She darts past, giving me a wide berth. I’m left standing alone and bewildered. Why would she be pissed about her banana cream pie? She made the best ones I’ve ever tasted. The fact that I haven’t had a taste since we were thirteen and I still remember how good they are should tell her . . . the memory rises up like a ghost.

The annual summer pie contest. Delilah at thirteen, wearing a pretty blue-and-white summer dress without a bra. A young brainless me realizing that Delilah had breasts. Words were said. Pie was thrown.

“Oh, shit.” The heavy thump of my walking boot beats a rapid staccato as I rush to follow her. “Delilah. Wait. Shit . . .”

I catch up to her by the pool. “Okay, I remember . . .” Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh. But, God, that pie had flown. The splatter was spectacular—a virtual Rorschach test of banana and whipped cream. “But come on, you have to admit in retrospect it was kind of funny.”

She rounds on me in a fine fury. “I don’t have to admit a thing.”

I soften my tone, but a smile escapes. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Delilah’s hands clench. She eyes the pool as though she’s contemplating throwing me into it, then takes a threatening step in my direction before halting. “You called me banana tits.” A flush washes over her face. “Do you know how embarrassing that is to a thirteen-year-old?”

Right. I was thinking about where the pie landed. She got so mad at me that she threw the pie at my face. Only quick reflexes born from years of avoiding getting hit saved me from a face full of Bountiful Banana Cream Pie. Mean old Mrs. Lynch, the pastor’s wife, wasn’t as quick. The pie hit her square in the face.

I clear the laughter out of my throat and straighten my shoulders. “Yes?”

“Yes? Was that a question or an answer?”

I rub the stubble on my chin, trying to figure out how to diffuse this bomb. “In hindsight, yes, I can see that. But I was a kid—”

“It was sexual harassment!” She throws her hands wide. “You called attention to my breasts in front of everyone. I would never do that!”

“Now, hold on. In ninth grade, did you or did you not tell the girls in your gym class that you’d seen me changing out of my swimsuit, and I had a ‘thimble dick’?”

Her mouth snaps shut.

I laugh, shaking my head. “And we both know that was complete bullshit.”

“Okay,” she amends. “But I’m not going around leaving thimbles all over the house now, am I?”

“I’d probably laugh if you did.”

Her eye twitches. “You’re missing the point. You know your dick isn’t the size of a thimble.”