Four: Late Night Texting 

As soon as he sends it, Philo regrets it. He slams his phone down into the porch railing and slides it away. He takes a drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke harshly into the air. The smoke lingers on his tongue, and it sends a small buzz to his chest.  

He listens to the crickets' chirp loudly and the frogs croak repetitively. Smoky was down by the street, chasing the bugs that swarmed the sky, especially around the little lights they stuck into the ground. The ones that charged from the sun and lit up only during the night.  

A moment later, a little buzz comes from his phone. Surprised, Philo reaches for it and flips it open.  

Rocket (3:27am): 

Hey.  

To Rocket (3:27am): 

Oh wow. You’re up? 

Rocket (3:28am): 

So are you. 

To Rocket (3:29am): 

Just didn’t expect it. Something keeping you up? 

A few minutes go by, and Philo stares hopefully at his phone. He feels a horrible dread after the five longest minutes of his life. Maybe he had overstepped his boundaries, even more so than texting him randomly at three in the morning. Maybe he had messed it up already.  

He takes another drag from his cigarette, coughing on the smoke as it leaves his mouth.  

He gets another notification. 

Rocket (3:34am): 

Yeah. You? 

To Rocket (3:35am): 

Yeah.  

Rocket doesn’t text for a little while, and Philo wants to close his phone again, thinking that was the end of their conversation tonight. That would’ve been fine. But it wasn’t the end, merely the beginning. 

Rocket (3:37am):  

Want to get some pizza with me? I know a place that’s open 24/7. 

To Rocket (3:38am):  

Where should we meet? 

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ ☆ ☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅ 

They decide to meet at an old park. Philo gets there first and sits down on one of the old swings. The wood beneath him creaks as he swings slowly. The park was nice and quiet, lit up by tall streetlights. There was a large fountain in the middle, surrounded by neat hedges that bloomed yellow flowers.  

Philo lit up a cigarette and squinted his eyes at the park sign. It read: West-Hill Park. 

“You smoke now?” Philo startles at the voice that comes from his right.  

Rocket is wearing worn plaid pajama pants and a black t-shirt with some obscure band on the front. He has a nice pair of black glasses on, and Philo thinks for a moment that they complement his face nicely.  

“You wear glasses?” Philo shoots back playfully. 

“Oh, only at night.” Rocket walks up to the other empty swing. He points to it. “Anybody sitting here?” 

Philo lets out an indignant laugh, coughing out some residual smoke from his first drag.  

“No, man. It’s all yours.” Rocket nods and sits, starting a gentle sway of the swing.  

“What made you start? Smoking, I mean. You were so against it in college.” Rocket starts a steady conversation, and Philo feels that feeling again. The feeling of normality. The desire to start talking and to never stop. 

“I don’t really know. I started after I dropped out, thought it would help with my stress.”  

“Does it?” Rocket kicks his feet, watching intently as the dust flies into the air.  

“Not really.” Philo takes another drag and aims his mouth away from Rocket. “It’s just something I do now, I guess.”  

They fall silent again, and Philo hates himself for not being more sociable. But it ends up not really mattering. Rocket seemed to have a lot he wanted to ask, but he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to ask. So, he just talked about himself instead, in hopes that Philo may add some contribution of his own.  

“My mom’s imaging test results came back. The cancer is getting more aggressive. Doctor said she was experiencing metastasis.” He tells Philo, holding onto both wires of the swing.  

“Metastasis?”  

“The cancer is spreading around her body.” Rocket sighs, and he looks away. “That’s why I couldn’t sleep.” 

“What kind does she have?” Philo asks nervously, unsure of what the limit was and how much he could ask about it. This question, however, didn’t seem to be Rocket’s limit. 

“Pancreatic, and it’s spread to her liver now.” Rocket says, and he decisively reaches his hand out, two fingers spread.  

Philo is confused for a bit, but then he gets it. Rocket is asking for his cigarette.  

“Are you sure, Rocket? It doesn’t taste good, especially the first time.”  

Rocket insists, twitching his hand forward again, and Philo hands it over. Rocket brings it to his mouth bravely and inhales. The smoke hits his tongue first, and he lets out a little gag. It reaches his lungs then, and soon enough, he’s coughing in a fit that feels unstoppable. Philo lets out a snort and reaches over, patting his back a few times.  

“What did I tell you?” he laughs, and Rocket stares up at him from his hunched over state, a sly grin across his mouth.  

“I just wanted to try it!” He coughs a last time. “How can you smoke those all the time? They taste awful.”  

“You get used to it.” Philo gets up, takes the cigarette back and smushes it beneath his foot. “Now, where is the pizza place you were talking about?”  

Rocket hops up, seemingly having forgotten what the mission was to begin with: late night pizza.  

“Oh right, it’s just down the block from here.” Philo lets Rocket lead him out of West-Hill Park and down the lonely streets.  

Nerora was beautiful at night, especially when there was nobody on the streets. No traffic, no obnoxious honking, no loud chatter and rowdy kids. Each building was designed intricately, too. Some buildings spanned tall, kissing the sky, and some were short and blunt. Some had pretty, colorful tiles, and some were bleak with white or grey paneling.  

Philo’s favorite building, by far, was the church on Fifth street. It was enormous with stained glass windows. Each window told a different story, shared a different piece of literature, and the doors were so massive that Philo felt like an ant next to them. 

It was also the church his mother took him to when he was younger, so he just had a lot of fond memories there.  

When the men reached the pizza place, Rocket took to ordering. He got them a large pepperoni with stuffed crust. Philo then led them back outside once they got the pizza, and they settled on the curb right outside the place. Rocket rested the big box on his knees and flipped open the cardboard.  

Philo could almost moan at how good the pizza smelled. 

“Your life is about to be changed.” Rocket told him, picking up the first slice and handing it to Philo, who took it gratefully. Philo took a bite, eyes widening as the cheese pulled from his mouth dreamily, falling and sticking to his chin.  

“Oh, my God.”  

Rocket let out a little laugh. He takes a slice too and starts to eat.  

“Told you, man.”  

Philo just grins and checks his phone. It was getting late, nearly five in the morning now, but he didn’t care. He was having fun, so much fun in fact, that he had forgotten that he was upset not even two hours ago. He wished in the moment, that he would never have to go back to Sara’s, that he would never have to stand in front of the mirror, filled with shame. 

Shaking his head, Philo made himself forget about it all, even if it was just for tonight.  

Happily, and not really thinking, Philo tells Rocket, “I’m so glad I texted you tonight.”  

Rocket looks at him for a while, and Philo can see something in his eyes. Maybe it was the way his pupils dilated or the sparkle from the stars above their heads, he wasn’t sure.  

“I am, too.” He said quiet and gentle, and Philo felt his heart skip a beat, maybe three. 

What was that?