3. Jude

THREE

JUDE

I didn't remember exactly when I'd met Brooke, but it was a few years ago, when she started appearing at the farmers market, selling veggies from her co-op. Mira had actually met her first, striking up a friendship, but it was only after my wife had died that Brooke and I grew close.

She'd found me one day, crying in my car—couldn't recall why or when, though obviously, it was not a good day for me—and without asking, she hopped into my passenger seat and sat with me for a while in silence, handing me tissues, lending me strength simply by being there. Once I'd settled, she'd informed me about how one of her coping strategies during her cancer treatment was marijuana. Then she'd aimed her charmingly crooked Drew Barrymore smile at me and asked, "Wanna get high?"

We'd been meeting regularly since then, talking about everything and nothing. Mira, my kids, Brooke's journey with cancer and her terrible ex, our families, our childhoods, our hopes and dreams—we talked about it all as we shared a joint or two. And then we ate our faces off.

It was a pretty great little friendship we had.

Since it was my birthday, my in-laws insisted they take the kids so I could enjoy myself, and I easily agreed. It was important that Sebastian and Amelia remained close to Mira's family and they grew up knowing their Syrian side. I wanted to make sure they were fluent in Arabic and could cook all of Mira's favorite foods, because I knew she would want that if she were still here.

So, after Imagination, I dropped the kids off with Youmna and George and returned home to do all kinds of boring stuff like flipping the laundry and emptying the dishwasher. But I did it without the kids arguing and Fortnight or Peppa Pig blaring.

It was in quiet moments like this I talked out loud to Mira. I would tell her about my day, about how I didn't know what the hell I was doing, but I was doing it, right?

Right, albi ?

She'd first called me that nickname when we were kids. Junior year, I'd earned my license and promised George I would drive below the speed limit and never dream of touching my cell phone with his daughter in the car. I'd cruised at an even twenty-five miles per hour to a drive-thru, where we'd ordered milkshakes and fries. I'd parked in a random Staples parking lot, and we'd listened to Dave Matthews while we ate. She had a bit of chocolate on her lip, and after I kissed it off, she had called me albi .

"What's that mean?" I'd asked.

"My heart," she'd responded with a shy smile, and my own heart had exited my chest cavity, finding a new home in Mira's.

I couldn't help what came out of my idiot sixteen-year-old mouth next. I'd blurted, "I love you."

She had merely laughed and flung her arms around my neck, whispering, "I love you too, albi ."

Then I'd buried my face in my heart's neck and inhaled her familiar rosewater scent. I'd learned it was a perfume she borrowed from her mother, one Youmna had brought from Syria. But ever since I'd had my first whiff, I'd been addicted.

Sometimes I still smelled it.

Even four years after my heart had left me, I occasionally caught a bit of rosewater in the air, and my chest cavity ached.

Every single time.

Finished with housework, I stepped outside to the back porch, opening up a new bag of chips and homemade hummus, courtesy of Youmna. The kids and I had gone out to breakfast before Imagination, but my mother-in-law never let me in her house without feeding me. So, I really wasn't hungry after her late lunch, although I didn't know what else to do with myself.

A common conundrum these last few years.

I played on my phone for a while, scrolling social media, counting down the minutes until Brooke showed up.

Which, apparently, was not that long since I accidentally fell asleep on the lounger.

I woke with a start when my chair was jostled. "Huh? What?"

"You know how easily I could've murdered you?" Brooke stared down at me, smiling. "You didn't answer your front door, so I came back around here and your gate was unlocked. If I was a murderer, you'd be a goner right now."

I swiped my palm down my face and blinked the sleep from my eyes, taking in my friend standing over me, wielding…an imaginary weapon aimed at my throat.

"Knife?" I asked.

"Pickax," she said, and I budged, making room for her to sit next to me.

"Seems a bit gory for you."

"You know I don't mind getting my hands dirty."

I checked out her hands. While she had no dirt on them today, it wasn't unusual for Brooke to have soil under her fingernails, smudges of it on her skin or clothes. She had come from a corporate background, but no one would guess from how she dressed now. Usually in boots, worn jeans, and some type of plaid or denim shirt. She never wore nail polish or much makeup, at least that I could tell, and usually had her long milk-chocolate hair tied back away from her face.

"Lucky for me, you don't actually want me dead," I said, crossing my ankles.

She made herself comfy next to me. "That's what you think." When I elbowed her, she laughed. "No. I could never lose you. Who else would smoke with me and watch Emily in Paris ?"

I hit her with a serious glower. "I watch it for the fashion."

She tossed her head back and laughed up at the sky. I'd never met anyone who laughed more than Brooke. I wasn't even all that funny, but I always made her giggle, and each time she did, it healed my broken heart a little bit more.

"Truly. Was never a more fashion-forward guy than you."

I tugged on my T-shirt that had a stain—what it was, I didn't know—right below the collar. "Takes a lot to look like this."

She nodded, teasing me. "Lots of baking and Wawa."

I shrugged. "Not everyone can pull it off."

"That's for sure." She patted my stomach, which had become rounder with every passing year, and smiled at me. "I bought you something."

"You didn't have to do that," I said, but she shrugged my words away and put her hands in mine as she stood up, hoisting me with her.

"Got it in the car."

"Is it The Gobbler?" I asked, my hope in my favorite seasonal Wawa hoagie strong, even though it was the middle of June.

She huffed in amusement. "I wish."

I pocketed my cell phone, wallet, and keys then locked up before we sauntered to her beat-up pickup. I hopped into the passenger seat as Brooke twisted around to grab something from the back.

It was a birthday cake.

But not any cake.

It was a cake with David Beckham's face on it, and I lost it. I bent over, heaving with laughter, holding my stomach as my eyes watered. Next to me, Brooke cackled, obviously proud of herself.

"I had to do it."

"Oh my god," I finally got out, "I can't believe it. I can't believe you."

"I know how much you missed it."

For my tenth birthday party, my parents had rented out a park with a soccer field because, at the time, I'd been obsessed with soccer. Posters of David Beckham had covered my walls, and they'd bought me a cake with his face on it, little plastic soccer balls decorating the sides. Unfortunately for me, I'd ended up coming down with some kind of stomach bug and puked in a trash can before I even had one bite of that cake. I'd relayed that core memory to Brooke a few months ago, and having this cake in front of me now was truly one of the best gifts I could've received.

Normally, we made a pit stop for snacks, but today, Brooke drove us right to our spot, her farm.

Pennsylvania had a good amount of farmland, but a lot of it was owned by corporations or non-farmers, who leased out the property. Brooke had been lucky enough to score herself a small plot of land on the outskirts of West Chester, buying it outright. Big enough to support her burgeoning farming endeavor, it boasted a small garage and a tiny old farmhouse she used as an office and distribution center for her co-op. Perfect for her needs. And ours.

I plopped down in one of the blue Adirondack chairs close to the giant oak tree with the tire swing I'd fixed two years ago, as Brooke jogged to the farmhouse, returning with the jeweled container she kept her supplies in. She had received her medical marijuana card long ago and bought everything from the dispensary. She'd tried to explain it all to me at some point, describing how she used a weaker strain with lower THC and higher CBD. Whatever that meant, I didn't know, but she rolled up the weed like the professional she was before handing it to me and holding up her neon-pink lighter.

I stuck the joint between my lips and leaned over, allowing her to light the end. I inhaled, closing my eyes as the burn made its way down my throat and lungs. The first time I'd ever smoked was with Brooke, and I'd hacked up my intestines for approximately an hour. But now, I was used to it.

Used to the way it felt—for a moment like I couldn't breathe, and then how my body became heavy. I helped myself to a second drag, blowing plumes of smoke into the air then passing it back to Brooke. She stuck the joint in the side of her mouth like some cool James Dean character in an old movie as she fiddled with her cell phone for a few moments, cuing up her playlist that was always a strange mix of genres and songs, from the Beatles to Doja Cat with Stevie Wonder and Hozier thrown in too. Because why not?

We were high and making up our own words anyway.

"So, how was today?" she asked after a while, accepting the last of the joint. She stubbed it out and tossed it into the little trash bag next to the cooler of drinks she'd brought with her.

I helped myself to a root beer. She somehow always found A-Treat in the old-school bottles, and I couldn't pass that up. I popped the top, flipping it back into the cooler. "All right."

She raised her brow, clearly wanting an explanation for my vague answer. "Yeah?"

I ignored her, and knowing that she'd been planning her sister's wedding shower for weeks, I asked, "How was the party?"

"Really good."

"Yeah?"

She nodded, and we both stared at each other for a beat before chirping, "Yeah, yeah, yeah," at each other like a couple of knuckleheads.

Once we calmed down from our laughing fit, we enjoyed the setting sun and the warm breeze that rustled the leaves as Weezer's "My Best Friend" played out of the little speaker on the closed fire pit. It was times like these I wished I could press pause and live in them a little longer. Being here with Brooke, doing nothing, and somehow everything was perfect. Or, at least, as close to perfect as I could get anymore.

A different kind of perfect than what I used to have.

I took a breath and said, "I think I might start dating," at the same time, she said, "I think I'm ready to be in a relationship again."

Both of our eyes widened at our matching ideas, and Brooke stuck her finger in the air. "Let me get some forks. We need cake for this!"

I would've eaten my David Beckham cake with my hands, but I tipped my head. "Yeah, all right. Forks are good."