Opposite of Always(20)

Franny’s abuela is the definition of count on. At any one time she’s working two jobs to make ends meet. Plus, she’s forever taking on side jobs, hunched over her sewing machine altering suits, christening gowns, and probably every wedding dress ever worn in Ohio. Franny pitches in, bagging groceries at the Dollar Den and spraying deodorizer into beat-up shoes at the bowling alley.

“I saw your mom’s commercial,” Franny says, grinning.

“Don’t even say it, man.”

“I love your mom, you know that, but.”

“Franny, I’m warning you, man.”

“She’s just so beautiful, man. Like, I don’t know how you can stand it.”

“Uh, she’s my mom, that’s pretty much how.”

My parents love Franny. Most parents do. His parental charms aren’t surprising, though. He is all kinds of trustworthy. If my parents are ever on the fence about letting me do fill in the blank, just mentioning that Franny will also be doing fill in the blank almost always tips the scales yes.

Plus, it doesn’t hurt that Franny is the superathlete son my mom didn’t get biologically. Mom played college ball, and was pretty good. A lady in the streets, but a beast on the court, she enjoys saying. (Side point: the way Mom behaves at sporting events—arguing with the refs, shouting out plays to the coaches, razzing the opponent’s mascot—is a handy reminder that “fan” is short for fanatic.)

Anyway, Mom and I (and usually Dad) go to all of Franny’s games (basketball, football, baseball, track meets), saving a seat for Abuela because her jobs keep her running late. Brown-people time, Franny always says, shrugging his shoulders and laughing as Abuela shows up huffing and puffing at the end of the first quarter.

“So, how’s your lady friend, young squire?” Franny asks. He drops his overnight bag onto my bedroom floor.

Instantly, I’m all teeth and cheeks.

What does it mean that just the mention of Kate makes me cheese stupidly?

“Helloooooo? Jack?” Franny calls. He tosses a rolled-up sock at me, but I’m unfazed. I’m elsewhere, soaring above the hills of Kateland.

“And you say I’m whipped? Damn, kid, what’s gonna happen when you’ve known her for a few months?” Franny says.

“She’s pretty cool, man. I think you’ll like her.”

Franny walks over to my bedroom door. “If you like her, I already do. Mind if I get the lights?”

I nod my consent. He hits the switch, throwing us into darkness.

Franny’s silhouette crosses the room, digs out his phone, and plugs it into the wall. He scrolls through his Favorites; his finger hovers above Jillian’s face, her face cropped in a perfect circle, and I think of the times I’ve done the same—my finger not a centimeter from her face. Only my finger never moved, my brain too afraid. Not Franny—he taps Jillian’s crooked smile, her scrunched-up cheeks.

“Hey, baby. I miss you, too,” he says into the phone. He buries his face in his blankets, and he’s all whispers and Franny-Jillian inside jokes and serious I want you forever voice.

And me—

I start reading, but I can’t stop thinking about Kate. Soon, I’m trading my book for Instagram, and there’s Kate’s profile. I scroll through pictures of her laughing with friends, her being silly with family. No matter the place, or the people, Kate’s always smiling.

After a while, Franny stops whispering. Rips the blankets from his head and looks up, his hair flopping over his eyes.

“Now what are you smiling about?” he whisper-shouts. “Go to sleep!”

“Mind your business.”

“Hey,” he says. His long arm extends like a crane, drops his phone onto my desk. “Seriously, though. Thanks for letting me crash. I needed this. Things at home have been . . . well, you know.”

I lower my phone, reach for the nightstand light. “Yeah, man. Me too. And anytime, you know that.”

Because, between friends, there are times when just knowing what you mean to each other isn’t enough.

When you should really say the words.

“Hey, Jack,” he says after a few minutes. His voice is faint, like he doesn’t want to wake me if I’m already asleep, as if he’s uncertain he wants to say what he’s thinking.

“Yeah?”

He’s lying on his back, hands behind his head, his eyes studying the ceiling with an intensity ceilings don’t deserve. “When he gets out, Abuela’s making this crazy dinner. All of his favorite foods, apparently.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Know what’s strange? Turns out he and I both really dig smothered pork chops. Small world, right?”

“Very,” I agree. Although I also love smothered pork chops, as I am certain does most of the world.

“Anyway, I was thinking . . . I was wondering . . . if you might—you know. Be there. At the house. When he comes home. I don’t know, I just think it would be cool to have someone else there. Like backup or a buffer or something. And I thought about Jill. I mean, she’s awesome, and she’s been crazy supportive, but I don’t know if I’m ready for my dad and my girl in the same room yet. So. I was thinking you’d . . . maybe . . . it’s probably weird, right? I sound like the biggest baby right now. Damn. Forget it, okay? It’s stupid. I’m buggin’.”