Opposite of Always(44)

I poke my head out the window and simultaneously back the car out. “I’ll call you,” I promise.

From my rearview mirror, I watch Kate get smaller and smaller, waving at me, until I can no longer make out her smile.

I make great time—for the first thirteen minutes. Then I run into an onslaught of rush-hour traffic. Horn-laying, middle-finger-waving, curse-word-screaming traffic. Apparently, none of these people care that I need to be in Elytown in less than thirty minutes.

Neither does my right tire.

Because when the roadblock of traffic finally begins to subside, I realize my car isn’t picking up speed with its usual halfhearted gusto. It seems slow on the takeoff, even for its measly amount of horsepower.

And then I hear metal rubbing.

A woman in the lane beside me rolls down her passenger window and motions for me to roll down my own window— “Flat,” she yells across the freeway. “You got a flat!”

I pull over, wait for a crowd of cars to zip by, and hop out to confirm my worst fears.

Crap.

Super crap.

I kick a patch of gravel, and a rock ricochets off the flat tire and smacks me in the shin.

Because, you know, when it rains, it—

And then it actually pours.

A freaking deluge of rain from nowhere, as if mankind just won a championship and God decided to empty the Gatorade cooler over our heads.

Naturally, it takes me a good eight minutes to locate the tire iron, hidden neatly in a compartment in the trunk, only to discover it, along with the jack, is mostly corroded and barely usable.

So, as I struggle to change the tire, risking tetanus with every rust-ridden turn, traffic roaring past my head, all their nonflat tires shooting thick sheets of cool, dirty rain water into my face and clothes, already drenched from the never-stopping downpour, I realize something very important.

I’m going to be late.

Also, I suck.

I try to text Franny, but my crappy carrier’s service isn’t cooperating.

I push the gas pedal so that it’s flat against the floor. I weave in and out of traffic, elicit my share of horn blares and middle fingers.

But they don’t faze me.

I have somewhere to be.

I finally pull onto Franny’s street and I know I’ve really screwed up.

1) Because I’m over an hour late. Closer to ninety minutes than sixty.

2) Because Franny is waiting on the porch stairs, his face buzzing with an anger I’ve never seen. Before I even throw the car into park he’s already bounding for my car, fury in his stride.

My intestines twist into a French braid. I take a deep breath.

“Where the hell were you, man?” Franny shouts before I have both feet out of the car.

“Franny,” I say, emerging with my hands up. “I’m sorry. I ran into traffic, and—”

He wags his head, a whooshing sound escaping from his lips like he’s an oxygen tank that someone’s cranked all the way open. “Traffic? It’s a fifteen-minute drive across town, Jack. What are you talking about, traffic?”

I’m tempted to lie to him, if only to defuse the situation. But I can’t bring myself to do it. Franny and I don’t lie to each other. I could blame it on the flat tire, but that’s not the whole truth either. “I wasn’t home.”

He’s standing on the passenger’s side of my car. I’m still on the driver’s side, standing in the middle of the street, afraid of what might happen if I come any closer. Better to keep a barrier between us.

“So, where were you?” he demands.

“Franny, I . . .” but I can’t say it.

“Wow. You chose ass over your best friend.”

“That’s not what happened, man. I—I went . . . there, yes, but it’s not what you think. I thought she needed to tell me something imp—”

“Important? Is that what you were about to say?” Now he’s on the same side of the car as me. “Fuck you, Jack.” Now his chest is at best two inches away from mine, except his chest is puffing, heaving, like if pushed he could blow a brick house down.

He could blow a continent right off the map.

He bumps into me, knocking me back. I instinctively raise my arms in defense. In all our years knowing each other, we’ve never physically fought. Probably because the consensus is that he’d pulverize me.

“Franny, listen, I’m here now. I’ll go inside and I’ll apologize to Abuela and to The Coupon and we’ll still have a good dinner. Or I can run and get some ice cream and bring it back or . . .”

I lower my hands and finally look at Franny. Like, really look at him. His eyes are wet. And I smell beer. Not like I had a drink or two. More like, I drank a case or two.

“Ice cream,” he repeats. “It’s too late for all that.”

“I can fix this. Just let me go inside and—”

“You’re not hearing me.”

“I know you’re pissed at me, but if you just—”

“He’s gone, man.”

“What do you mean, he’s gone? Gone where?”

Franny shrugs. “Probably back to prison.”

“What are you talking about?”

Someone honks their horn at us and I remember that we’re in the middle of the street. I try to get out of the car’s way but Franny doesn’t seem to care he’s impeding traffic. The car honks again, and I try to pull Franny curbside, but he jerks his arm away and shoves me back. My leg clips the back of my car and I barely catch my balance.