Page 2 of My Best Years
I like it.
His lips turn up in a warm smile that causes my cheeks to heat, and suddenly, I feel bad about pointing out his messy hair.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, shamefully while staring down at my lap, “for what I said about your hair.”
“I’m sorry for saying you have a silly name,” he replies without missing a beat. “It’s way cooler than mine.”
When I lift my gaze, he’s still smiling at me. I can’t help but smile back.
“Do you want to be my friend, Callum?” I ask, even though my heart feels like it’s skipping around in my chest.
He quickly nods his head, his face turning pink too. I don’t know what that means, but it makes me happy.
“Friends,” Callum says, holding out his hand to me.
I place my hand in his and wrap my fingers around his palm. Together, our skin is clammy, but neither of us seems to care. We hold hands until the bus stops in front of our school.
After today, riding the bus is my new favorite part of the day.
Birdie and Callum.
Friends forever.
TWO
Birdie
Present Day
March
A yellow school bus passes by, causing my stomach to drop and my chest to tighten.
I force myself to look away from the street in case another bus comes down the road. Two decades later, I can barely swallow the memory ofhim. He lives in my brain, infiltrating my every thought. He takes up the good andbad space, leaving no room for anyone else.
After twenty-one years, I still haven’t given up the boy on the bus with messy hair and sky-blue eyes.
“Hey, Birdie,” my dad chimes, stepping onto the front porch with two steaming cups of coffee, one in each hand.
He’s all smiles and chipper, like a typical dad waking up at the crack of dawn.
“Morning, Dad,” I smile.
“You’re up early,” he points out. “Coffee?” He extends out a hand, and I quickly take the delectable mug from him.
Dad makes the best coffee. He owns Waves of Coffee, a popular cafe in town. Making a good cup of joe is his love language.
“Thanks,” I mutter before taking a sip. “I had a hard time sleeping last night.”
When he takes a seat in the patio chair beside me, I can’t help but feel happy and sad at the same time. I’m beyond grateful to still have my dad at almost thirty years old, but over the past couple of years, I’ve started to notice how much he’s aged.
His once-golden hair has turned to silver, and his rough, working hands have begun to wrinkle and soften. It’s a beautiful thing to have the privilege of watching someone you love grow older. But it also makes you hate the thief of time.
“Still not used to the time change?” he asks, hanging an arm over the back of his chair and angling his body toward me.
“I’ve been home for a month, Dad,” I chuckle. “Besides, the time difference was only a few hours. I just…I couldn’t get my brain to shut off.”
Being home always makes me think ofhim.