“You said you wanted to hang out. I mean, I know we’re doing that already, kind of. But the movie’s over and we’re bound to get bored, and unless you want to talk further about the hoplessnesses of the world, you should pick something to do.”
Hopelessnesses isn’t a word, I want to say. But I’m no better. I make words up to suit situations all the time.
“I’m hungry,” I say, grabbing onto his hand and letting him hoist me off the couch.
“We ate not too long ago,” he says, confusion creased between his eyebrows.
“We ate almost three hours ago,” I correct. “I’m hungry again.”
He nods, taking my logic to thought. “To the kitchen, then.” He takes off in a sprint and it takes a moment or two for me to process what just happened. And when I do, I run after him.
Cole’s head is already in the freezer when I reach him. “What are you –?” I start, but he emerges from the freezer and holds out two tubs of ice cream.
“Butter Pecan or Cookie Dough?” He asks as if I’m choosing between the two wonders of the world. I’ve never seen him hyper before, and definitely not so suddenly. Maybe he’s taking Fight Club to heart a little too fervently.
“Cole, what are you doing?”
“You said you wanted to get away from that –” he gestures with the Butter Pecan toward the front door of his house, like that’s the direction of my house, “ – unhappy home of yours. You said you wanted to hang out with me. You said you were hungry. Now pick Butter Pecan or Cookie Dough, damn it.”
“Cookie Dough!” I nearly shout, eyes wide. “Cookie Dough.”
“Noble choice,” he says, shoving the Butter Pecan back into the freezer and tossing the Cookie Dough ice cream onto the kitchen table. He presents me with a spoon from the nearest drawer and takes one for himself.
I’m still in this state of shock that I have to mentally demand that my legs follow him and take me to the table, where we sit across from one another. He pulls the lid from the ice cream and nudges it toward me.
“You know I’m still confused right?” I eye him quizzically as I dig my spoon into the barely eaten bucket of frozen deliciousness and scoop some out.
“Lena,” he sighs. “I get it, okay? I get what you want out of me, out of this.” He waves his finger between the two of us. “I can be your cancer friend. That’s okay. I’ll be here for all your cancer-talking needs. And we can have fun when you want to get away from your cancer house and when your non-cancer friends won’t suffice.”
I lay my spoon on top of the ice cream and lean back. “That’s not what I want.”
“No, I’m okay with it,” he presses. “I told you, I get it. Trust me, I get what it’s like having no one who knows what you’re going through. It’s fine.”
I stand up and Cole looks up at me, surprised. “No,” I say firmly. “I like you as a friend, not a cancer friend, or a substitute friend for when my school friends are gone, or someone who’s just good for harboring me when I have nowhere else to go. I like you as a friend.”
He gives me a small, barely noticeable nod.
