Now Is Not the Time to Panic(58)

“No,” Zeke replied, “it’s okay. We’ll talk.”

“Well . . . we’ll just be in the kitchen,” Mr. Brown said, smiling at me.

“Eating muffins and drinking coffee,” Zeke’s mom added.

“What kind of muffins?” I asked.

“Banana,” she answered immediately. “Are you sure you don’t want one?”

“No,” I replied. “I don’t know why I even asked. I’m . . . I was just curious.”

“Banana,” Zeke’s mom said again, nodding, sure of herself.

After they left, Zeke gestured to the couch, and I sat down, and it was a really soft couch. I kind of sank into it, and my feet weren’t touching the floor, and Zeke sat on an orange leather chair that supported him perfectly. I tried to get resettled but the sofa kept kind of pulling my ass farther into the cushions. Maybe it was a sofa bed? I’m not sure. It was a bad position to be in, not the kind of furniture you want for this kind of reunion.

“So—” I started to say, but of course that was the exact moment that Zeke started talking.

“I read your book,” he said.

“Oh, wow,” I replied.

“I liked it. I’ve read all of them. They’re really good. I think I like the first one the best, because I remember you writing it.”

“I guess I kind of hoped you might read it,” I said.

“I did,” he said. He paused. “And you’re married, right? You have a kid. I promise I haven’t been searching for you. I . . . just . . . that’s what the bio on the book said.”

“No, it’s okay. I mean. I searched for you online, so it’s fine. I am married. And I have a little girl. Just one. Junie.”

He nodded, like this all checked out.

“And do you have . . . are you . . . like . . .” I didn’t know what to ask. He was in his childhood home. What was his life? Why was I so weird? I wanted this. I wanted to know, but now it felt so strange, to be close to him and realize how much time had passed.

“No, no, I am not married,” he said. “And no kids. No.”

“Oh, okay,” I said.

“I have a girlfriend,” he offered. “I mean, I’ve had a few of them, but I have one right now. Nita. She’s a teacher. She’s nice.”

“That’s great, Zeke.”

“Yeah,” he said.

I was just about to ask him about work when he cut in.

“I do live here with my mom and dad,” he said. “I mean, I haven’t always. I’ve lived in some other places, too. I went to art school. I moved around a little. But . . . I don’t know. I had some problems. I guess I still have them.”

“It’s okay, Zeke,” I said. He looked so embarrassed, and it hurt me that he would think I’d judge him.

“I got diagnosed as bipolar, but that took a while. At first, they thought it might be something else. It took a long time to get it all figured out. Hospitals? The medication, you know? A lot of different ones because some of them were bad. And I’d go somewhere and get settled but then something would happen or I wouldn’t feel right, and I’d come back here. So I just stay here now. It’s good for me. All my doctors are here. It’s familiar to me.”

“That’s good,” I offered. “And your mom and dad are . . . like . . . they’re still together?”

He laughed, which made me so happy. “Yeah, they are. It’s weird, but when we came back to Memphis, my dad kind of realized he had been awful to us. He felt so bad. And he shaped up. He helped take care of me. And they really do love each other, I think. I’m around them a lot, so I think I’d know. It’s better than . . . well, better than before.”

“What do you do? Or, like, do you work? Or, like . . .”

“I do art stuff,” he said. “I ink for different comic book companies.”

“Wait, what?” I said. “Oh, that’s really cool, Zeke.”

“I ink a lot for Marvel. I used to ink for DC. I’m not, like, quite what they would want for art, but mostly I realized that I’m really good with lines, you know? I’m good at going over someone’s work and making it better. And it’s good for me, to kind of have something already there for me to work with so I don’t get too carried away.”

“I didn’t see your work online,” I said. I wanted to search right now on my phone, but I kept staring at him, trying so hard to reconcile the Zeke I remembered with the person in front of me. The more I heard his voice, the easier it was.

“I go by my initials,” he said. “Like a tag? It’s BEB. But, like, even then you aren’t going to see much of me online. Like, inking is not super sexy. It’s not something people write about.” He paused for a few seconds, looking right at me. “But I am good at it. I know that.”

“I bet,” I said, thinking, of course, of course, of the poster, those lines.

I’d almost forgotten why I’d come; I was so struck by being this near to him, how weird time felt to me in this moment. And I knew that in some way, what I was going to say would ruin it.

“Zeke, it’s just—”

“I want to say that I’m sorry,” Zeke suddenly said, his voice rising just a bit, cracking. He kept interrupting me just as I was going to say the thing I needed to say, like he was afraid of what it would be. “I’m really sorry, Frankie.”