“Bros,” I read out loud.
We’re bros. Homies. Amigos. He said it himself.
I let out a big whoosh of air. This must all be in my head. I’m just messed up from last night. Zach doesn’t feel awkward. He doesn’t think we need to change. He’s still sending me memes like my old buddy pal. I didn’t wreck things by picturing him naked or imagining his lips on my lips.
It was a weird night. Anyone would be thinking weird thoughts after finding their boyfriend with another girl’s mouth around his dick. Maybe I just wanted un peu de vengeance.
But it’s a new day. The sun is out, the air is warm, and my friend is offering to let me crash at his place for a few days while I figure out where I’m going to live.
Nothing weird about that. Nothing at all.
“Zach, you are so weird.”
“What do you mean, I’m weird? I can’t believe you’ve never heard of peanut butter and pickle sandwiches.”
He puts a plate down in front of me on the coffee table. I stare at the brown bread, cut down the middle to make two triangles.
“Non. I will not eat it.”
I’ve spent two more nights at Zach’s place, and I have not pictured him naked.
Not even once.
Not while awake, at least.
I had naked dreams about someone who might have been him, but he was spooning me from behind, so who can say? Dream man had Zach’s voice, and I could feel that silly farm boy beard of his tickling me, but that doesn’t mean it was Zach. It could have been his cousin, or his secret twin. Dreams are unpredictable like that.
“I’m on lunch duty today, and this is all I made, so you’re going to have to eat it. Just give it a try. I promise it will blow your mind.”
“But it’s pickles and peanut butter!”
We have a schedule going at the apartment. Our shifts at the bar don’t line up very often, and Zach likes to get up early. All the years of late night shifts have turned me nocturnal, but we both end up eating something around noon—even if it’s breakfast for me. I told Zach I would make him lunch every day to say thank you for letting me stay, but he wanted to take turns.
“You have to see what a beast I am in the kitchen,” he told me, “and also my mother would never forgive me if I let a guest feed me every day.”
So yesterday I made him a very delicious chili that took me almost two hours, and today he makes me this.
“Try it. I swear you’ll love it.” He takes a bite of his sandwich and makes a big show out of going ‘Mmm.’
We’re sitting on the couch together. The apartment isn’t big enough for a kitchen table, so all the meals get eaten off the coffee table in front of the couch.
“I used to make these all the time with my sisters,” Zach continues once he’s done pretending to have a mouthgasm. “I don’t think I’ve had one in years.”
“Even your sisters ate these?”
“Yeah, it’s one of the first things my mom taught us how to make. She was always making really fancy stuff for like, bake sales and fundraisers. She’s an administrator at my town’s community center, so she’s really...involved. Anyway, she had a few recipes she called ‘silly food’ that were just for us. This was one of them.”
“It is silly.” I pick up my plate and sniff the bread. “But it’s cute too. I like that. ‘Silly food.’”
I take one of the triangles off the plate and bite off just the corner of the sandwich.
“Oh come on,” Zach complains. “You didn’t even get any pickle.”
I glare at him and take a bigger bite. I chew for a minute. I close my eyes. I pretend like I’m thinking about it. Then I swallow.
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 say I was 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 my maman, and he took her far away. My step-siblings from the guy Maman married 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 about maudit Trois-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.