Opposite of Always(67)

“What are we waiting for?” I say to Jillian.

But she’s already leaping in, her hair damp with celebration.

I take Kate’s hands and we dive into the middle, laughing.

“This is what it’s all about, this is what it’s all about,” Franny says, dancing in a circle around us.

“We gotta get a pic before we go,” Kate tells the guitarist.

“Say ‘live foreverrrrrrrr,’” the lead singer croons, as we all crowd into the selfie.

Back at the car, we huddle around a bottle of sparkling cider. It’s not cool to drink and drive. Plus Kira would kill me if I let her baby sis get wasted, the guitarist had chided us. Take this, he said, handing us the faux champagne.

“To Kate,” Franny says, holding up a cup of the cider. “Easily the best night of our young, young lives.”

“To many, many more,” Jillian adds.

“Hear, hear,” I chime, cup raised.

Kate shakes her head, like she’s embarrassed by the attention, and when she looks up at us she’s covering her face with her fingers, but they’re parted just enough that I can tell she’s beaming.

“Is it possible that you guys rock harder than Mighty Moat?” she asks, dropping her hands to her sides. Jillian smiles. In that moment, it’s like the next three decades of our lives together are revealed—that if there was ever any doubt that we’d always be friends, even after we went on to become busy lawyers and never-a-free-moment doctors and volunteers at our kids’ schools—all doubt is erased right then, expelled forever in that moment.

Franny covers the top of his cup with his hand and gives it a generous shake, which prompts me to deliver the stern but polite warning, “Uh, don’t even think about it, man.”

But Franny ignores me, shaking even more vigorously, before releasing his hand and letting it go in a surprisingly generous spray. And it’s nice to see Franny happy, even for just a night.

“No one rocks harder,” he yells, chasing after us. “No one rocks harder,” we all yell, running for our lives.

We wave goodbye to Jillian and Franny as they back out of my driveway. Kate and I tiptoe through the kitchen and down into the basement.

I turn on the TV, and we lie side by side on the couch, which is trickier than it sounds, because there’s really only room for one person, but where there’s a will . . .

“Jack,” Kate says. “I need to tell you something.”

And this is it, I think. This is where she tells me.

“Sometimes . . . I,” she starts and stops.

“It’s okay, Kate.”

“Sometimes . . . I get really sick. Like really sick.”

I turn my face so that she has my undivided attention. I turn off the TV. “How so? What do you mean?”

“I was born with the sickle cell gene. Both of my parents have the trait. Have you ever heard of it?”

“I have. I’ve read some things, but I’m not sure I entirely understand.”

“Essentially, my red blood cells stiffen, which means they struggle to deliver oxygen to other parts of my body. And most people’s red blood cells last a few months, but in people with sickle cell, maybe they last a couple of weeks, so our oxygen supply can’t keep up with the demand. So, there are days, weeks, a few times even a couple of months, where I’m pretty weak.”

“And does it hurt?”

“I like to think I have a high threshold for pain, but, uh, yeah, it hurts pretty bad.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Kate puts her fingers against my lips. “Shhh,” she says. “I wasn’t telling you because I want you to feel sorry. I don’t want pity, not from you, not from anyone. I just . . . I want you to know because . . . for some reason I feel like telling you everything. Like, there’s nothing about me that I don’t want you to know. Does that sound weird?” She pulls back so she can see more of my face. “That’s creepy, right? I didn’t mean it like . . .”

Now it’s my turn to press my fingers to her lips. And this feels like our new thing, fingers to each other’s lips, letting each other know it’s okay, that you’re safe here.

“It’s not creepy at all, Kate. It’s beautiful,” I say. “The most beautiful thing ever. And I feel the same way. I want you to know everything. Like everything, everything.” I fix my eyes on hers and hold them there, because I want her to know that it’s true, that we’re true, and then I exchange my fingers for my lips, our lips coming together, opening and closing in sync, and I hear her gasp, feel her shudder.

Or maybe it’s my gasp, my shudder.

Not that it matters.

Nothing matters.

How could anything?

“I really like you, Kate,” I say because I’m afraid to say the other thing. The stronger thing.

“I don’t want you to just like me. Save your likes for Twitter. I want you, Jack,” she whispers into my ear, her voice traveling into my brain, down through my chest. I feel her words in my toes.

And maybe it’s that my blood flow is currently being rerouted from my brain. Or the way her face is gorgeously cast in fluorescent basement light. Maybe it’s because I was given another chance for this reason. But the fact is this: there’s nothing I want more than Kate Edwards.