What to Say Next(66)

I let her words roll over me. Soak in her blatant optimism. I can be better. We can be better. The new Kit could one day be somebody I’m proud of. Somebody my dad would be proud of. It’s okay I’m not the same person I used to be. I’m not supposed to be.

Maybe we can make meaning out of something that feels so completely devoid of sense, even if only to make ourselves feel better.

Or maybe this: I can be the old Kit and the new Kit. I can be both. I’m an and.

“You’re such an overachiever, Mom,” I say.

“Good thing so are you.” I nod. Decided. Galvanized. Brave. “One of the few perks of the shit so monumentally hitting the fan is you discover who your real tribe is. It’s the only way through. So make sure you find yours, Kit.”

“Okay,” I say, and start assembling my team in my head. I think back to middle school, when we’d have to pick players for dodgeball in gym. David was always chosen last. I imagine him standing there, looking two feet above everyone else’s heads, his hands flapping at his sides—something he still does occasionally, though I’m not sure he realizes it—and I want to go back in time and hug him, whisper in his ear that he can come stand by me. Tell him if he gets tired of flapping, he can hold my hand instead.

“I very much hope you’ll consider including me,” my mom says in her quietest voice, and I realize this is the closest someone like my mother gets to begging. When I don’t immediately respond, she says, “At the very least, hashtag squad goals.”

I laugh. My mom loves to try to talk like a teenager. A few weeks ago, I overheard her on the phone complaining about how she was tired of adulting and the last time we watched a romantic comedy together, she wanted to ship all the secondary characters.

“Yeah, we can work on that,” I say, and realize just how much I’ve missed my mom recently. How I can’t make it through without her. That there will always be room in my tribe.

I unwind the soiled scarf from my neck. Hold it out for my mom to take. A bizarre, vomit-soaked, cashmere peace offering.

“Do you think this is dry-cleanable?” I ask.

—

Me: Hey. Just woke up. We can talk. I’m just crazy hungover, so can you give me a few hours?

David: You were drunk last night?

Me: Um, yeah.

David: Like drunk enough to be hungover?

Did David not notice me drinking? At one point I think Annie and I started swigging straight from the bottle. He was standing right next to me.

Me: Apparently.

David: So. Does that mean—

There’s a long pause, that terrible pulsating ellipsis, and I wonder what he’s doing. Is he writing? Thinking of what to say next? What does he have to report about the Accident Project? What was I thinking, getting him involved with that? It seems so pointless now. An act of desperation. Or self-sabotage. There’s no unwinding what happened. My father’s death isn’t some sort of logic problem. It’s a tragedy.

David: Does that mean you didn’t mean it? That you only kissed me because you were drunk?

Me: What? No. Yes. No.

David: Please explain.

Me: I mean, I wanted to kiss you and the drinking made me more comfortable.

David: You were uncomfortable kissing me?

Me: No! That’s not what I meant. I was…shy. Are you serious right now with these questions?

David: Of course. I’m always serious.

Me: It’s not a big deal.

David: What isn’t? The kiss? You being drunk? Or the Accident Project? You are opening new loops, and it’s confusing.

Me: I was talking about last night. LAST NIGHT was not a big deal.

David: It was a big deal for me.

Me: Oh. I didn’t mean. I just. Never mind. Let’s talk in person. Texting isn’t working.

David: What service provider do you have?

Me: Why?

David: If your texting plan isn’t working, could be your provider. I’ll look up on Yelp who has the best coverage in Mapleview.





Miney wants to help but I don’t let her. I need to figure out how to do this on my own; I’m ready. It’s the least I can do for Kit. I’m pretty sure after today she will no longer want to kiss me, much less sit at our lunch table. I hold out hope for the slim possibility that this will be received as good news, that I will be hailed as a conquering hero for uncovering the truth. That’s what she wanted, right? For me to figure this all out?

I can’t trust my instincts. Trusting my instincts gets me stuck in a locker with someone else’s shit in my hair.

I arrive at McCormick’s fifteen minutes early and snag the same booth we ate in last time. I order two milk shakes, one for me and one for Kit, while I wait. If there is a multiverse, somewhere else, not here, instead of sitting and waiting for the horrible moment when I will tell Kit that the accident did not happen in the way she thinks it did—that it’s all lies—we would be kissing. Yes, we would be kissing, maybe even on a bed.

And then she is here. Her face is free of makeup and she’s wearing her K-charm necklace and that big man shirt she’s taken to donning twice weekly, and this way, without any attempt to hide the blue circles under her eyes, she seems even more essentially herself.

I decide I like her even better with her natural face. The red mummy dress last night was a little intimidating. Now she just looks like a girl. My favorite girl, maybe. But still just a girl.