Opposite of Always(29)

“I’m thinking boring, run of the mill, garden variety, happy ending.”

She pulls her blanket up. I fix her pillow. She looks small in this bed, pale brown against the stark white sheets.

“I like boring,” she says. “Boring’s good.”

“Well, good, because you’re looking at the most boring storyteller ever.”

“My lucky day.”

I take her hand; her fingers are cold. I hear the hiss of oxygen rushing into her nose. I smell the bitterness of alcohol swabs. I smile at her. Everything’s going to be okay, I tell myself.

“I had the craziest dream last night,” she says.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yep, you were this great novelist, no surprise there. And one of your books was turned into a play. And I don’t think you were expecting me to be there, so I sat in the crowd by myself, and I was so happy though. Just being there. Watching something you’d made. And when it was over, I waited for you outside. And then you came out and you were walking toward a group of friends, and I said, ‘Psst. Hey, Jack Attack.’ And I could tell just by the way your head moved, even with your back to me, that you knew it was me. And you turned and smiled. And you walked over to me, our eyes locked, and . . .”

She stops.

“Then what happened?”

“And then the dream completely shifted and suddenly I was turning into a car. Like a transformer. It was awesome. I was a fire-engine-red car with tinted windows and a roll cage.”

I bust out laughing. “You’re the real writer in this relationship.”

She shakes her head. “I wanted to apply for the position of muse. If the job’s still open?”

“It is,” I say. I squeeze her hand. She squeezes back. Our own Morse code.

“Where did I find you?” I ask her.

“On some crappy, piss-stained stairs.”

“Best stairs ever.”

“Best stairs ever,” she repeats. She breaks our gaze, looks toward the curtain. It’s dense. But she looks at it as if she can see through it. Maybe she can. Maybe she’s been at this place, at places like this, enough times to know what’s on the other side.

“Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“If something happens, I want you to remember me—”

I cut her off. “Don’t. Nothing’s going to happen.”

“Stop.” She squeezes my hand again. “Listen to me.”

I nod, because if I talk my voice will break.

“I want you to remember me . . . not as a sick black girl with chicken legs from some no-name suburbs. I want you to remember me like this, right now. The moonlight over your shoulder, stretching against the night, the stars fluttering. Remember me like this. The rain slanting, the fog rolling. The street-lights flickering on. Every time you feel or see another evening like this, I want you to think of me smiling, laughing at you. Remember me, remember us, as a time of day.”

I start to speak, but nothing comes out. Just the faint pucker of my lips opening and then closing.

The nurse enters, offers Kate IV pain medication, warns me that it’ll make her sleepy, that the best thing I can do for her is to let her rest.

And I want to do all the best things for Kate.

Except the only thing I know is that I don’t know what’s best for Kate. My mind revs a thousand revolutions a minute, but I’m getting nowhere.

So I sit quietly, watch Kate’s eyelids flutter until she drifts to sleep.

“Jack,” she says, just before her eyes close for good.

“I’m here.”

“Tell Franny I’m sorry about Mighty Moat. I owe him a concert.”

I take her hand. “I think he’ll live.”

And her lips curl upward into something not quite a smile, but close.

When her mom comes back and hands me a coffee, I sip it, and it doesn’t matter that it tastes like it came from a pot made days ago; it’s just something to do while Kate rests. While I sit, waiting for what’s next.

When the coffee’s gone, her mom squeezes my shoulder. “Jack, go home. I’ll have her call you when she wakes up.”

“Are you okay?” I ask her.

She nods. “Mr. Edwards is on his way up here. We’ll be fine.”

I start to argue. But I hug her instead, the way I should hug my own mother more. Then I hover over Kate, hesitating before pressing my lips to her forehead. She doesn’t move. “Good night, my favorite time of day,” I say.

I cut the headlights. My house is dark and still, deflating balloons twirl against our mailbox. In a few hours it’ll be daylight. It’s odd—you put so much time and energy into something, and then it’s over, a new thing already forming in its place.

Inside I trip over my trumpet case. So much for sneaking into bed.

But it doesn’t matter, because my parents are waiting for me in the kitchen.

“Jack,” Mom whispers, like she’s afraid I’ll combust if she uses one decibel more than necessary. She studies my eyes. “How is she?”

“She’s going to be okay,” I tell them.

“What happened? What’s wrong with her?” Dad asks.

“I’m not sure. She wouldn’t tell me.”

“Well, glad she’s okay. That’s what matters. You should call Jillian and Franny,” Mom says. “They’re worried.”