Page 17 of Dead Men Tell No Shells

I peered out. He wasn’t done eating yet. I decided to see if she had sprinkles. She did, and I found chocolate syrup, too, so I drizzled some on top before adding the sprinkles.

Realizing I was out of time, I carefully placed the four bowls on a tray and carried them out, only realizing afterward how fancy I’d made the simple instant chocolate pudding look, which I’d compounded by offering Josiah his bowl first.

Fuck my life.

Tammy had invited Josiah over, and Ricky had been in on it from the beginning. Of course he had. Tammy and Ricky merely grinned at me while looking like they knew my secret, which they probably did. I never could hide anything from my two best friends.

We ate our pudding, or at least everyone else seemed to. I was too busy wishing the floor would open up and swallow me to pay much attention.

I sat down again and tried to reclaim some of my old equilibrium.

After lunch, we carried the dishes into the kitchen. Tammy started packing away the leftovers, Ricky collected glasses, and I took plates to the sink. Josiah followed with another stack.

“You don’t have to help,” I told him.

“Tammy fed me. The least I can do is carry a few dishes.”

“You always did know how to make yourself useful.”

The words came out before I could stop them. For a second, I heard the old affection in them, and I hated myself for letting it slip through.

Josiah looked at me. “I remember you telling me that once.”

“You remember a lot of things.”

“I do.”

There was no clever response, no attempt to turn the moment into a joke. He simply stood beside me with the plates in his hands, and I found myself uncomfortably aware of how much I still remembered about him, too.

We reached for the same dish. Our fingers brushed, and the contact was so brief that I could have pretended it hadn’t happened. Instead, I felt the old familiarity of his hand and remembered all the ordinary ways we’d touched without thinking: fingers linked under a desk, a hand at the small of my back in a crowded room, his shoulder pressed against mine while we studied.

I pulled away and picked up a dish towel.

“I didn’t mean to make things difficult,” he said quietly.

I dried the plate, keeping my eyes on it. “You don’t have to try. You managed that well enough sixteen years ago.”

He went still.

I regretted the sharpness, but not the truth. I was tired of pretending that his leaving had been a small thing, a youthful mistake we could brush aside now that we were older. He’d made a decision for both of us and left me to deal with the consequences.

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry, Max.”

“You’ve said that.”

“I know that, too.”

I waited for him to explain himself, to offer a reason I could argue with or a defense I could reject. He didn’t. He let the silence stand, and in some ways that was harder than if he’d tried to talk his way out of it.

I put the plate in the rack. “We should get these finished before Tammy decides we’re all useless.”

A faint smile touched his mouth. “I wouldn’t want to risk that.”

“It’s a serious possibility.”

We finished washing up without another difficult conversation. By the time we returned to the dining room, Tammy had packed the leftovers, Ricky had found his jacket, and the afternoon sunlight was slanting through the windows.

“I’m heading down to the harbor after I finish getting ready,” Tammy said. “I want to catch the music before the crowd gets too thick.”