Opposite of Always(64)

Dr. Sowunmi smiles, and it’s like I can see his guard go down, his face relax into what it probably looks like when he’s eating his favorite bowl of cereal or rewatching his favorite movie. “How old are you again?”

“Eighteen,” I repeat, smiling back. “And did I mention I have money?”

“I can’t promise you anything. We’re still in the early clinical stages.”

“I understand.”

“And I’d like to meet with the patient first. To evaluate their current health, their labs. To discuss with her or him, were we to proceed, what our course of treatment would involve.”

“Of course, Doctor,” I say, standing up to shake his hand. “Thank you so much. Thank you so so so much.”

“I can’t promise anything,” he repeats, smile gone.

“Right,” I confirm. “No promises.”

On the way out the doctor’s office, my cell phone rings and I imagine it’s Kate and I think, Wow, perfect timing. But it’s not her.

“Hey, man, did you forget?” Franny asks, his voice borderline panicked. “Please, tell me you didn’t forget and that you’re on your way.”

“I didn’t forget,” I assure him, although I did lose track of time. “I’ll be there.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“But soon soon, right? Like you’re already on your way?”

“Yes, soon soon,” I say.

“Tell me everything’s going to be okay, Jack.”

“Franny,” I say with all of the hope and faith that I can muster. “Everything is going to be okay.”

I really want to believe it will.





Wait. What?!


Franny’s nerves are more jumbled than the tangle of cords behind our television. But he’s doing his best to hide it.

Under normal circumstances, Franny’s the epitome of clutch. Take, for instance, his last regular season must-win road game: he was cool, calm, collected on his way to a team-high twenty-four points, sinking the go-ahead free throw with time expired to ice the victory and advance to the playoffs.

But this current Franny isn’t all smiles and laughs and joke after joke after joke.

On the way home from school yesterday, he insisted on stopping to get a haircut. Made Jillian pull over in the middle of horn-honking traffic so he could double back up the street and catch a bus (even though Jillian said it was no problem to drive him) over to his cousin’s house, who moonlights as a barber. Crazy thing is, Franny hasn’t cut his hair in, like—forever. A while back we started calling him the Puerto Rican Questlove. But as of yesterday afternoon his scalp is low and clean, sparkling, too, like he’s an executive preparing to lead an important board meeting. No big deal, he said when he opened the door to his house, my mouth falling open as I pointed to his dome. It was just time, you know, he said in a way that I knew meant he didn’t want to keep talking about it.

Even now, he’s pacing the floor, pretending like he’s exercising, as if all the back-and-forth down the narrow hallway is part of his big-game preparation.

“Franny, it’s going to be okay, man,” I say not for the first time today.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” He walks into the kitchen and I don’t move from my spot on the living room sofa. “Gotta make sure these chops don’t burn or Abuela will beat my ass.”

“I’ll beat your ass if they burn,” I shout.

“Right!” He laughs.

The front door locks turn and Franny emerges from the kitchen, eyes wide. “Wait, what do I do?” he says to me, to the room, to no one. “What do I do?”

“You don’t have to do anything, Franny,” I say. “This is on him. Not you.”

We stand there, waiting for the door to open, for the earth to split.

“Francisco,” Franny’s dad says. His voice is rich, like it’s wrapped in a husk. The Coupon steps inside the threshold, Abuela standing quietly beside him. Franny doesn’t move. I don’t know if he’s frozen in place or if it’s by choice. But then his dad is rushing forward, wrapping his arms around Franny until Franny’s all but disappeared in the man’s broad chest and arms. The Coupon makes Franny, tall and muscular in his own right, seem small, like a marionette version of himself.

“You probably thought you’d never see me again, huh?”

Franny shrugs at the question, sheds the man’s arms from his shoulders. “Never thought about it, really.”

He examines Franny’s eyes, the way my dad looks at me when he’s about to make some important point and he wants to make sure I’m listening. “Well, I’m back now, son. For good this time.”

Franny laughs. “What, you want some sort of medal in advance?” He turns to Abuela, kisses her on the cheek. “Food’s ready.” He walks back into the kitchen.

Franny’s dad looks at me, like he’s just noticed me standing there, his face morphed into surprise, or maybe embarrassment. He forces a smile and in his face I see Franny’s—Franny’s light-brown lips and slim nose, the way Franny’s eyes seem to glow at the edges, the same oval chin.

I wonder if he’s going to give me away to Franny. If this is the part where Franny finds out I went behind his back and have been conducting business with his dad.