Page 140 of Go Back to December

He follows me up the wooden staircase that traces the outside of the garage, and I open the door to the apartment that perches on top.

Baz takes it all in: The navy-blue walls smelling like fresh paint. The small slip-covered couch and ottoman Mom found at an online estate sale. A round table and two chairs I bought at the university thrift store tucked into the corner next to the galley kitchen.

He studies the woven baskets from his mother’s store, which Amal gifted me, and the small photo prints that hang from clothespins on the drawstrings lining the wall.

“So this is your pied-à-terre,” he says. “For when Manny’s in town?”

“Oh no, I live here properly. Got me a bed and everything.” I shove a thumb at the narrow corridor leading past the bathroom.

He needs no more encouragement to wander through the open door to survey the bed and the stacks of books piled on the floor by the small bureau that doubles as my nightstand.

The leg lamp roosts on top.

Baz winces. “How can you sleep next to that thing?”

“My eyes are closed.”

“Nice quilt.”

“Mom made it.”

He cocks a brow as he follows me back into the main room of the apartment.

“She came to visit. Craig did too. The day after I came back from the lake. That’s who you saw me with when you came by.”

We both nod like bobbleheads.

Thunder drums in the distance. And I could kill the weather for its impatience. For making me rush.

“There’s—something else,” I stutter. “Let me show you on the deck.”

Baz frowns at the tree branches slapping in the rising wind. But my chatterbox face must be convincing because he gestures for me to lead him out the glass door.

“Not a bad view.” He says. “You can see the university bell tower from here.”

“And hear it too.”

“That was the sign of a big night out, when I could sleep through that fucking bell.” He walks to the far end of the deck. “Not too many student neighbors this far north.”

At the opposite end of the balcony, I grip the railing to steady myself. “We have a few notorious ones close by.”

I crook a finger.

The wind buffets him, and his shirt billows behind him as he crosses the deck, but he won’t be deterred. I attempt to stay casual by leaning both elbows back on the railing, while he surveys the view below.

The second he finds the spot, his shoulders stiffen. He fists the railing as his attention sharpens on the lot to the east, and the barren walled garden bordering a house with an obnoxious mural of a jungle scene.

“Baz?”

“Yeah?”

“I remember.”

Decades pass before he finally turns to me. The widest, whitest smile cracks across his face.

It quickly turns fiendish. “What, exactly do you remember?”

I swat at him, arms flailing. “You're a jackass for making me say it first!”