Opposite of Always(25)
“Say something, Kate. Because so far you haven’t said anything.”
“Jack . . .”
“Prom started two hours ago. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“So, you didn’t go?”
“We were supposed to go together, Kate. We were supposed to . . . where are you? Are you in your house?”
“No. Look, it’s a long story . . .”
“As it happens, I have a lot of time on my hands.”
“I have to go, Jack. I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, you said that.”
“Goodbye, Jack.”
“Wait, Kate—”
But she’s gone.
The curse of Almost strikes again. I lean against her front door and my legs give, my feet sliding forward. And I sit slumped against her door, wrinkled, confused, wet.
I prop the world’s brightest orchid against Kate’s door.
And as soon as I’m back in the car, the rain stops.
Because, of course.
How to Get Over Someone (How to Re-Solidify Your Heart When It’s the Bad Kind of Mushy)
If you want to know how to get over someone, I’m the last one to ask.
I can, however, tell you what not to do.
I’m exceptional at what not to do.
Do not: refuse to shower. By the time you realize how awful you smell (do you have any idea how bad you smell when your own brain can no longer keep it from you?), you’re already too late.
Do not: devour entire boxes of cookies in one miserable, self-loathing sitting.
Do not: snot into your pillow. Or shirt. Or blanket. I actually did not cry, but I could see how tears might happen. It’s an emotional time. In fact, cry if you want to.
But just so we’re clear, I did not cry.
I had something in my eye.
Mom switched fabric softener and my allergies flared.
Dad made me be his sous-chef, and I had to chop onions.
I’m just saying there are a million perfectly good reasons for what you think you saw on my face.
My friends seem to think band practice heals broken hearts.
Which explains why they’ve dragged me from my bed into Jillian’s garage.
“You can’t sleep away the pain,” Jillian says.
“Says who,” I argue.
“You’ll feel better once we get into the music. Which song should we start with?” Franny asks.
“Not a love song,” I mumble.
“Well, that’s gonna be hard considering our set list is for an anniversary party,” Jillian says.
I shrug. “Whatever.”
Franny and Jillian trade looks. “How about the Stevie Wonder,” Franny suggests. Normally, this would be a great starting point. One of my parents’ all-time favorite songs—one of mine, too—but today hearing Stevie croon about falling in love just hurts.
“Do we have to?” I ask.
But Jillian’s already counting us down.
Thirty seconds in, I screw up the notes. I stop playing.
“Don’t stop,” Jillian says.
“Catch back up,” Franny encourages me.
And I try, but it’s no use, I sound even worse than usual. Which is hard to do.
“Next song,” Franny suggests.
Jillian counts again.
This time I manage to reach the refrain before self-destructing.
“Crap,” I shout, nearly throwing my horn down.
“Let’s take ten,” Jillian says.
“Let’s take forever,” I say. I pull out my phone and start browsing.
“What are you looking at, Jack?” Jillian asks.
“Nothing,” I say, scrolling up.
“He’s on her IG,” Franny says, groaning. He snatches my phone.
“Hey,” I protest.
“You need an intervention, bro,” Franny says. “It’s for your own good.”
And then my phone starts ringing. I try to reach around Franny but he boxes me out. “Give me my phone back, Franny. I’m not playing.”
“Relax, man. It’s not even your phone. My phone is ringing. It’s Coach. I gotta take this.” Franny tosses my phone to Jillian. “Make sure he stays away from social media, will you?” He steps outside. “Hey, Coach, what’s up?”
I hit Jillian with my best pleading face.
“Uh-uh, don’t even try it,” she says. “That face isn’t gonna work.”
I stick out my bottom lip. “What about the pouty lip?” I ask.
“I’m immune to your ways,” she says. She slips my phone into her jeans, crosses her arms.
“Fine then.”
“Jack, how are you really doing? Like, how concerned should I be?”
“Mild to medium? I don’t know.”
She smiles. “I can do medium.”
“What about you?” I ask.
“What about me?”
“How are you doing?”
She shrugs. “I’m doing.”
“Your mom?”
She sighs. “She was actually having a pretty decent week. And then he called.”
“Your dad?”
Jillian nods.
“Where is he?”