Free Phantom Limbs by Paula Garner Page B

through:
    Plus I’m starving.
    I smiled. Of course she was. I texted, Want me to bring food to you? I’d have to do it on my fucking bike, but let’s face it, I’d crawl naked through rusty razor blades to get to Meg, so I certainly wasn’t going to let a bicycle stand between us.
    She sent a smiley back.

I RAN THROUGH THE HOUSE AND TOWARD the deck, where Meg’s dad and my parents sat with several bottles of wine for their nerd tastings and a bunch of moldy, stinking cheeses that Meg probably would’ve devoured with glee.
    “So we thought, fine, we’ll try the oh-six, and we actually liked it
better
than the oh-seven,” my dad was saying as he poured wine. “It still has that eucalyptus thing on the nose. Oh, hey, Otis,” he said as I stepped outside. My mom, who was slicing one of the cheeses, glanced up at me and gestured at Meg’s dad, as if I wouldn’t figure out to greet him on my own.
    Jay jumped up and reached out a hand. “Hey, Otis. Great to see you. Jesus, have you grown!” He’d put on weight, and his hair, which was mostly brown the last time I saw him, was now thick with gray. He gave me something like a smile, but it was forced.
    “Good to see you, too,” I echoed, shaking his hand and trying to smile back. It struck me how strange it was without Meg’s mom there, without her chatter and loud laugh. I wondered how hard the split was for Meg.
    “So sorry about Meg.” He turned his hands up apologetically. “That damn cat . . . I had to take him, though, because —” He hesitated, glancing down. “Uh, Karen’s place doesn’t allow pets.”
    “Get yourself a plate, Otis,” my mom said. She gestured toward the cheese with both arms, then clasped her hands together. She seemed nervous. They all did.
    “Actually,” I hazarded, “I just heard from Meg and she’s hungry. I thought I could bring food over there.”
    They all blinked at me like I was speaking in tongues.
    “I could take my bike,” I added.
    “That’s far to go on a bike,” my mom said, glancing at my dad.
    “It is not!” I exclaimed, exasperated. “Meg and I —”
    I stopped. They didn’t know we used to ride our bikes to the cemetery. My mom would stroke out on the spot. I finished with, “Meg and I would like to see each other.”
    “I could go back and get her,” Jay said, glancing at my parents. “Would only take ten or fifteen minutes.”
    “Well, I think she wants to stay with the cat,” I said. Okay, that wasn’t exactly true. But what had me so excited now wasn’t just the idea of seeing Meg, but the possibility of being alone with her.
    “Well,” Jay said, “at least let me drive you over.”
    “It’s fine,” I said. “I kind of feel like a bike ride anyway.”
    That was a fantastic stretch, since I only grudgingly rode a bike, and only when there were no other choices — and I rarely failed to complain about it.
    “But then you’ll be coming home in the dark,” my mom protested. “On the highway!” She shook her head. “I don’t like it.”
    “Laura, he’s not a five-year-old,” my dad said mildly. He put a hand on her back. “He knows what he’s doing, and his bike has reflectors.”
    There was an awkward moment of silence while my mom processed the idea, her forehead doing its trademark origami. “I haven’t even cooked the burgers yet,” she finally said. “We just sat down for drinks!”
    My dad got up and turned the grill on. “I’ll cook off two burgers now, and we’ll do the rest later. No problem. Easy peasy.”
    It took everything I had not to tackle-hug him.
    After a half an hour, which felt more like nine days, I had a picnic of oozy foil-wrapped cheeseburgers, Meg’s potato salad, and pie. I packed it all in my backpack, where Herbert the skunk was already tucked away. I bid a cheerful farewell, managing not to roll my eyes as my mother fired off her laundry list of reminders and safety warnings. “Text me as soon as you get there,” she finished,