry comes out of his room dressed like a park ranger. He’s got the hat, the boots, and the overstuffed pack. There’s even a canteen hanging from his belt. He comes closer and I can smell the new radiating off his clothes.

I almost choke on my cereal. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going on a camping trip,” he says proudly.

“Er...now?”

I know Jerry has Fridays off because he normally spends them right here studying, but it’s not even nine o’clock in the morning, and Jerry is not a seasoned camper. Jerry is, at best, a glamper. Glamorous camping. The kind where someone else pitches the tent and builds the fire and cooks you a gourmet meal.

“I signed up for a program to help at-risk youth learn real-life survival skills,” he says, sounding like he’s reciting lines from a brochure. “I’ve been reading up on it all week.”

“You’ve been reading about survival?”

“Yep.”

“What, uh, what brought this on?” I finish my cereal and do my very best not to look incredulous.

“You know,” he says, as though I should know.

“I do?”

“Aster!” he exclaims.

“She’s forcing you to camp?”

He adjusts his canteen. “Of course not. She has no idea. But after what I did, I took stock of my life and saw that I’ve been very selfish. I have a lot, Aidan, and that means I have a lot to give. And a lot to give back. So I researched some local volunteer programs and this one had an opening.”

“Did you tell them you had survival experience?”

He falters. “Maybe.”

“Do you have survival experience?”

He laughs awkwardly. “I’ve made it this far, haven’t I?”

I peer down the hall. He’s made it sixteen feet.

“Jerry, if you’re hoping Aster will forgive you for what happened, I’m not sure this is the best way to go about it.”

“This isn’t for Aster,” he explains. “It’s because of Aster. There’s no way she’s taking me back. You know that saying, forgive and forget?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, Aster doesn’t. She either doesn’t know the saying, or she doesn’t know how to forgive and forget. Whichever one is irrelevant. I’m dead to her. She told me so herself.”

“When?” The last time I heard them talking was the night of the break up and all Aster did was cry and tell him to shut up.

“When she gave me back the things I’d left at her place. Or, what was left of them. They were mostly just ashes.”

“She—”

“Anyway, I have to get going. Wish me luck!”

He sounds like a court jester as he walks, buttons and hooks and pieces jangling on his vest.

“Good luck, Jerry,” I say, thinking it might be the last time I ever see him and adding another weight to my guilty conscience.

* * *

I’m still thinking about what Jerry said during my shift at the library later that afternoon. I’m obsessing over it, actually. I can’t picture Aster telling someone they’re dead to her, and I really can’t see her giving someone a box of ashes. That image doesn’t gel with the woman in the car, the one still feeling the sad but pragmatic about end of her relationship.

It doesn’t help that I haven’t seen or spoken to her since we got back on Sunday. The car was repaired, we made the rest of the trip, she thanked me for inviting her and said she had a good time, then...nothing.

When I hadn’t heard from her by Wednesday I’d texted to ask what she was up to, but no reply. On Thursday I invited her to Frisbee baseball, but she said she was busy. Shamus told me he’d asked her too and had gotten the same response.

I’m trying not to stew about it. I don’t want to be a guy who can’t go a week without seeing a girl. I don’t even know how she went from being somebody I really wanted to fuck to someone I really want to see. And still fuck.

But my efforts have failed me. Every blonde head is Aster’s, every sweet laugh makes me crane my neck to find the source. Hell, every time I pass the Jewish deli and see their chicken soup, I think about her.

“Hey, Aidan.”

I’ve been aimlessly pushing around a cart of returned books, and now I stop and see Missy smiling at me, a pink backpack slung over one shoulder. Missy’s the super pretty southern queen bee-type, with curled blond hair and outfits so coordinated she must have someone help her get dressed every morning. In direct contrast with the flawless appearance is her killer ability on the Frisbee baseball field. She’s the fiercest competitor I’ve ever seen.

“Hey, Missy. How are you?”

“Good. Just finished a mountain of reading and now I’m almost cross-eyed.”

“It’s good you got it done.”

“I could really use a drink,” she says, smiling at me. “What time does your shift end?”

“Not for a while.” I’ve turned down Missy lots of times before, but she doesn’t really seem to care. And I’ve never really cared, either. Except my long-neglected dick is noticing how hot she is in her red pea coat and knee-high boots and demanding to know why I’m not just taking what’s on offer.

“When’s a while?” she presses, like she can hear my body’s plea and is willing to help out. “I can come back. I live nearby. Or...you could come over when you’re done.”

“Tonight’s no good,” I hear myself say, my brain overriding my dick for once. This is, after all, exactly what got Jerry in trouble.

“Aw.” She pouts for a second, then brightens. “Well, maybe tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“The makeup games? Shamus talked about them last night and you said you’d be there...?”

I shake my head. “Right, the games. Of course. I’ll be there.” They’ve been in the schedule for a while, and Shamus had reminded us of them yesterday. He’d just done it right after telling me he’d spoken to Aster and my brain had gotten so stuck on the image of the two of them together that I’d forgotten to pay attention to anything else he said.

Missy adjusts her backpack and winks at me. “Okay, I’ll see you then. You can’t resist me forever.”