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“You are a disgrace to humankind,” I murmur as Finn catches his marshmallow on fire.
Puffing, he blows it out and presents the terrible blackened glob. “It’s the fastest way to cook them.”
“If I would break up with a normal boyfriend over this, do I get to break up with you?” I turn my own marshmallow above the flickering flames of the little fire while the big fire blazes a short distance away. Right now, only Finn and I have gravitated to the little flames. Most everyone else—including my parents—have begun slow dancing to the string of gentle songs in the clearing beside the bonfire.
I am desperately waiting for something like “Bullet” by Hollywood Undead to come on and shake things up.
The friend-of-a-friend tactic worked to pack the entire, vast space between the pool and the butterfly garden with people and laughter. This entire night, I’ve been thinking so this is why people like parties.
I don’t think I’ve ever genuinely smiled so much before in my life.
By the time my marshmallow has cooked through, I pull it off the skewer and pass the glorious golden brown delicacy to Finn.
Brows raised, he leans back in his camp chair and looks at my meager offering.
“You’ll never cook a marshmallow in under seven minutes again. This will ruin you for all other options. This…this is the only correct way to roast a marshmallow. And if you don’t agree, I’m sorry, but we are over.”
He chuckles as he slips the marshmallow from my fingers. “No pressure, right?” He takes a bite, and surprise knocks the smile off his face.
Mmmhm.
Many a fool have I toppled where my method of roasting is concerned.
My mother used to think a marshmallow was done when it turned golden brown.
Ha.
Noob.
“Marshmallows expand when they cook. If you want a raw marshmallow, okay fine. But if you want it cooked over a fire? It needs to be warmed all the way through. The question is: how can you tell it has been? Well, easy. They expand when heated, so it’ll grow to approximately twice the size of a raw marshmallow.” I snuggle up in my camping chair, smug. “Marshmallow science.”
“This is the best marshmallow I have ever had. I can’t believe you broke down how to achieve an optimal roast.”
I shrug. “When you grow up poor, one bag of marshmallows is a nutrient-free luxury. You take great care in deducing how to achieve the most deliciousness out of roasting them over a stove top.”
“Most kids wouldn’t give it that much thought, I think.”
“Most kids would try and catch their marshmallow on fire as though setting it directly on the hot coils wouldn’t result in a sticky, horrible mess. I’m special.”
Finn’s soft smile returns. “Let me guess. You’re describing the behaviors of your brother?”
“I am absolutely describing the behaviors of my brother.” I snort. “Man. He was such an idiot sometimes…” I rally another marshmallow for death and begin the tedious, constant process of turning it for half a decade just out of reach of the flames. “I was, too, obviously, but I’m only admitting it because he can’t speak up for himself.” I glance at the dancing couples, the food, the lights, and the roaring bonfire. “I wonder if he would have loved this as much as I do. It was really hard to tell when he enjoyed something if he wasn’t inclined to tell you. He was a skilled pessimist, and some people are really good at sucking the joy out of everything.” I give my head a shake and turn my attention back to my marshmallow. “Like me. Right now. Talking about my dead brother at a party. Hi. How are you? Having fun? Saw you talking to Cody earlier. And then my parents. I was busy hiding and sobbing into my potato chips, of course, but I hope that went well for you. I’m sure I’ll hear more about it later, but Mom did already beam a Mom look of approval across the yard at me while I was crying. So congrats on that.”
Finn finishes the marshmallow, eyeing me like I’m a puzzle he’s lost the rest of the pieces to. He’s busy searching under my couch cushions and card table, hoping the dog hasn’t absconded with anything important. At last, he says, “For the record, I don’t mind when you talk about your brother. Knowing that you feel comfortable doing so means a lot to me.”
I scoff. “Don’t think it means anything. I’m a diagnosed oversharer. Many an unsuspecting fool has been blessed with the knowledge of my dead brother. I once told a bank teller while I was setting up an account in one of those fancy back rooms. She stood up from her desk and hugged me. It is still singularly the worst thing that has ever happened to me in my life.”
Finn coughs, hiding a laugh, as though he has to, as though I don’t see all his sunny sweetness constantly.
I mutter, “Please tell me what happened between you and my parents.”
Biting his lip, he lets his gaze drift skyward. “Well…”
Dread swells in my gut. I cannot imagine why.
“You already briefed them on everything, from our dating arrangement to the fact you’re on all my accounts. Your father did his due diligence in assuring me no number of bodyguards would stop him from taking me down if I hurt you. Your mother apologized for him. And then she apologized for you. Said you were an odd one. Always had been.”
I shrink, just a smidge, and stare at my cooking marshmallow. It’s getting where it needs to. Yay.
