By the time we finally got to the Dairy Jester, I was hardly in the mood for ice cream anymore. Harlee and I parked our bicycles in the bike rack outside the parlor and started heading towards the door. We could see our racing competitors sitting and talking at the counter through the glass windows, and I knew we'd been beaten by everyone.

Neither of us seemed to really care, though.

I surely didn't.

Before I could open the door for us, Harlee placed her hand against it and stopped me.

"James, you apologized for the party. But you didn't apologize for anything else," she said, "So you don't hate me, but you...still don't want to be my friend?"

My shoulders slumped at the hurt in her voice.

I opened my mouth to try and explain myself but couldn't find the words.

I wasn't ready.

I knew someday, I'd probably have to tell Harlee the truth, but I had wanted to make that day much further into the future, if ever at all.

So I simply nodded my head and told her, "Yeah, I'm sorry, Harlee."

Harlee dropped her hand from the glass door and rubbed it against her other hand sadly. "And you still aren't even going to tell me why?" she whispered.

I let out a heavy sigh and told her honestly,

"Trust me, Harlee. If you knew why you wouldn't want me as a friend anyway."

She looked bewildered.

I felt bad for making her feel so confused.

I opened the door to the Dairy Jester for her, but she didn't walk inside.

She just shook her head at me and gestured for me to go ahead.

I figured she just wanted to think things over for a bit, so I went in.

When I walked inside, Harlee was still staring at me from the other side of the glass.

I held back tears as we looked at each other because the moment symbolized what was happening with our friendship.

The two of us separated by a barrier.

Her, on the outside, looking in.

Me, on the inside, looking out.

We were so close yet so far.

Right there with another, but as distant as could be.

The summer we turned thirteen

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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