ETHAN WAS NEVER GOOD AT BIG SPEECHES
When I failed my first driving test at sixteen, he came to my house carrying two ice creams.
“Why two?”
“One because you tried.”
“And the second?”
“Because you drove badly.”
I threw a pillow at him.
Another time, I wanted to quit art after a girl mocked one of my paintings.
The next morning, I found my terrible childhood dinosaur drawing taped inside Ethan’s locker.
“Ethan!”
“What?”
“Why is this here?”
He examined it.
“Still looks like a potato with arms.”
“Then remove it.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you can’t quit.”
“Why not?”
“The dinosaurs haven’t improved yet.”
I laughed despite myself.
That was Ethan.
He didn’t fix things.
He stayed until they hurt less.
When my first boyfriend dumped me three weeks before junior homecoming, Ethan brought chocolate ice cream.
We sat on my porch for ten minutes in silence.
Then he said:
“I told you he was an idiot.”
I looked at him.
“No, you didn’t.”
“I thought it.”
“That does not count.”
“It should.”
I laughed so hard I nearly choked.
