"Nope," I said again, waiting for the barrage of questions that were sure to come.
"Okay-y-y," he said, dragging out the word. "Well, I guess you're set. It's just like your iPod Touch," he added, indicating the device on my lap. "Except now you can make calls."
"Thanks," I said as he handed it over.
"So, I guess I better head home for dinner," he said, standing up. "My mom will have my head if I miss meatloaf night.
I nodded my head and glanced at my watch. I forgot from all my sitcom watching that normal people ate at a certain time every night. I'd never had a meatloaf night. Come to think of it, I wasn't sure I'd ever had meatloaf. Maybe, I guess, when I was younger. Just maybe, Donna used to tie on an apron and bustle around the kitchen creating our very own meatloaf. I just couldn't recall. Church always came first during the week. Mondays were bible study, Tuesday was worship practice, Wednesday was praise and worship service, Thursday was another round of worship practice and Friday was family fun night at the sanctuary. I stopped attending all of the above the year I turned twelve. My mom attended them all, including Friday family fun night. I wondered which family she had fun with. So, I guess maybe meatloaf night in my house was a myth.
"Can I call you later?" he asked, breaking into my train of thought.
"I guess," I answered, but I was pretty sure I'd be a complete dud on the phone.
"Don't sound so enthused," he said, smiling at me.
"It'll be your ear bleeding at my lackluster phone skills," I said, trailing him to the front door.
"That's a risk I'm willing to take," he said, heading toward his car.
"Hey, Dean," I called after him.
He turned to look at me.
"I'm sorry about your friend," I said, quickly closing the door to stop any further conversation. For some reason, saying those five little words had been harder than anything I'd done in a while. Saying I was sorry made me feel like I was betraying all my previous thoughts on death. Death was supposed to equal relief, not sorry. It was supposed to be closure, not an open, ragged wound. Death was such an asshole for tricking me all these years.
My dinner that night wasn't meatloaf, although the package did boast the contents included a Salisbury steak. I would have to take Swanson's word for it since I'd never had a regular Salisbury steak to compare it to. Maybe even the home-cooked version came out looking like mystery meat. I washed my dinner down with a soda and grabbed an ice cream bar from the fridge before heading to my room for the night.
I was settled on my bed watching TV when my new cell phone rang, scaring the shit out of me.
"Hey," I said, once I figured out how to answer.
"Hey, yourself. What are you doing?"
"Working on my voodoo doll collection. How about you?"
He laughed. "That's exactly what I needed to hear. I'm chilling out. It was a rough night. My parents and I spent some time with the Petersons this evening."
"Oh," I said, lost for words. Comfort wasn't my thing. Hell, talking on the phone wasn't my thing.
"So, do you have one of me?" he asked.
"What?" I asked, confused by his question.
"Do you have a voodoo doll of me? Because I swear I just felt a sharp pain in my scalp. Are you pulling my doll's hair?"
His words made me want to laugh. It bubbled up in my throat, but I clamped it down. I was already breaking the rules by being his friend.
"Nah, but I stuck a pin in the ass. Did you feel that?"
"Damn, that mofo hurts," he teased.
"Okay, torment is over. I'll put my toys away," I said, trying to sound reluctant.
"So, what are you going to do now?" he asked.
"Watch TV, I guess. How about you?"
"That's what I'm doing. It's nice to watch something that doesn't make my head hurt from overthinking."