In the Middle of Somewhere (Middle of Somewhere, #1)(112)

“Because?” Ginger prods.

“Because they were a family and I wasn’t part of it,” I say, and though I’ve never had the thought before, I know it’s what I really mean the second it comes out of my mouth. I swallow hard and my mouth tastes like blood. I take another gulp of whiskey and let my head fall back on Rex’s shoulder. I look up at him and see moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes. When he looks at me his eyes are so soft.

“I guess now we’re both orphans,” he says, and even though his voice is a masculine growl, it’s such a little kid thing to say that it breaks my heart.

“I guess so.”

I clear my throat.

“So, how was the family for Thanksgiving,” I ask Ginger, desperate to change the subject before Rex and I end up bawling all over each other.

“It’s been worse,” she says slowly.

“Just because we’re both orphans now doesn’t mean you can’t feel free to rain shit down on your family,” I say. Ginger smirks.

“The mother was a passive-aggressive ice queen from hell who told me I needed to lose ten pounds and then maybe my tattoos would look like an avant garde fashion statement instead of a desperate attempt to thumb my nose at society’s standards of beauty before men could reject me for being unconventional-looking.”

Rex’s mouth drops open.

“No, that’s seriously how she talks,” I say.

“I think you’re beautiful,” Rex says. Then a look of panic crosses his face. “I mean, I know that’s the opposite of your point. Shit, I’m sorry.” He looks at me, as if I can smooth it over.

“I love you,” Ginger says to Rex. “I love him,” she says to me.

Me too, I think, before I can even process the thought. Fuck me.

“The father was a black hole of spinelessness except when he was kissing the mother’s ass in the hopes of some small crumb of encouragement, approval, or affection. It was nearly vomit-inducing, except that I couldn’t possibly give the mother the grim satisfaction of thinking she’d turned me bulimic.”

Rex’s hand has found its way onto my thigh and its warm weight is comforting. I hand him the whiskey and he takes a few swallows.

“The sister attempted to break down all known laws of physics by simultaneously being completely self-centered and totally obsessed with what everyone else thought about her. It boggles the mind how one human being can possibly speak so many sentences about herself in a row and still have it seem like she’s saying mean things about you. Truly, she has apprenticed at the feet of the master. In related news, she and the mother got matching haircuts, so the sister now also looks like the fifty-year-old president of a Chabad house. The end.”

I pass Ginger the bottle silently.

“I know what we need,” she says. She walks over to the record player.

“Tom Waits,” I whisper to Rex so Ginger can’t hear.

After that perfect static smear, Tom Waits counts off, “1, 2, 3, 4,” and the opening strains of “Ol’ ’55” start.

“Called it,” I say, and Ginger raises the bottle to me in a mocking toast.

Then Rex’s stomach growls so loudly that I can hear it over the music.

“Sorry,” he says. “Are you guys hungry?”

It’s after ten and poor Rex hasn’t eaten anything since we stopped at a rest stop outside Pittsburgh. I shrug.

“I could eat,” Ginger says. “Here, I’ll order something. Or, do you want the tots?” she asks me.

“Ugh, no, not tonight, sorry,” I say. There’s this bar a few blocks away that makes these diabolical tater tots that they kind of treat like nachos, with Cheez Whiz, some meat that I probably don’t want to know about, and horseradish ketchup.

“I can make us something,” Rex offers.

“Good luck,” I say. Ginger waves him into the kitchen, winking at me.

“Jesus,” Rex says from the kitchen. “You’re as bad as Daniel.”

“I’ll get the menus.” Ginger has a folder of menus from every restaurant within a thirty-block radius, organized by current level of favor.




AFTER WE eat, I’m sleepy and a bit drunk. I feel a little raw from all the talking about feelings and shit, and also a little shy with Rex, like maybe he’s mad I didn’t tell him what I told them in response to Ginger’s prodding.

“Tell me something happy,” I tell Ginger. Whenever we talk about heavy shit, we always end with something happy, like conversational dessert. “Tell me about Christopher. The burrito holder,” I say to Rex.

“He smells really good, but like a grown-up,” Ginger says.

“That’s important,” I say, nodding.

“He holds eye contact for the exact right amount of time, so you can tell he’s focused on you but it doesn’t feel creepy.”

“Mmm.”

“He called me Gingerbread once and I only hated it, like, 65 percent.”

“Whoa.”

“Yeah. You can meet him, maybe. Tomorrow?”

“Maybe. Tomorrow’s the funeral. Tomorrow night?” She nods. Rex’s arm tightens around me when I say the word “funeral,” like it’s an emotional bomb against which I need to be supported.