We got out for Thanksgiving on a Wednesday, and Blaire, Wyatt, Megan, and I went to the B-K Lounge, or Burger King if you will, after school. I was doing my best to play it cool. Sitting in front of Blaire with her legs between mine, and my ankles locked together behind her legs. Blaire’s smile and gentle giggle stirred my chest. I was holding my breath when she nudged me.
“Don’t pass out on me, dummy.” She cooed, the corner of her lips curling into perfect dimples. I just nodded and looked at my hands.
“I’ll do my best.” I joked as Wyatt swatted my back.
“Dude! I’ve been hollering at you. What the hell?” He huffed as he stood there covered in wood chips and damp leaves, the swings in the playground squeaking as the chains swung.
“What? What happened?” I laughed. Blaire and I snapped out of our romantic stupor and looked at Wyatt, clearly beaten, and Megan with a shit-eating grin.
“Bro. I needed you, and you let me down.” Wyatt joked as I put two and two together.
“That’s what you get for tickling me when I told you not to.” Megan huffed, her face redder than her hair.
“Dude! I love you, bro, but I'm not lighting that firecracker.” I smirked as Wyatt hung his head in defeat. Megan’s mood shifted, and she punched Wyatt's arm playfully.
“Admit it! You didn’t think I could beat you, did you?” Megan gloated as Wyatt sat on the metal seat off the picnic table.
“Meg! Don’t kill our ride.” Blaire joked as she jumped up, kissing my cheek as she floated to Megan’s side.
“Great job, bro!” I hollered, “Now the Wonder Twins are united, we're screwed. I give up!” I playfully chuckled as I put my hands up in surrender. Wyatt seized the opportunity and hit my shoulder with a quick, playful punch, and both Megan and Blaire pounced on him. We were all in a playful tussle when I picked Blaire up and tossed her over my shoulder, despite her hysterical protests.
“Damn it! Put me down, you big…. You big…” She trailed off, huffing for breath as I set her down and kissed her rosy cheek.
“Sorry, can’t let you two beat my best friend up. You understand.” I barked with a grin. I turned, and Megan and Wyatt were wrapped in each other's arms, making out in the wood chips and oak leaves.
I laughed, “traitor!”
I felt Blaire’s arms wrap around my waist, pulling me tight against her. “You big bully,” she whispered. “Whatever,” I mumbled as I swung around, and our lips met mid-sentence.
By the time Wyatt pulled the old wagon into the driveway at my house, the sun was starting to sink behind the neighbors' pine trees, and the temperature had gotten colder. Blaire playfully squeezed my hand and rubbed the back of my knuckles, tracing the scar from the Jerusalem thorn bush I had cut out of the yard last summer.
“What’s that?” she asked with genuine curiosity, looking up at me.
“Oh, that. It's an old scar. We had a Jerusalem thorn, and I cut it out last summer.” I pointed to my scar on my forehead and eyebrow. “I had a vendetta against that damn bush,” I said. “ I won, though.” I smiled as Blaire looked at me, confused.
Blaire tilted her head, still rubbing the ridge of the scar like she was trying to read it with her fingertips.
“You… fought a bush?” she asked, eyebrows raised, lips twitching like she was holding back a laugh.
“It was a mean bush,” I said, dead serious. “Had thorns like fishhooks. Drew blood every time I mowed. It had it coming.”
She blinked at me, then burst into a soft laugh that fogged in the cold air.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Hey, I’m a man of honor. I finish what I start.”
“You started a war with a plant.”
“And I won,” I repeated, shrugging like this was a perfectly normal thing to brag about.
She shook her head, still smiling, but there was something else in her eyes, something softer. She traced the scar one more time, more slowly this time, as if she were memorizing it.
“I didn’t know you had this,” she said quietly.
“It’s not a big deal.”
“It kind of is,” she murmured. “It’s part of you.”
That caught me off guard. I didn’t know what to do with the warmth that climbed up my neck, or the way her thumb lingered on my skin like she wasn’t ready to let go.
“Y’all gonna stand there making googly eyes all night?” he hooted as he hit eject on the tape deck and slid out the door, leaving us on the old vinyl and carpeted couch that was the backseat of the old wagon.
Blaire rolled her eyes and tugged me toward the door. “Come on, warrior. Let’s go inside before you pick a fight with the azaleas, too.”
“Hey! I love those azaleas, remind me to tell you about the summer I made a fort in them.” I joked as Mom opened the front door.
“Oh. Hey guys.” Mom quickly yipped as she took a survey of the four teenagers in various states of dishevelment. Her eyes met mine quickly with a look I’ll never forget. It was a look of understanding and condemnation at the same time, punctuated with a quick motherly smirk. An expression I would soon learn was her quiet nod of approval.
Mom stepped back to let us in, still wearing that half‑smirk that said she’d already pieced together the entire afternoon from a single glance. Blaire straightened a little beside me, smoothing her hair, suddenly aware she was meeting my mom in my doorway with leaves and wood chips stuck to her sweater.
Wyatt and Megan shuffled past like two kids caught sneaking in after curfew, and Mom’s eyes flicked over them with the same quick assessment. The muddy shoes, flushed faces, the unmistakable glow of teenagers who’d been laughing too hard for too long.
But when her gaze returned to me, it softened. Not in a sentimental way. More like she was acknowledging something she’d been waiting to see.
Blaire pulled closer, her hand, squeezing mine. Her shoulder brushed mine. “Your mom is sweet.”
“She can be,” I whispered, my voice quieter than I expected, as Blaire slid off her shoes and left them by the door. Wyatt and Megan’s did the same. Mom noticed and gave them all a small nod.
“Y’all hungry?” Mom asked as she stepped back towards the old oak pier mirror in the entrance foyer. I caught a glimpse of Blaire and me in the reflection, and I felt a surge of something shoot up my back as I squeezed Blaire’s hand and let her go.
Wyatt answered first. “I could eat.”
“Of course,” Mom replied as she wiped her hands on her apron and kissed my cheek. It was a simple way of showing her dominance, and it settled amongst my friends.
“There’s Chili on the stove, but don’t touch the cornbread yet. Wyatt! I mean it,” she fussed as he shuffled the bowls from the cabinet.
“Come on, I’ll give you the fifty-cent tour.” I chuckled as I pointed towards the stairs in the old hallway. She followed, glancing around at the family photos like she was trying to map the boy in them to the one holding her hand now. The house smelled like chili and Pine‑Sol and the faint trace of Mom’s perfume. It was home.
Blaire stopped by the Sacred Heart with Father O’s signature on it. “Oh wow. He did our home dedication, too.” She whispered, as if any louder she would break something. She glanced at the stairs and back at me, afraid to ask to go up.
“Come on,” I whispered as we quietly ran up the steps to my room. It felt like we were on a top-secret mission as my heart pounded and my face burned. The only other person besides my family who had ever been there was Wyatt, and now I was about to show Blaire. My chest tightened, and I felt her hand squeeze mine as I pushed open the old wooden door into the cold, dim room that I called home.
“Who is that?” Blaire breathed as she pointed out a picture of my dad with my older brother James.
“That’s my dad,” I mumbled.
“I know that, but who is with him? It’s not you.” Blaire asked her words, comforting yet inquisitive.
“That’s my older brother. James. He died before I was born.” My voice cracked a bit as I felt Blaire’s arm lace into mine.
“I had no idea. I’m sorry.” Blaire whispered her head close to my shoulder. I only shrugged. It didn’t last long.
“Oh! What’s this?” Blaire exclaimed as she picked up my old army jacket. She looked at me, and her smile faded a bit.
“ I can’t bring myself to get rid of it,” I replied, my voice sounding more hurt than I wanted it to.
“I didn’t know you liked theCure; all you listen to is Metallica and Dokken. Chris!” Blaire giggled as she slipped the old jacket on. It hung loose in all the expected places, but her thumbs fell right into the holes I had cut in the sleeves in seventh grade. The holes I put there to keep my hands dry when I rode my old bike.
The jacket, had seen every weekend with Dad, the divorce, Maddie, the friends I thought would always be there until they weren’t. She twirled in my old jacket in my room like it was an unsuspected prize in my game show, and she was the only contestant. Her smile was warm, and my face was empty. I didn't want this. Not yet. Seeing her in it felt like someone had opened a door I kept locked on purpose.
Blaire stopped, and her eyes searched mine. “Chris? What’s wrong?” Her voice was soft and warm. The old jacket hung on her like an oversized memory I wasn't sure I wanted to share.
“It’s nothing. I've only ever worn that. It caught me….” I paused as Blaire slid into my side and hugged me. It caught me off guard.
“Chris. If you ever want to talk about it, I'm here.” She whispered as her chin rested on my chest. I smiled crookedly and nodded my head.
“CHRISTOPHER JAMES!!!!” my mother shouted up the stairs as she flicked the light switch at the bottom, making the hall light flicker. I stepped back, and Blaire slid the jacket back on the chair.
“Coming! Mom.” I hollered as we made our way back downstairs to the kitchen. Wyatt and Megan were sitting at the table, eating cornbread and giggling as the mood shifted when Blaire and I entered the room.
“Here,” Mom chirped as she pushed two bowls at me across the counter and walked out of the room. I leaned against the counter as Blaire stood next to me. Stirring the chili mindlessly. She was distant, and I didn’t know how to pull her in. I didn’t know if I wanted to.
Wyatt could tell something was off, and he cracked a joke. “Dude, does the fifty-cent tour give any change?” We all chuckled and shifted as Blaire smiled, and I put my arm around her and kissed her forehead. I wanted her to know I was ok. She was an innocent bystander and didn’t need to step into the turmoil that had lived in that room. I had learned to live around it. It reminded me that my compartmentalized grief carried a cost. A cost I wasn’t willing to let her pay. She didn’t need to see the parts of me I avoided, not yet.
I couldn’t wait to get to the mall on the Friday after Thanksgiving. Blaire had agreed to meet me at the Pac Sun, and Rene was game to drop me off around 2. Blaire was sitting on the bench outside Spencer’s when I saw her. A flannel shirt wrapped around her waist, the old Van Halen shirt she had taken from me. Her jeans and Adidas Sambas wrapped up the perfectly planned-yet-unplanned cool look she could pull off effortlessly.
“Hey,” she whispered as I sat down, kissing her cheek.
“Where do you want to go?” I asked as I draped my arm over her shoulder.
“Let’s go to the pet store, then SamGoody, oh, and I need to go to Sears. Get something for dad.” Blaire replied as she leaned into my side.
I smiled as I stood and offered her my hand, “After you, my lady,” I replied in a goofy accent. We glided down the mall past the Radio Shack, Babbages, and stopped at Sam Goody. I felt her pull before I realized the song that was playing.
“Come on, let's go dance in the back of the store.” She giggled as she squeezed my hand, pulling me behind her. The store was loud, and the customers shuffled, purchasing CDs, tapes, and posters. We found a quiet spot in the back and took a deep breath.
“Dance with me, Mr. Dowling!” Blaire declared as she pulled me in.
My Tigers hat did its best to hide my smile and the fact that I kept looking at my feet, as we swayed to “Vision of Love” by Mariah Carey. I felt Blaire exhale against my chest with a soft sigh and giggle.
“Hey! This isn’t a nightclub!” the counter guy yelled. I flinched, and we made our way down the back row to the entrance and out into the mall. The scent of fake pine and what might have passed as cranberries filled the air, as I felt my side hurt from laughing. Blaire was in tears as she touched my arm and we sat on the bench.
“We should do that again. Sometime,” she said. I nodded with a crooked smile.
“You hungry?” I asked.
“I want a Pretzel!” she exclaimed as she got up and grabbed my hand. “Let's go,” she snickered as we made our way to the food court.
The smell hit us before we rounded the corner. Buttery cinnamon and sugar mixed with the various smells of food court offerings.
“Two?” the girl behind the counter asked.
“No. One is good.” Blaire laughed. “And a lemonade, I'll have to fight him off for half of it.”
I shrugged, half smiling.
The old plastic-and-metal booth by the Sbarros creaked as we slid into it. The seat tilted as though it wanted to throw us on the hard tiled floor in front of everybody. I pushed my hat back, adjusting to the wobble of the booth. Blaire cut off a piece and slid it to me on a napkin without looking up. I took it as she licked the icing off her thumb.
I felt my face heat as we sat there. I was feeling something, something nervous. I was afraid of what it was. I cleared my throat and took a sip of lemonade.
“You ever giving me back that shirt?” I asked as I wiped my hands on a napkin.
“No!” Her nose wrinkled as she took a bite. “It smells like you.”
My face got warmer. “Easy, dork. That’s a compliment,” she joked. I only nodded and looked away.
“Blaire….” I choked. The mall buzzed around us. The shoppers, kids running past with shopping bags, the distant thump of whatever pop song was leaking out of The Limited, the hum of people who didn’t know they were walking through a moment I’d remember for years.
“Chris, I don’t mean anything by calling you a dork….I’m just playing.” Her words made my chest tight. I blinked and bit my lip.
“Okay,” I wanted to say more. Try to explain the feelings in my head, but I was afraid. Afraid of rejection, ridicule, afraid Blaire would react like my mother, so I said nothing.
Blaire touched my hand and squeezed. “Why do you look away when I say something nice about you?” Her words were warm, but they cracked a cold, distant part of me I didn’t like. The part that didn’t know how to deal with affection or hurt. To me, it was all the same.
I wasn’t expecting her to ask that. To be so honest at this moment. My stomach hurt, and I crumpled the napkin on the table. I desperately wanted to get up. Every fiber in me wanted to run. Wanted to look away, but her eyes burned through me. It was like she heard me, and I didn’t have to say anything.
“I… I.” My voice cracked. Blaire squeezed my hand again as I looked away.
“Chris. Look at me.”
I wanted to laugh. Maybe yell. Instead, I went quiet. Shut down. Nobody but Dad had ever seen me like this. I stared at the wrinkled napkin on the table, trying to reboot the version of me that didn’t glitch under pressure. Trying to understand why I did this, why it happened here.
“Chris… please,” Blaire whispered.
I blinked and bit my lip. “Sorry. I don’t know how to answer that. I don’t want to do this right now….Please?”
Her eyes stayed on me, searching for a crack she could touch or peel back. But there was nothing. I pulled my hand back on instinct, and she held on a second longer before letting go.
“Chris…” she breathed, sitting back.
I stopped. My throat tightened.
I wasn’t going to cry. God, I didn’t want to cry. Not in front of her.
I stared at my hands. My fingers were laced together, knuckles white, like I was holding myself in place. I didn’t notice she’d moved until I felt her. Blaire had gotten up and slid in beside me. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t ask anything either. She just wrapped her arms around me and held on, steady and warm, like she’d been waiting for me to break.
That was all it took.
I tried to swallow it down, tried to breathe through it, tried to be the version of myself that didn’t fall apart in public.
“I’m sorry.” The words slipped out in a whimper.
It wasn’t the me I’d built speaking, not the version who made jokes and shrugged things off. It was the little boy who watched Dad walk out and never figured out what to do with the pieces he left behind.
”This is why Mom makes me go see Father Bill. Sometimes I just want to forget it, try to block it out, but I can't. I must relive it ... with a priest.”
I forced a crooked smile, embarrassed and relieved at the same time, like I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t have.
The booth wobbled again under us, a loose bolt in the leg tapping the tile every time I breathed too hard. I smoothed the crumpled napkin flat with my palm, like I could press myself back into shape.
Blaire’s hand stayed on the back of my neck, her thumb tracing one last slow circle before she let it fall. I took a breath and sat up a little straighter.
“Come on, let’s go to Sears,” I whispered.