I feel like turning down her offer to walk me home. We’re standing outside, a block away from the store. I put the inconspicuous plastic bag on the sidewalk while we talk, briefly envisioning the event of a stranger running by and swiping out from underneath me. Would I stop them, try to catch them? Would I care enough to get these products back? I did pay for them. At the very least, I wouldn’t want anypony else to see what was in there.

“At least let me walk you home,” Pearl insists. Wait, did she offer something else? Why wasn’t I listening? Was it important? She must not have thought so, taking my silence as refusal. Or maybe she just thought I wasn’t in the mood to answer, but wants to cheer me up. What did she ask first? “I wouldn’t want you getting lost.”

I have to smile at that. She has a point; I basically had no clue where we were in accordance to my apartment. It shouldn’t be that hard to find my way back, but I owe it to her to let her take me. “Sure.”

She smiles, tentatively. I retrieve my bag of goodies and let her lead the way.

I want to lighten the mood, somehow. I should. I ought to strike up a conversation and get our minds off of this bitterness. I need to make up for this somehow, but I still feel like I shouldn’t. Some part of me thinks I’d be giving in, like I’d just be losing a battle of will instead of winning my friend back. I haven’t lost her yet, but I should say something before I do lose her. But what?

And why is she being so quiet? Is she just conforming because she thinks I don’t want to talk? Do I want to talk? What if we didn’t talk? There were other ways of breaking down walls. I could sing. No, she’d just think it was stupid. So would everypony else on the street. I could bump up against her, playing around harmlessly. What if she got the wrong idea? I wouldn’t want her thinking I’m actually trying to mess with her, or hurt her.

(She’s probably thinking just as hard about this.) What makes you so sure? (I just have a hunch. Think about it though; she’s worried her relationship might not be perfect, she doesn’t want you worrying about her though, all while she’s guilty for bringing you out. What do you think’s on her mind?)

It’s a good point. Just because she’s not as messed up as I am doesn’t mean her mind is silent while mine is working. Mine is always working, so hers must be too. I have to break this dreadful silence. But how? (Try bringing up the first thing that comes to mind.) I put my hoof through the handles of the bag and sling it over my shoulder, letting it hang across my back comfortably. First thing… “Did you ever tell me why you quit working at the pizza place?”

She glances at me, confused, then moves her eyes back to front. “I’m pretty sure I did. Didn’t I?”

“I can’t remember,” at least she’s taking the bait. Bait?

“Hmm,” she searches her memories. “The pizza place… Well, once upon a time the pizza place was all I had. I was taking college courses in sociology. I only attended two years, but the bills piled up. My roommate moved out, leaving me with the full rent, so I needed a second job to keep up. I saw a poster on campus for a job opening up at the café, and eventually I found out Slalom just wanted to move out, but not before finding someone to take her place at the café.”

It’s starting to come back to me, though not the whole story. I feel like inputting parts I remember, but I figure it’ll be easier for her to tell the story without me interrupting. Mostly, I’m just happy to have the distraction.

“So I got the job, which wasn’t great at first. Gourdy didn’t treat us very well, me and the other guy. There wasn’t much to do but take orders and wash dishes. The place has made a lot of advances since then,” she smiles at me, reminiscing. “The coffee machines, all the extra space. If he gets any bigger he’s gonna need another chef.”

I laugh in agreement, letting the smile linger while she continues.

“Anyway. Gourdy wasn’t a very pleasant boss, but he was fair. I got paid almost twice as much at the café than at the pizza place. Even the tips were bigger. Life at the pizza place…” she purses her lips and shakes her head, indicating it was less than desirable. I think it’s funny that she doesn’t even remember the name of the place. “After a few weeks, I’d gotten out of college, met Cosh, moved in with him and split the rent. After a little while I didn’t need the extra money, so I resigned from the pizzeria and devoted all of my time to the café.”

I smile cheekily, “You’re forgetting a pretty good part.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?” She challenges. “What’s that?”

“When did you meet your best friend Timber?”

She rolls her eyes and laughs, not answering. According to that story, I figure it must have been just before she finished college, or just before she found the café. How much can happen in one year?

“What ever happened to the other guy?” Where did I get that question? After she gives me a puzzled look I clarify, “The guy who worked at the café the same time as you, back at the start?”

She makes a face like, “oh yeah,” but stays silent. Is she thinking? “Well, I did mention how Gourdy wasn’t very pleasant? The poor guy couldn’t deal with it, I guess. Gourdy and I have bonded pretty well, though. I’m the only one who’s stuck around through everything. He’s got a kind-of tough love attitude, you know?”

“I know.” In truth, he was a lot like my father. He counted on loyalty, and stood firm in his beliefs. If he didn’t like something, he made his opinion known. He doesn’t know I’m gay, and I doubt I’ll ever tell him. I’m afraid he’ll shut me out, the same way dad did. I wonder if dad thinks about me anymore. Or if he even remembers me.

“Timber?” Pearl snaps me back to reality, then stops me in my tracks by sticking a hoof out in front of me. “Watch it!”

I was walking right out into the street, a pony in a taxi carriage shouts and shakes a hoof at me. How embarrassing. I want to apologize, but the carriage rounds a corner and disappears into traffic.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” I offer. She’s bound to think I’m lying, but really I feel fine. “Just thinking about my dad.”

Pearl checks both ways and I follow her forward again. “What brought him up? Did he come with you back then?” She looks up and away, trying desperately to remember who was with me in the pizzeria that day last year.

She’s looking back at the story for what brought it up. Just, not in the right place. “I was comparing him to Gourdy. They’re a lot alike.”

“Hmm,” she knits her eyebrows, concerned. “Is that a good thing?”

“Mostly,” I insist. I feel like I’ve been using “insist” too often after dialogue. “Just, when I came out to my dad, by accident… he didn’t take it too well. The worst part was that he wasn’t outright about it. He resented me, but silently. I listened to him argue with mom about it late at night.”

“Oh no…” she coos. “And you’re afraid of Gourdy treating you the same way?”

I shake my head. “I’m afraid of liking Gourdy more than my father. Dad probably doesn’t even remember me.”

“Of course he does, how could a father possibly…?”

“Alzheimer’s,” I answer before she can finish. Her lips form the letter “O,” but she just sighs. “It was a blessing at first, I thought. I got the chance to come out to him again, on purpose. I wanted…” What did I want? Actually, how was I even recalling this much information? I couldn’t remember nearly this much the last time I tried. When was that? “I wanted him to yell at me…” Why? “To, act like he should have the first time. I think, I wanted a real reason to leave. I don’t… I don’t actually remember.”

She’s quiet, pondering on this new information. “What did he do?”

What did he do? “He…” Didn’t he yell at me? No, I never got what I wanted, what I expected. Just like with Minty Swirl. Minty…? Wasn’t it, her letter? He read my letter from her, that’s how he found out the first time. Then… everything happened. Wait, no. Churner, he told Minty what happened. Then she wrote. But, what did Pearl ask? “I don’t remember.”

She looks down, thinking of something new. “Don’t you write stuff down?” I nod, secretly hoping she wasn’t going where I thought she was. “Did you write about it then?” Write about what? Why couldn’t I remember what she just asked me?

“I don’t know, probably.” I absolutely did. Considering we were talking about dad’s condition, I’m certain… wait, didn’t she ask about that? I was thinking about Minty, and accidentally losing my secret. I already told her about that. What did I say next?

“Well, why don’t we go look through some old entries?”

I’m quiet, trying to remember what she asked me. I don’t want to read through my old entries, and definitely not with her. If I can answer her question I might not have to. I told her how he argued with mom about it. Did it have to do with my cutie mark? No, this was long after that issue.

“How about it?”

Wait what did she ask? Just, something about my journal, or whatever. I shake my head. “I’d rather not. They’re… very personal.” They weren’t that personal, were they? She’s been through half the stories I’ve written down in there. What if she didn’t like what I wrote about her? My mind is a very trivial place, with how quickly it works. Then, how do I always remember what I thought about to be able to write it down later? Why can’t I remember what she asked me?

“That’s fine, deep breaths.”

My eyes widen when I realize how quickly I’m breathing. I relax a little, mostly just glad she didn’t bluntly tell me to calm down.

“You want to stop by the café? Get something to drink?”

I could use a cup of tea, help calm my nerves. I could also just use a nap. I look around for a clock, but find none. It can’t be past ten-thirty yet, so I should have time for tea and a nap. What if Patches and Stitches were there? Well, no that’s not likely. The café’s closed: Gourdy never works on Sunday, just like dad. What if he didn’t know it was Sunday? Didn’t she ask…?

“My father…”

Pearl raises an eyebrow. “What about him?”

“I came out to him, on purpose…” memories poured back in a painful flood, pushing on the backs of my eyes and threatening to break out in tears.

She puts a hoof on my shoulder, the plastic bag crinkles beneath her touch. “What did he do?”

What did he…? “He, hugged me.” He accepted me, fully willing to embrace my difference. That wasn’t what he was supposed to do. “But then…” More memories rush forward and the dam breaks. One sweet tear trickles past my eyelash as I raise a hoof to my head, feeling around below my hair line, just beside my left ear. The jagged scar from that night… “I’d like to go home.”

Author's Notes:

In which I once again start a painfully dramatic scene.