Only the Good Die Young

Chapter Twelve

I knock once on the front door and let myself in with my free hand. The other is carrying a pan of brownies and a tub of freezing cold vanilla ice cream. It's already dark out, even though it's only six. My teeth chatter as I hang my coat up.

"Ryleigh!" Peter greets, blowing into a noise maker and hugging me. "Michelle says she doesn't know if she'll make it. Is Eric coming?"

I shake my head and step into the kitchen. I drop a pan of brownies on the counter and put a gallon of ice cream in the freezer. Peter holds out two bottles.

"White or red grape? No wait, let me guess. White!"

"Right," I reply, laughing and opening a cabinet for two wine glasses.

"One for you," Peter says, pouring one glass, "and one for me." I hold out the second glass and we clink and drink.

"Do you want to eat brownies while they're still warm?" I ask, letting a small burp slip out. I set my glass down and open the warm pan. The smell makes my mouth water. It's tradition that whenever I eat brownies and ice cream, I mix it all together until it looks like a light brown mush.

"Sure. I got bowls," Peter says. He pulls out two bowls and two spoons.

We take turns adding ice cream and brownies to our bowls. Then we put them away, grab our glasses, and head downstairs.

Immediately, I plop down on the futon and cover my legs, criss cross applesauce, with a blanket. Peter sits next to me. He doesn't turn the television on, but instead pulls a leg up so he can face me.

"Mash it all up, like this," I say, demonstrating it for him.

"That looks disgusting," he comments.

"Try it." I hold up a spoonful of it. Peter tries it and says it tastes just like normal brownies and ice cream. "Exactly!"

"So how come Eric isn't coming?"

"I'm kind of maybe avoiding him."

"And why is that?" Peter mashes up a chunk of the tough brownie edge to mix in better with the ice cream. I take it he's going to do what I do with mine. My parents copied me, Michelle copied me, even Simon did too, whenever I'd bring brownies over. Sadly, they're box mix, since I've never found a good recipe to make them from scratch. My cookies are still from scratch, though. I refuse to make box mix cookies.

"This is awful, but we got drunk at a Christmas party and almost did the dirty." The words sounded strange coming from my mouth. I usually don't speak inappropriately.

"You didn't want to?"

"Of course not. I mean, we were only planning on dating for the school year, and then I thought that maybe we could last, but now I'm godmother so it's not like I can abandon Michelle and go to college. Plus, I can't see myself doing those things with him," I confess.

"I get it. Sorta. I've never had a girlfriend or kissed a girl or any of that."

"For real?"

"Well, you and Michelle and Simon's mom are the only three women that know I'm here. Michelle always had Simon, Simon's mom is too old for me, and you have Eric."

"You know, I figured something out awhile back, but I never applied it. Eric and Michelle and everyone else help me forget and be happy. When I'm alone, it's like pure sorrow. But with you, I can grieve and still be happy at the same time."

Peter raises his eyebrows and sips his drink.

"What if I was wrong, and Eric really isn't the one?"