If You're Out There(4)

“Let me guess,” I say, not even bothering with the notepad. “Zucchini fritters, extra sauce, vanilla-coconut milkshake. And a side salad so it’s healthy.”

“It’s a common misconception,” he says, slapping his stomach. “Vegan and low-cal are not the same thing. My wife finally figured this place out. If you see her, maybe don’t tell her about the milkshake. Better yet, I was never here at all. We’re on a diet.”

I roll my eyes. Reggie is looking lean as ever, strong and clean-cut, his dark skin practically radiating good health. “Your secret’s safe with me, Reg.”

He nods up at me. “Hey, what’s up with you? Something’s off.”

“Oh,” I say. And here I thought my mood was lifting. “I guess I haven’t seen you in a while. It’s . . . been a weird few months.” I’ve known Reggie since long before he started coming here—since middle school, actually, when my nut-ball of a mother dragged me into the Lakeview Community Center after a self-defense class let out and asked Reggie—a cop and perfect stranger—if he could teach her eleven-year-old how to box. I was the product of a newly broken home then, and she felt I had some anger to unleash. “It’s funny seeing you, actually,” I say. “My mom keeps hinting I should pick up where we left off. You know her theories on catharsis.” We share a smile.

“Well, I still teach self-defense every Thursday,” he says. “However, boxing lessons remain exclusive to scrawny kids with persuasive moms.”

“Good to know,” I say, walking off. “I’ll get your order in.”

“Hey!” he calls after me, and I turn around. “How’s your shovel hook these days?”

I laugh. “You know? I have no idea.”

The air inside my house feels weightless after a walk through the muggy night. I lean back against the door and soak in the stillness. “Hello?” calls my little brother, Harrison.

I round the corner toward the darkened living room. He and Whit are lounging on the L-shaped couch, their legs fanned out in opposite directions, heads together over a shared pint of ice cream.

I smile. “Working hard, I see.” They’re gazing blankly at some home improvement show I can’t believe my brother likes. I hold my apron over the coffee table and release it, the bulging pocket of loose change landing with a thud. “You two look like you just went through battle.”

Harrison sighs up at me like a haggard adult. “We unpacked eight more of Whit’s boxes tonight. Eight!” Though disheveled, he’s still rocking the bow tie we picked for school this morning.

“Hey,” says Whit. “I got you ice cream, didn’t I?”

My little brother finishes his bite and looks at her. “Our mom’s right, you know. You do have an unhealthy attachment to your stuff.”

Whit drops her jaw, somewhere between amused and offended. “Your mom said that?” She narrows her eyes. “Oooo, Alice, you’re in trouble. . . .”

I balance against the wall and slip out of my sneakers, tiny foot bones compressed and aching from a long shift. “Where is she anyway?”

“Client meltdown,” says Whit. “The woman can’t say no.” I shudder, in a good way, as a glorious draft from the AC tingles against my skin. “Well?” says Whit, her eyes on me. “How was the first day back?”

“About what I expected.”

I settle in beside Harr, and Whit raises the pint. “Pistachio.” She’s out of scrubs tonight, wearing cutoff shorts and one of Mom’s old Flaming Lips Tshirts tied up at the sides. “We made extra lasagna, too. For the workaholics.”

“Like mother, like daughter,” I say, stealing Harrison’s spoon to dig in.

Whit raises an eyebrow as she toys with a shiny, stiff curl of black and brown and gold. “Uh, daughter doesn’t have a mortgage.”

“Or friends!” I say through an enormous creamy mouthful.

I sort of like how casual Whit is with me. She doesn’t get all parental or try to cheer me up. Instead, she lets the comment hang in the air as she presses her lips together. A lot of the time it’s like we’re still feeling each other out.

Whit’s eyes flit to my bare legs glowing in the TV light. “You really didn’t leave the house much this summer, did you? I’m honestly worried about your vitamin D.”

“Hey now, I left on occasion,” I say. “And this is some primo frecklage over here.” But she’s not wrong. Next to her smooth, brown skin mine looks pretty much translucent. It’s something I’ve come to accept. My dad’s olive-toned Italian half must have been off duty when the genes were being divvied up.

“Was your day better than mine?” I ask.

Whit draws a long breath. “Let’s see. I had to go in at four in the morning. It was after eleven when I finally got a chance to sit down and drink some coffee. . . .”

“Oof,” I say. “That sounds bad. Waking up early is stupid.”

“Zan,” says Harr, bug-eyed. “S-word.”

Whit smiles. “But I delivered a healthy baby. Cute little guy. Well, big guy. Ten pounds. And the mom was tiny, you should have seen her. Weaker sex my—” She stops, a glint in her eye. “Butt. Weaker sex my butt.”