A Tragic Kind of Wonderful(28)

I’m not coming to ask you anything.

I get no more texts. I walk out to my bike and strap my stuff on the rack. He doesn’t say not to come. I text Judith that I’ll be late for work.

*

Connor opens the door.

“Here’s my ticket.” I hand him the short roll of Double Stuf Oreos I picked up at the gas station snack rack on the corner. It’s the regular kind he always preferred, not any of the other weird flavors or colors.

“Thanks.”

In the kitchen, I decline his offer of milk and he pours himself a glass. He opens the Oreos, sticks a fork deep into the white cream of one, and lowers it into his milk. I’d forgotten about that little trick of his.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Wasn’t your fault. Besides, Annie and I weren’t friends.”

“What do you mean? Did you have a fight?”

“We were never friends. You thought we were?”

Thinking about it now, of course they weren’t. They were pulled together by Zumi. Like I was. Annie wanted us all to be like planets in her orbit, but Zumi was actually the sun in our group.

I shrug. “We never talked about it.”

He holds the Oreos out to me. “Have some.”

I shake my head. I know he loves them and it’s a small package.

“Go on. Scientifically engineered to taste awesome.”

He has a point. More importantly, Dr. Jordan taught me that sometimes refusing a gift is the same as rejecting the giver.

“Can I have a fork?”

He gives me one and we go out to sit on the long couch like old times, at opposite ends with our legs outstretched. His feet rest entirely on the cushions while mine dangle at the ankle.

As I finish my last cookie, it occurs to me I jumped a little quickly to the idea that Connor was tolerating Annie for Zumi’s sake. Maybe there was more to it. I pick up one of the throw pillows to have something to do with my hands. “Can I ask you a question?”

He grabs his phone, taps the screen, and holds it out. I see the last thing I texted him: I’m not coming to ask you anything.

I laugh. “Okay. I meant about Annie or Zumi, but if you want to hold me to it …”

“For someone with a lawyer for a dad, you aren’t careful with words.”

“I’m not careful with lots of things. That’s why I didn’t want my own glass of milk.”

He chuckles.

I have at least three clear memories of my fifteen-year-old arm sweeping grandly in his kitchen and knocking over full glasses, shattering at least one.

“You’d think your mom would’ve stopped offering me drinks. But it seemed like it didn’t bother her.”

“She said …” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“What?” I ask. When he doesn’t answer, I say, “You can’t … You have to tell me now.”

“She said the world needs more girls who don’t keep their hands in their laps.”

“She didn’t say that …”

Connor shrugs. He finishes off the rest of his milk.

I say, “I saw you hanging out with Annie sometimes when Zumi wasn’t around.”

“Zumi wanted us all to be friends.”

“You sure you didn’t like her? Annie?”

He glances at me. Briefly, but it’s more than usual.

“You know what I mean,” I say.

“I was just going along. For Zumi.”

We’ve never talked about this. Now with Annie gone and Zumi shut down, I think maybe we can.

“Do you like Zumi?”

He smiles. “Are you trying to say I have girl friends because I want a girlfriend but can’t get out of the friend zone?”

“I’m not saying. I’m asking. You were in a clique of girls. I was last to join and first to leave. If you had a crush on someone, it wasn’t me.”

“Nothing personal. I’m looking for a girl who keeps her hands in her lap.”

“Hey!” I throw the pillow at him. He ducks it and grabs the other pillow before I can. He crosses his arms over it.

“Fine,” I say. “You didn’t answer me.”

“God, Mel, she’s like my sister. Maybe that happens when you can still remember making mud pies together in preschool.”

“That’s still not a no.”

He holds up a hand. “I solemnly swear I don’t have a crush on Zumi, or Annie, or you, no offense.” He drops his hand. “What about you?”

I laugh and raise my hand. “I solemnly swear I don’t have a crush on you, either.”

He smirks. “Not on me…”

I peer at him. “Are you … are you saying you think I’m…?”

“Not saying. Asking.”

“Oh. I’m straight.”

“Same here.”

I tip my head, watching his face to see his reaction, and say, “Zumi’s not.”

He just nods.

“She ever tell you?” I ask.

“No. We’ve never talked about it.”

I guess he just strongly suspects, then. Same as me.

“Annie, too—” I hear myself say before I can stop.

“Annie?” he says sharply. “I thought she was straight. She talked that way, at least.”