Opposite of Always(52)

“She doesn’t deserve you, man,” she says in a near whisper, like the ad-lib at the end of a love song. I appreciate Jillian’s efforts, but the truth is this: I don’t deserve Kate. I blew it.

“Seriously, dude, if you want her so bad, just go after her already,” Franny says.

The three of us are lounging in my basement, Jillian finishing her history paper and me watching Franny play our favorite online shooter, Imperials. “But no matter what, this whole bleeding-heart thing has to stop. It’s killing our vibe. And you seriously stink.” He declares this in the middle of an amazing kill streak, demolishing the record I’d set weeks back, which I take as an omen.

I don’t bother to tell him that I shouldn’t stink anymore, because for the past two days I’ve been back to my regularly showered program.

But Franny is right about the other part.

Just go after her, Jack.

Drowning in your sorrows is no way to live.

I’d rather drown in love, or at least in a vat of “strong like.” You know, if I have to drown, and if I’m allowed to choose my drowning-liquid preferences.

Later, Jillian texts me her take:

JILLIAN: Will you just listen to me, you moron?!

ME: Fine. All ears.

JILLIAN: For some idiotic reason you think you don’t deserve her, Jack. But the thing that really bugs me—that makes me want to slap you up and down the street—is that for some even more idiotic reason you think you don’t deserve to be happy. But you do, Jack.

JILLIAN: As much as anyone.

ME: But as my friend, you have to say that, right?

JILLIAN: No, believe me. I definitely do not.

JILLIAN: And when have you ever known me to say something that I didn’t mean??

ME: Very good point.

JILLIAN: I thought so.

ME: I don’t know what to say.

JILLIAN: There’s nothing to say.

JILLIAN: Just go after her, Jack.

JILLIAN: Seriously! Stop wasting time talking to me and go get her back already!

ME: Thank you thank you thank you

JILLIAN: Go!

Only my car is in the shop.

And Mom needs her car for work.

And the last bus to Whittier left twenty minutes ago.

And Jillian has the late shift at Pizza Pauper, and I don’t want to take her car and leave her stranded.

But then Jillian makes magic happen—tells her boss she has a personal emergency—and then Jillian’s ordering me into her passenger seat and Franny war-yells, “ROAD TRIP” and flings himself into the back seat and we’re floating down the highway, pushing time and orange-barreled roadwork behind us. Franny, on the fly, makes an awesome get your love back playlist, and he alternates between letting the songs play and serenading us with his own songs, most of which feature a surprise rapper guest appearance, the rappers being Jillian and me, which sounds awful, but whose awfulness cannot be done proper justice without actually hearing our flow.

“Okay, we’ve gotta pull over,” Franny says in the middle of my freestyle.

“What? Why?” Jillian asks.

“I have to pee. Just pull over.”

“No way. Do you realize how dangerous it is to pull over on the highway? You’re practically asking to be decapitated by a speeding minivan.”

“Well, I’ve gotta go bad.”

“It’s only nine miles to a rest stop.”

“Only nine,” Franny says sarcastically.

“Just don’t think about waterfalls,” I suggest.

“Or swimming in the ocean,” Jillian adds.

“I hate you both,” Franny says.

Nine miles later we pull into some creepy gas station.

“Please make sure you wash your hands thoroughly before returning to my vehicle,” Jillian shouts out the window after Franny.

And Franny pauses near the entryway to moon us, although he manages only a half-moon because an elderly black woman walks out of the gas station, and Franny, clearly flustered, can’t pull his pants up fast enough. The lady smiles, whistles the best whistle ever, and Franny laughs, takes a deep bow.

Jillian and I scribble numbers onto napkins, and when Franny walks back out, we lean out of our windows and hold up our napkins—and my napkin says “7.5” and Jillian’s says “perfect 10,” because love is knowing the bad is there but choosing to appreciate the good.

And if there are better friends than these two, you keep them. I don’t believe you.

When we pull off the main road and pass under the Whittier arch, we all whoop and cheer and Franny leans into the front seat and rubs my shoulders, like I’m a boxer about to enter the ring.

I fly out of the car before Jillian has fully parked and I slip in the security door right as a red-haired kid exits and then I’m knocking on Kate’s door.

I hear movement inside.

Suddenly I wish I’d detoured at a bathroom, or at least caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror. What if I look horrible? What if there’s beef jerky wedged between my incisors? Should I pose? I reach out to lean one arm along the doorframe, but I misjudge the distance and stumble into the door, the sound of my collapse echoing down the corridor.

I pick myself up from the ground and consider leaving, but it’s too late. The door opens.

“Can I help you?” a very good-looking guy asks with a smile.