Opposite of Always(27)

“You guys were so good,” Dad says.

“Our pleasure, Mr. King,” Franny says. “Least we could do.”

“And you’re sure you taped it, Jack? You didn’t miss anything?” Mom asks.

“Yaaaaasss, Mom,” I say.

Dad reaches for Mom’s hand. “Well, me and Mom are going to enjoy our wine upstairs on the balcony, so.”

Franny winks. “You kids have fun.”

“Uh, gross,” I interject.

“Probably time we talk to Jack about the birds and bees, what do you guys think?” Franny says. “He old enough yet?”

“Not even close,” Mom says. “Maybe if . . .”

“Night, gang,” Dad says, leading Mom out of the kitchen. “Jillian and Franny, you should probably crash on the couch.”

Mom pokes her head back into the kitchen. “Separate couches!”

Dad pulls her back again.

We’re in the basement watching the video of our performance when my phone rings. Absentmindedly, I nearly accept the call before I register the name, the face.

Everything stops.

Everything’s black.

Like someone’s shoved a vacuum down my throat and is slurping up my vital organs.

Jillian looks up at me from her seat on the floor. “Who is it?”

I decide to let it ring.

It’s obviously a mistake. An unfortunate butt dial. Someone’s playing with her phone. She’s accidentally called the wrong Jack.

A thousand reasons why it’s not her calling me.

A hundred thousand why I shouldn’t answer.

Only there’s not enough willpower on this planet to hold back my finger.

“Hello? Jack?”

Her voice obliterates the freestyle world record, swimming three laps around my body in seconds.

“Jack, it’s me . . . it’s . . .”

I don’t answer. I can’t. My mouth a knotty jumble of feels.

“Are you there, Jack?”

My tongue doesn’t budge.

“I understand why you don’t want to talk. Why you’re mad. And maybe confused. And hurt. I’m sorry that I made you anything but happy. I’m sorry that . . . I’m all of those things, too, Jack. Mad, confused, hurting. But at myself. Because I’m to blame. And I’m sorry. For all of it. I was afraid, Jack. Of what would happen when you found out the truth. About me. That you’d leave. It’s too much to ask of anyone, to stay. Jack . . . have you ever been so afraid of losing someone that you think maybe it’s better to just get it over with?

“. . . And I swear I’m not calling you because I feel guilty. I’m calling you because I just feel like all these things . . . Jack, it’s like you’ve hot-wired my brain. And I want to spend my last hours with you. Does that count as an apology? That out of everyone in the world, I can’t think of a single person I’d rather spend my literal dying moments with than you. And I know, it’s weird. I don’t even know you, right? You don’t know me. Not really. Except I know what I know, Jack. And I don’t care if no one else knows it. I know you know, Jack. I know that . . .”

My nose needs a tissue. Or two. Or three.

“Jack? Please? Just say something. Tell me to piss off. That I have the wrong number. To leave you the hell alone. Tell me anything.”

“Kate?”

“Yeah?”

“Stop talking.”

“I tried that already. And I lost you.”

“. . .”

“Jack?”

“Where are you right now?”

“Jack, where are you going?” Jillian asks, springing up from the carpet.

“I’ll call you later,” I say, already halfway up the basement stairs.

“Jack,” Franny calls behind me. “Jack!”





As a Time of Day


There’s not a traffic law I don’t break on my way to her.

I nearly drive my car right through the wooden security arm, the guard taking her sweet time letting me into the parking garage. I run down five hundred identical hallways, stopping for directions twice, until I’m finally there.

Room 443.

I nearly tackle a nurse coming out of the room.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. I look past her into the room. There’s a curtain blocking the bed, the room dim, save for buttery moonlight.

But the nurse isn’t interested in my apology. “Are you family?” she asks.

“Yes,” I lie. Because I don’t want her to turn me away. But then, in an effort to be honest, I revise, “No, I mean. I’m her . . . I think I’m—”

“He’s with us, Linda,” a woman’s voice says from inside the room. The nurse moves aside.

“You must be Jack,” the woman says. She extends her arms and I walk straight into them. I’m assuming this is Kate’s mom, though I’ve never met her. And it doesn’t feel odd, embracing her this way. Plus, she smells like the best kind of mom. The kind with a comprehensive supply of Band-Aids and smiles.

“I’m Kate’s mom,” she confirms.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Edwards. I mean, well, I wish it could be, you know, uh, under better circumstances,” I choke out.