Day 11
Sidney
I’m not a mean person. I’m really not. And while I don’t love parties and huge groups of strangers, I’m not straight-up antisocial, either.
So it probably shouldn’t be this hard to force myself out of bed.
Why does the thought of sitting at our kitchen table with him make me feel like my bed is the only place I could ever be truly happy?
Any normal person would think that not being in a feud with someone would make life so much easier.
Except that when someone has been your nemesis for long enough, it’s not easy to switch off that little voice in your head.
The one that says you have to be alert. Watch for traps, be prepared for retaliation.
Set your own traps before he catches you in one of his.
Do. Not. Trust. Because what if this truce is the longest prank ever?
Asher seemed genuine when he suggested the truce—and I do want to make Nadine’s life miserable—but that voice is still screaming in my head, telling me that now is not the time to let down my guard and trust him.
I’m running out of time—if I procrastinate much longer he’s going to give me crap about forcing him to get up early when I’m not even going to show up on time.
Or maybe he won’t. Does our truce require us to be civil at all times?
More than that, are we going to be friendly now?
Or are we simply stopping the pranks? I really wish we’d outlined more specifics on how this whole thing works.
It’s not that I can’t be nice to Asher—I’m not a monster, I think I could be nice to anyone. I just want expectations.
When I finally walk into the kitchen at 6:32, Asher is sitting at one of the red stools at the breakfast bar, shoveling oatmeal into his mouth from a little glass jar.
The kind my grandma makes strawberry jam in.
He meets my eyes and nods toward the mug sitting in front of the chair next to him.
I press my lips together. I mean for it to be a smile, but it’s like my face doesn’t know how to do that when looking at Asher.
I’m pretty sure it looks more like a grimace, or like I’m constipated or something.
It’s not great, is what I’m saying. Trying again would be even weirder, so I don’t.
Shake it off, Sidney. Just treat him like a normal person. A normal person who filled your yogurt cups with sour cream last summer, and froze your bathing suit once, but is now making you coffee.
I go to the refrigerator to dig for fruit and yogurt—that is hopefully not sour cream—and notice the top shelf is lined with pretty little jars like the one Asher is eating.
They’re stuffed with oatmeal. Some of them have strawberries, and others have swirls of gold and brown—honey and maple syrup, probably—and nuts.
“Your mom makes these for you?” I say, picking up one of the little jars and examining it more closely.
“Am I twelve?” He shakes his head, and it reminds me of his dad. Like he’s scolding himself. “Sorry. No, I make them. Feel free,” he says, jerking his chin toward me and my little glass jar. Apparently I’m not the only one struggling to adjust.
I put the jar back, then hesitate and pick it up again. It’s just oatmeal.
This kitchen has four times as many drawers as our last one, and after I make three unsuccessful attempts at locating the silverware, Asher silently points his spoon at the one directly behind him.
I open it and grab a spoon, wondering when breakfast became such a stressful time for me.
I try again for a smile, and this time my mouth makes what I’m pretty sure is a C+ effort.
There’s no teeth, but definitely a clear improvement in my performance.
I sit down at my mug of coffee, thankful that we’re sitting side by side and not across from each other. We’re eating in complete silence, our awkwardness accompanied by the scrape of spoons, the soft setting down of our mugs, the squeak of our stools as we fidget and shift.
Our walk to the boat is as quiet as our breakfast, and by the time we reach it I feel like screaming just to crack the silence.
Is this his way of messing with me, without actually messing with me?
Seeing how long he can go before I crack and say something first?
No, surely not. The truce was his idea, after all.
But I think of his silence at breakfast, how he didn’t say anything until I did.
We’re always quiet, though. I’m not sure if I want a change, or if I’m just expecting one.
At the boat, Asher steps on and holds out a hand for me.
I look at it like it’s covered in acid, and my eyes dart to him.
He’s holding back a smile, and when I finally take his hand, whatever hold he had on himself snaps.
While I sit in my usual seat at the bow, he sits in front of the little engine, shaking with laughter.
His face is pinked with the exertion of trying to hold it back.
What is wrong with him? Apparently this truce is driving us both a little mad.
He’s barely composed himself when he tells me, “Tomorrow night we’re going to scout at Five Pines.” We finish our swim, walk silently back to the house, and carefully avoid each other the rest of the day.