Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(96)

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” says Joy.

Joy’s dad hooks a finger at her mom, who dutifully presents a large fancy bag.

“We wanted to bring you a few things from our trip,” he says. “Just little things.”

In the bag are three fine silk scarves, a crystal brooch, a jar of Dijon mustard from Dijon, a bottle of Champagne from Champagne.

“We are so sorry we did not come sooner once we heard the news,” says Joy’s mom, speaking slowly and without error. “We want to offer our sincere apologies.”

“It’s okay,” says Dad. He looks almost embarrassed to be seen the way he is right now, in the lounge sweats he’s lived in for weeks, holding a trembling to-go cup close just in case he vomits. “Thanks much.”

“If there’s anything you need,” croons Joy’s dad. “Anything at all.”

I keep my eyes on Joy, who can only glance at me for a half second at a time. She must have told them about Dad’s illness during the trip. Her body language says it all: this whole thing is fucking weird.

“Frank,” says my dad. “You take bag upstairs, put it in Mommy closet.”

I reach for the bag. I look at Joy again. She’s bent back a finger so far it looks like it’s going to snap. She still has love for me—I can see it—but she doesn’t know what to do with it.

Neither do I, but for different reasons.

“Thanks for the goodies,” I call over my shoulder, and climb.

When I get to Mom’s closet, I close myself in and breathe in the dark and stare at the bright line under the door growing dimmer and dimmer.

That night, after everyone’s gone to sleep, I sit out in the backyard alone. I’m in brand-new lounge wear: a Stanford shirt-and-shorts combo, sent in a care package from Hanna. I post a terrible photo of the moon with the caption Good night, backyard summer. I get a few likes, Joy among them.

For an hour I sit there, listening to the traffic on the freeway, wondering how I must look to Mom-n-Dad and Joy’s family now.

Say me and Joy had been born in Korea. We’d be Korean. We’d belong to a tribe. But that doesn’t necessarily mean we’d belong with each other. Because there are tribes within tribes, all separated by gaps everywhere.

Gaps in time, gaps between generations. Money creates gaps.

City mouse, country mouse.

If there are that many micro-tribes all over the place, what does Korean even mean? What do any of the labels anywhere mean?

My reverie is interrupted by a rustling in the bushes at the far end of the backyard. I jump to my feet and fumble for my phone light—I’ve always wanted to catch a photo of a possum, or a raccoon.

The possum is huge. It has green in its hair.

It’s not a possum.

“What the fuck?” I say.

“You say that a lot when you see me, you know that?” says Joy.

She extricates herself from the bushes with a graceless kick, then smooths her shirt.

“How—?” I say.

“There’s a gap in the wall three houses down and the fence is all bent,” says Joy. “I have like two minutes. My car’s on the shoulder with the hazards on.”

“You’re insane.”

“I just—I leave tomorrow.”

Crap, she’s right. CMU starts earlier than Stanford. She walks toward me as if on cracking ice.

“I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry,” she says.

She takes another step. I just watch her. She looks so lovely, I want to crush her in my arms and twirl her around, but the fist of my stomach stomps no. So I say nothing.

“I’m just sorry,” she says.

I don’t move. I just stand there with my arms folded.

“I wish I could be more brave,” she says. She takes another step, then takes it back. “I wish I could be as brave as you. I feel so stupid sometimes. I’m eighteen already, I’m a freaking adult already.”

Joy growls at the sky. After a moment, she looks at me again.

“But fuck all that,” she says. “I just want to say I’m sorry. I’m really, pathetically, contemptibly sorry and I want you to forgive me and this sounds like the shittiest thing in the world but you have to know you’re my best friend and I don’t ever want to lose you.”

That last part—I don’t ever want to lose you—gets lost as I kiss her.

It’s way longer than two minutes. Let her car get towed away. Let them all.

Because fuck it. I’m not going to waste my life blaming her. I’m not going to waste my life fanning embers of regret alone in the dark.

“I love you, yubs,” says Joy. “I’m always gonna love you. Do you agree that we’re always gonna love each other and that it was all just circumstance?”

“I do.”

“I do too.”

“I now pronounce us husband and wife,” I say. “You may now, uh, go off to college and not see me until the holiday season.”

“Grr, your stupid jokes!” shouts Joy amid the din of the traffic, and lands the best hit ever with her open palm.

“I will love you forever, Joy Song.”

“I just needed to hear you say it.”

“I can’t help but love you, Joy Song.”