The Music of What Happens(57)

“You rock so hard.”

“Well, me and Max. We rock, I guess. And, um, we’re boyfriends now. I mean, he said the word, so, yeah.”

“What? Oh my God! Jordan, this is all so amazing!”

I shrug like I don’t care, but really it’s the exact opposite. It feels like too much joy is in my life now, and my body can’t handle it.

“We’re doing so well we actually went and fed the homeless for free over by Tempe Town Lake.”

Her eyes go wide. “Yeah, we probably need to talk about that,” she says. “Let’s not go crazy with the charity, maybe.”

Something about her saying that makes my stomach clench, but the happiness in the rest of my body overrules it.

She rolls her head back dramatically. “You don’t know how much — oh, Jordan. Thank you, Jordan. I am so proud of you. And so damn thankful.”

The tears start to fall, and even though we’re alone I look away. If it’s like a week ago, or two, pre-Max, I would have gone over and held her. Now I’m just a little … I don’t know. Not up for that, maybe.

“You’re my savior. You’re our savior. You have no idea how much I needed that news right now, Jordan. No idea.”

I smooth my hair down in front of my eyes and half enjoy the knot that forms in my throat. And half wish that she’d stop. It’s like I want her to be proud and thankful, but the tears are almost too much.

And then she starts to sob, and I feel frozen in my seat, and Dorcas jumps up and licks her tears, and it feels like I’ve played out this scenario a thousand times already, the one where I tell her it’s all going to be all right. But I don’t want to now.

Hoping she’ll stop with the herstrionics and focus on me, I say, “Do you think it’s too soon? To call him my boyfriend? I don’t want to be the creepy guy who plans a wedding after two weeks and suddenly there’s a restraining order against me.”

She wipes her eyes and says, “This is a new start. Starting right now. No more thinking I’m the worst mother ever, because I’m going to be better. I’m going to do better. Do things. Like exercise and eat better and, that kind of thing. Will you hold me to that, Jordan? Can you help me be accountable? And call me on it. If you see me not doing right, will you just tell me? I really need that, okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, feeling lost inside my chest.

“You’re just the best,” she says. “Thank you thank you thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I mumble, and in my mind I put a question mark at the end of the sentence. But I make sure she doesn’t hear it.





“Well this should be a breeze,” Betts says as he creates himself a golfer on the video game. “I mean, think of all the famous Mexican golfers out there. I think I’m pretty safe.”

Zay-Rod reaches over and whaps Betts on the back of the head.

“Pat Perez. Lee Trevino. Nancy Lopez. Esteban Toledo,” he says. “You’re one ignorant motherfucker.”

“Racist-ass idiot,” I say. “What does ethnicity have to do with swinging a golf club?”

“Okay, okay. God. Sensitive people, the Mexicans,” Betts says. He gets another head whap from Zay-Rod for that one.

“You know, instead of swinging pretend golf clubs, we could actually go out to Kiwanis and swing real baseball bats,” I say. I’m not tired of video games. I just have a lot of extra energy and this is not doing it for me.

Zay-Rod says, “Not when it’s over a hundred, dude. No way.”

Betts agrees with Zay-Rod, so I give up and try to settle into the game and the AC.

“So what if I said I have a boyfriend?” I ask, while Zay-Rod creates his player.

“I’d say, ‘Duh,’ ” Betts says. “It’s not like you spend every second with your food truck boy. Who’s on top?”

“We haven’t —” I say, and again I’m flooded with this screwed-up feeling that I push away. I really don’t have the time or energy for that shit. Ever.

“Come on,” Betts says. “You spend the night out, and somehow you suddenly have a job with a gay boy on a food truck the very next day.”

“What kind of job?” Zay-Rod asks. “Hand? Blow?”

He and Betts high-five.

“God, why do I hang out with idiots?” I ask.

“Yeah. We’re the idiots. Not the guy who gives away a thousand bucks’ worth of food,” Betts says. I told them about the feeding the homeless thing. They were, um. Not impressed.

“Next time you do that shit, text us,” Zay-Rod says.

“Which of you smells like day-old stinky cheese? Jesus. There’s a thing called a shower?” I say.

Betts farts.

Zay-Rod farts.

“Jesus,” I say. “Toxic.”

We play the first couple holes in silence.

“I think you’d probably hate him,” I finally say.

“Who?” asks Betts.

“Jordan. Food truck boyfriend guy.”

“Why? Is he Mexican?” This is Betts again, and this time he shrinks back before both me and Zay-Rod pop him in the head from opposite sides.

“Because he’s … kinda … emo-ish. Kinda feminine.”