The Cake Promise

    “Hey Dirk?”

    He grunted.

    “What’s your favorite kind of cake?”

    We were at his house, sitting a respectable distance apart on the couch. Parks and Recreation played on one of his state-of-the-art TVs. I’d been the one to bring it.

    “Why, are you going to bake me one?” he asked.

    I rolled my eyes. “Alas, your detective prowess will soon outmatch Sherlock’s. Your birthday’s in a week.”

    “Along with Jake and Roxy. That’s a lot of stuff to make,” he said with a ghost smile.

    I turned to him, almost knocking over one of the puppets lounging with us. “Stider, is this some subtle plea to get me not to bake you something?”

    Amy Poehler did something suitably ridiculous.

    “Tell me what kind of cake you like or I’ll ask Roxy.”

    “Birthday,” Dirk murmured.

    “That’s not a type of cake,” I said.

    “Birthday.”

    “Dirk-“

    “I can’t remember, okay? It was the day Bro left.” His hands shook. “Orange crush and seagulls and Roxy before she started drinking, but I can’t remember the flavor of the cake.”

    I took his hands in mine. They were sweat slick and I didn’t care.

    “A perfect last memory, but with one detail missing,” he spat.

    “I’ll try to find it.”

    “Promise?” he asked.

    “I promise.”