First off, I'd like to thank you all for a million reads (and sort of almost two million!) and more than two thousand fans! Please listen to the song on the side. Thank you. So much. Second, I'd like to thank you guys for reading this far because there are a crapload of grammatical errors.

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Chapter 25: Turkey for Thought: Maybe Benjamin Was On the Right Track

Tyler asked me out on a date.

Only, it wasn't really a date because it wouldn't be just the two of us. In retrospect, it wasn't even a date to begin with. In this case, the word "date" was never mentioned. He had asked me to accompany him to his little cousin's birthday party at Chuckie Cheese's. His aunt had gotten food poisoning and spent the last week and half in the bathroom with unattractive waste spilling out on either end.

"That is disgusting," I had said to Tyler when he illustrated—in detail—his aunt's bodily functions. "Don't describe anything like that again."

He shrugged. "I thought girls liked detail."

Needless to say, I abruptly ended the call, and that signaled the end of our conversation.

Later, he texted me and told me that he would pick me up at noon and to be prepared for the "ride of my life." I promptly replied back and told him that there was no way I'd get on his motorcycle again.

It was exactly 12:01 (I looked at my phone frequently) and I was standing uncomfortably inside a building I hadn't entered since Luke's eleventh birthday. I didn't remember much from that party other than generous scoops of Cookies N' Cream and the fact that I didn't have enough tickets to get the prize I wanted. Unlike Luke, I was not particularly talented at arcade games.

For fifteen minutes, I lingered around the area reserved for "Bradshaw" waiting for Tyler. He and his little cousin, who I called Little Bradshaw, strolled in, as if being tardy to his own event was completely acceptable. Given his punctuality, I expected it.

"Charlotte, this is Jake. Jake, this is Charlotte. She's going to celebrate your birthday with us. Is that okay?"

Jake nodded eagerly, a toothy grin spreading across his face. One of his baby teeth was missing and I could see the stub of a new tooth growing in. "I'm turning seven," he stated proudly.

"You are? You're getting old," I teased in an embarrassing, high-pitched voice that only came out when I was around children.

He frowned and stomped his foot angrily. "I am not! Tyler's older than me by"—he did the math on his fingers, which I thought was absolutely adorable—"eleven whole years. And I bet you're old too," he retorted.

I smiled. "Only by ten years."

"Still old," Jake muttered, crossing his arms and scowling at the ground.

"That's not nice, Jake," Tyler scolded. "You should never call a girl old." It was different to see him parental and discouraging the sort of activity that he usually partook in.  

"Why not?" Jake questioned.

He bent down and whispered purposefully loud into Jake's ear. He briefly glanced up at me before saying, "How are you supposed to charm them if they feel insulted?"

Expecting something sweet and non-Fourish, I was unpleasantly surprised by his response. I thought he was going to say something along the lines of "It's rude" or "It's not nice." It was a classic response that I should've seen coming; although, it seemed more of an Ian thing to say than anyone else.

I gave him a look that earned me a smirk from him. "Got something to say, Summers?"

"Don't we have a party to throw?"

There were twelve of them running around like wild banshees. Perhaps I was exaggerating a bit, but they did have a surplus of energy. I anticipated that they'd be tamer than they really were which was what my first mistake was. I was tempted to keep the ice cream from them because they didn't need any more sugar, but who was I to prevent them from experiencing the joy of ice cream?

I thought my purpose of being here was to watch the kiddies, but as far as I knew, they weren't creating any problems. I turned my head from the arcade area, where all of them played freely, to Tyler, who was sitting across the table from me. "They're not trouble," I said.

"Never said they were," he replied dully.

"But I thought you said..."

"What did I say, Charlotte?"

He waited for my answer. "I...you said you wanted me to help you."

He shook his head. "I never asked you for help, Charlotte. I just asked for company. If you don't want to be here, you can go. There's nothing stopping you except for that door." He pointed towards the exit.

"I want to be here!" I protested and immediately regretted how eager I sounded.

He raised an eyebrow. I saw a hint of playfulness in his poker face. "I don't think you do."

"Fine," I said, getting to my feet. "See you later."

I felt him grab my hand and tug me backwards to him. "Wait. Don't go."

"But you said—"

"I think you're daydreaming about me and thinking of the things the fake me said." I saw the corner of his lips pull upwards.

I opened my mouth to disagree but ended up gaping at him instead. He gently shut it, the light stroke of his calloused fingers lingering on my jaw. "Don't be so embarrassed. It's normal for girls to constantly think about me and compose fantasies of things they would to do to my wonderful body."

I frowned and slapped his cloth-covered, oh-so godly chest. "Shut up."

"You don't deny it."

"You wish I daydreamed about you," I snorted.

He looked like he wanted to question the snort, but he didn't say anything about it. "So," he started with a grin, "what are your sexual desires? If you ask nicely, maybe I would be willing to help you."

I shushed him, scanning to see if any innocent ears overheard. "Could you be any louder?" I exasperated.

He took that as a dare, but I quickly covered his mouth with my hand. "Don't you dare. That was a rhetorical question."

"Somebody's moody today. Are you on your period, Summers?"

His bluntness took me aback. Didn't he know that asking that question was punishable by death glares? He was just begging to be ignored and become the target of my bitterness. Wasn't it some unwritten rule that guys weren't supposed to speak of it unless said in a much sensitive tone than he used?

He was right. I was on my period, but he didn't need to point it out unless I bled through my pants. And if that happened, I wouldn't know whether to be mortified or thankful. "I—Excuse me? What's that supposed to mean?" I stammered, hoping my cheeks weren't as red as I imagined they'd be.

"You got angry really fast. I thought that only happened when girls were on their period."

"It depends on the girl. Sometimes it's something that a guy did," I said hastily.

He rolled his eyes. "That's the problem with girls. They're so emotional. And they wonder why no guy wants a relationship," he scoffed to himself.

"We're not all emotional."

He looked doubtful. "Okay, fine!" I threw my hands up in the air in defeat. "Maybe we are, but most of the time we have a good reason for it." I poked him. "And it's almost always from your kind."

He fixated his amused eyes on me. "My kind?" he echoed.

"You know, guys."

He nodded. "Right, because we're so cruel to the tender-hearted females."

"You are!"

"When do you think a good time to cut the cake is?" he asked, doing himself a favor by changing the topic.

I shrugged. I was never a good party planner or hostess. "When is the party over?"

"Four, officially, but it's really whenever the parents show up."

"Have you checked the time lately?" I uncertainly glanced at my lit up phone screen.

He shook his head. "No. Why?"

"It's 3:45, Tyler."

His expression showed no change. It was as if I had told him that only fifty percent of the world's rainforests remained. It was a topic that he had no interest in; it went right over his head. "And that means...?"

"It means that they have less than fifteen minutes to eat before their parents get here."

It was then that his eyes bulged out and he began to panic. He told me to "herd up the rascals for grub." He reminded me of one of the character's on Pappy's television shows that he insisted I watch because it would broaden my horizons and teach me the hardships of "the old days." I snuck out of the living room once the raspy snores began.

By the time I wrangled up the twelve children, Tyler had pizza slices on plates, candles in the cake, and the lid off the carton of ice cream. He started to light them when Jake was in the hot seat. We chorused "Happy Birthday"—Tyler mumbling along—and then Jake blew out all seven candles.

"What did you wish for?" I asked Jake while Tyler was basically stabbing the cake into pieces.

He shook his head. "I can't tell you."

"Why not?"

He narrowed his eyes and dropped his voice to a deadly whisper. "Because then it won't come true."

"Does everyone want ice cream with their cake?" Tyler asked, looking around the group of second graders.

The answer was unanimous: yes.

He scooped the ice cream onto the brightly colored paper plates, handing it off to each child, and then starting again. It was like a once-man assembly line. I would've offered to help him, but he looked so in "the zone," and I didn't want to disturb him. He had it all under control

"Eat fast," he barked. "Stuff your faces." I was surprised that he didn't resort to shoving their heads into the food.

Later, I heard him mutter "wild animals" when they did what he told them to do. Although, I swore I heard a bit of pride in his voice as he said it. I wanted to tell him that I was sure all children ate messily, unless they were raised by prim and proper parents, but I didn't want to be that person who was always looking to prove someone wrong and tear them down.

"Do you want some?" Tyler asked me.

"Marble cake and vanilla ice cream?" I clarified.

When he nodded, I happily agreed. Marble cake and vanilla ice cream seemed to be the go-to flavors for birthdays. But then again, they were classics and most everybody could at least tolerate them.

Not soon enough, parents began to drop by to pick up their ice-cream-and-cake-crumb-covered children. I thought I saw a few of them glare at me as they pushed their child into the gender-appropriate bathroom door or wiped their sticky faces with several napkins. They wished Jake a "Happy Birthday" with a phony, cheery voice; tersely thanked Tyler; and sent me a tight smile before leaving.

"Well, that went well," Tyler said, dropping the leftover food into a paper bag.

"I guess," I laughed.

"It was horrible, wasn't it? I don't throw children's birthday parties. Strippers are more my scene."

"Eleven more years before that can happen."

He groaned at the thought of waiting a little more than a decade. "Maybe I'll take my other cousin out. I think he's turning eighteen soon."

"Talking about strippers isn't going to help you get into my pants."

"Is this your way of telling me that there's a chance?"

"No!"  

"Then there's no point in trying, is there? Why waste my time if there's no possibility of you giving in?"

He had a point, and I was at a loss for words. "I...I don't know. You just don't seem like the type of person to just give up."

He lifted an eyebrow. "Don't I?" It almost sounded like a challenge.

"Well, maybe you do," I admitted. "But no on this."

Although his words told me differently, I knew that he wouldn't give up on this until he won. It was important to him. I went off on a limb and assumed few things were important to him, the Virginator being one of them. His relaxed and detached attitude may have fooled me for a second, but I figured him out. There was no way I'd let him get into my mind and change it.

***

It was the day before Thanksgiving, which only meant one thing: dinner with the Chandler's.

It was a tradition that had started when I was in third grade. That year on Thanksgiving Eve, a brutal storm hit. The details are still a bit fuzzy in my mind, but I remember how hard the wind was blowing, the amount of rain that was pouring, and the grand oak tree that fell. It blocked one of the main roads, preventing people from leaving and entering Addison. Dad and I weren't really close to any of our family members, so we usually spent the holidays alone with takeout. Mrs. Chandler had made a feast fit for the Chandler clan, but due to the conditions of the weather, their clan had been condensed to three people. Long story short, we were invited over and our loneliness was no more. The Chandlers were on our family away from family, and I preferred them over the eccentric people that were the Summers.

I usually looked forward to this, but the thought of sitting with Luke at dinner made me uncomfortable. I prepared myself for the awkwardness, the tension, and the poor attempt at dessert that my dad makes every year. It was the same recipe, one that he happily made up. He called it "cheesecake casserole," and he was proud of it. Mrs. Chandler insisted that she would take care of the food, but he insisted that he had to provide something. None of us had the heart to tell him that his dish was utter crap. I think Dad only downed it because he didn't want to admit that he lacked culinary talent.

"You don't have to go," Dad told me whilst putting on his turkey tie.

I sighed, wishing his statement was true. While he told me that I didn't have to attend a basically mandatory event, I knew that there was an underlying meaning the wanted me to catch. He expected me to go and pretend that none of this had ever happened. It would preserve whatever dignity and pride I had left. I needed to show Luke I was okay without him, even though a part of me missed him terribly. Whenever that part of me came out, I reminded myself of what he did and it ashamedly disappeared.

"Yes, I do. And you have to be on your best behavior too, okay?"

"I'm not going to make a scene," he promised. "Why would I start something? You know me, Charlotte. I'm a drama-free person."

Well, he was now. From the stories he'd told me, Rochelle was a magnet for drama. She attracted it, she created it, but she didn't get rid of it. When she tried, all it did was generate more. While his friends commended him of having someone so, well, out of his league, they also nagged him about her shallowness. Like the loyal boyfriend he was, he defended her, saying that it was only a mechanism she used to protect herself. Even when he was retelling the stories, I could see the old love that remained in his eyes. My heart ached for him, but I was glad that he knew he had to be done with her. She didn't deserve a guy as great as him.

I held my pinky out for him to grab and he did. "You swore on it. You can't break it."

"I know how it works. Will you go get the casserole? It's on the counter."

I was crossing my fingers hoping he'd forget about it, but that was a long shot. In previous years, I had hidden it deep in the jungle of our produce drawer or suffered through grueling spoonfuls of it to sacrifice myself for the Chandlers. Since then, he always had a backup mix prepared, in case any of my "urges" to eat it decided to return. Getting rid of it was next to impossible.

It was the same routine every year. We would arrive on their doorstep three minutes before seven, and Dad, being the nutcase he is, would make us wait outside in the crisp, autumn air until the proper time arrived. Whenever I made a pass at the doorbell, he would swat my hand away and send a disapproving look my way.

At exactly seven o'clock, the door swung open to reveal Mrs. Chandler. Mr. Chandler was in the background fixing his tie in the hall mirror. Luke was nowhere to be seen. "Come on in," she chirped, stepping aside so we could enter.

The air was significantly warmer inside the house and the aroma wafting about caused my mouth to water. I wanted to save room for dinner, so I only ended up having a measly, stale bowl of Cheerios today. We hadn't properly gone grocery shopping in a while.

Dad was ushered to the living room for "adult talk," while I reluctantly climbed the stairs to Luke's bedroom. As usual, Luke was playing some sort of video game that involved guns (or another form of weaponry). They all looked the same to me because, obviously, I wasn't a big gamer. I couldn't tell Call of Duty from Halo. He was sprawled out on his bed, furiously pressing buttons and focusing on the screen with great intensity.

I wasn't sure if I should sit down and make myself at home like I had done in the past or stand awkwardly in the doorway. In the end, I sort of did a combination of the two. I sat in his desk chair. I was still close enough to not seem like I was avoiding him but distant enough without feeling obligated to initiate small talk.  

We exchanged brief greetings, and that was it. I had a creeping feeling that he wanted to talk about the issues simmering between us but didn't want to create any more unnecessary problems.

"Dinner's in ten minutes!" Mrs. Chandler yelled up the stairs. "Luke, you better not be spoiling your dinner with those cookies I saw you sneak up earlier!"

"Oh, leave him alone, Laurie," I heard Mr. Chandler say.

"I'm not going to let my day of slaving over this hot stove go to waste, Robert."

I tuned out their bickering and sent Luke a questioning look. He smiled sheepishly and pointed to a platter of sugar cookies sitting beside him. Half of the plate was covered in crumbs. He popped one in his mouth, completely disregarding his mother. "Want some?" he offered.

I bit my lower lip, tentative of accepting the treat. It was just a treat, but then again, what if it was some sort of peace offering? As bad as it sounded, I didn't think I was ready to forgive him. I knew that I was being selfish, but humans are selfish creatures. Besides, I was hurt, and I think I deserved to roll around in my own self pity for just a little bit longer.

He noticed my hesitation and waved the plate in front of my face. "C'mon, Charlie," he urged, "it's just a cookie. It's not like I'm offering you drugs."

"I know, but I don't want to spoil my dinner," I lied, forcing the words out of my clattering teeth.

He scoffed. "Since when have you cared about that? Charlotte, I know you want one. You love my mother's cookies maybe a little too much." He chuckled quietly to himself. "Remember sophomore year when you—"

I interrupted him promptly. "We don't need to talk about that."

I saw the little crater of his left dimple appear. I knew he was thinking about the incident, an event that I would love to erase from my memory for good.

"Stop that!" I demanded.

"Stop what?"

"Stop remembering!"

He played the part of an innocent boy too well. "Remember what?"

I clenched my fists to keep from smacking him and let out a noise that told him I was aggravated. I grabbed the nearest pillow, wrapped my arms around it, and squeezed so hard I was surprised the stuffing didn't explode.

"Whoa, calm down. What did the pillow ever do to you?"

It's not what the pillow did. It's what you did, I thought bitterly.

I shrugged. "It slept with the bed sheets."

"Maybe the comforter wasn't there and the pillow missed you and he thought the bed sheets would make it feel better."

"The pillow should've known that the comforter would come back."

"The pillow did, but he thought the sheets would comfort him."

"More than the comforter could comfort him?"

We didn't get to finish our banter on the imaginary scenario that was reality, because it was time for dinner.

Dinner was better than I thought it would be, but it was still uncomfortable. The food was, as usual, delectable. Dad's dessert tasted a smidge better than last year, but that's only because I told him to use stick butter instead of scooping I Can't Believe It's Not Butter! out of the tub. It was still a chore forcing it down our throats while smiling, though.

I glanced in Luke's direction a couple of times. He caught my eye once, smiled, and I looked away, red with embarrassment. From then on, I tried to be more discreet when I snuck peeks at him. I don't think he noticed.

Dad and Mr. Chandler escaped to the living room to watch football while Mrs. Chandler halfheartedly followed them. It was times like these where I wished that I had a real mother (or at least a stand in). She didn't have anyone to talk to. Sure, she had the men, but they were focused on their sports. She was sort of like the third wheel, or fifth wheel depending on how you looked at it.

"Can I talk to you?" Luke asked, putting his game on pause.

"We are talking," I joked.

He nervously fidgeted his hands. "You know what I mean."

I sighed. "Sure."

"I know you're still mad—"

"I'm not mad, Luke."

The dark uncertainty in his eyes lightened to pure joy. He lit up like a Christmas tree, and it was as if I had told him the best news in the world. The grin on his face shone so brightly that it put the moon to shame. "You're not?"

"No."

"That's great!"

"But,"—I hated to interrupt him and destroy his happiness that I had caused, but it felt wrong to milk it out—"it's not going to go back to the way it was."

The smile on his face faded as quickly as it had come. "But you're not mad..." he tried, holding onto the little strand of hope that remained. He heaved out a heavy, emotion-filled sigh. "It's never going to be the same. Is it?"

My eyes flickered down to his comforter until I mustered up enough strength to look into his eyes. "It was your choice to sleep with her." Saying that sentence drained me. It took a lot to say it with so little emotion when my heart was clenching and demanding that I forgive him. It was hard to resist it.

But another part of me, the selfish part, made its claim. What if I didn't want to get over it? What if I enjoyed being mad at him? I found these thoughts a bit sadistic and a tad bit troubling. I knew I wasn't suicidal and I wasn't into self harm, at least not the physical kind anyway. It crossed my mind that I could be a self-masochist. Most times I refused to believe it because the thought wasn't pleasant. I wanted my image to be better than that, better than someone who derived pleasure from her own pain.

Luke nodded curtly. "I understand. Can I tell you something?"

"Okay."

"Remember when you wanted to know who I was texting earlier this year? I let you pick the movie. We were about to watch—"

"I remember, Luke." I felt bad for not letting him finish his sentences lately, but there was no need to reminisce about the past.

"Right, well, I was talking to Emma. She had a pregnancy scare."

No matter how mad I was at the both of them (even though I already forgave Emma), I couldn't help but feel awful for them. Even in the brief period of time they thought she was expecting they must have been scared out of their minds. I couldn't have imagined who would've been more scared.

While Emma was more mature, it was her first time having sex. Her parents looked down upon those who, in their book, were failures, which included premarital sex and children born from wedlock, which included teenage pregnancy.

Luke, on the other hand, was nowhere mentally, emotionally, or financially prepared for parenthood. He couldn't even take care of himself, much less a baby. I thought he handled it pretty well or he was a better actor than I thought. Besides that one moment, I didn't sense any anxiety coming from him.

"And before you freak, I used a condom. It didn't break or anything, but they aren't a hundred percent effective. She picked up a pregnancy test, it read positive, and told me right away. I suggested that she make an appointment with her doctor, but she wanted to take a few more tests before she involved someone who could divulge information to her family. Later that week she told me that she said it was all a fluke. No more baby."

I disregarded everything as I pulled him in for a hug. My best friends could've been parents. I could've been a godmother. I couldn't believe that they kept that tidbit of information to themselves for so long. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" I murmured.

"That would involve telling you about Emma," he whispered back. I felt his fingers lightly stroke my spine, sending tingles through the surface of my body. "And I couldn't do that."

"I'm sorry that you had to go through all of that alone."

"I wasn't alone; I had Emma. Besides, it wasn't for all that long."

Our hug ended, and I suddenly felt cold and slightly empty. "But you were probably beating yourself up for it, right? Thinking of quitting the game?"

"I did think of giving up, yes. But then I thought of how much I wanted it...I really wanted it, Charlotte. I knew there was a chance that she wouldn't be pregnant, and I told myself that if she wasn't, then I'd continue with the game. If I was going to be father, I would quit."

I smiled. Luke was willing to drop everything to be a good father if he had to. There was no doubt in my mind that he would've tried his hardest to be a good role model for his son or daughter, but I was just glad that he didn't have to deal with a child so early in his life. It would be a burden to the both of them.

It was as if the clouds had opened up and swallowed up all the bad air between us and replaced it with sunshine and forgiveness. "I know you would."

"So that hug, did it mean anything? Am I looking too much into it? Am I turning into a girl?"

"Well, you're sure acting like a girl." I mean for it to sound playful, but it came off mean more than anything. "I'm really sorry. That must've sounded really bad."

"It's okay, Charlie."

"I think I may be ready to forgive you."

"But you said earlier that things wouldn't be the same."

"They won't be, but I think we can get past this."

"Thank you. You won't regret it. I promise."

And with that, he crushed my body against his for another one of his bear hugs.