“I need another cup,” Ted said. “This one is icy.”
The seat across from us stayed empty, and my eyes kept drifting toward it.
“Do you think he’ll come?” I asked.
“He better,” Ted said, shrugging.
“This was his idea to begin with.”
I nodded, but my stomach tightened. I hadn’t seen Rick in three decades; we’d texted a few times over the years, birthday wishes, memes, and photos of my kids when they were born.
“Do you remember when we made the pact?”
“Christmas Eve,” Ted said, smiling faintly. “We were standing in the parking lot behind the gas station.”
Thirty Years Ago
It was just after midnight.
The pavement was slick with snowmelt, and we were leaning against our cars, passing a bottle back and forth. Rick was shivering in that flimsy windbreaker he always wore, pretending he wasn’t cold.
Ted had his stereo turned up too loud, and I kept trying to untangle the cassette tape that had unraveled in the player. Rick laughed every time I swore at it.
We were loud, a little drunk, and feeling invincible.
“I say we meet again in 30 years,” Rick said suddenly, his breath fogging in the air. “Same town, same date. At noon.
The diner? No excuses. Life can take us in all directions, but we’ll come right back.
