Opposite of Always(71)

That’s when the bathroom door explodes open, the door flung with so much force that it slaps the wall and springs back.

“What the—” I manage to get out. Before I can say another word, before I can turn the water off, or dry my hands, I’m bulldozed into the rear shower wall.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Franny screams.

I can barely breathe, Franny’s hands not exactly on my throat, but close enough to make breathing difficult.

“Franny,” I stammer. “What. Are. You. Talking. About?”

“You’re supposed to be my boy! What, you’re not happy enough with your own TWO perfect parents, you gotta steal my pops, too?”

“That’s not what happened. I was trying to make things—”

“No one asked you to try anything!”

He raises his fist, and I squeeze my eyes tight.

But the blow never comes. Not to my face. Franny punches the wallpaper beside my jaw, his hand going through the drywall, a mini cloud of dust and plaster that coats both of our noses, the side of my cheek. Like that time we tried to make a cake for his abuela and got more flour on our faces than in the bowl.

“I can’t even get the man to call me back, not once. To show up for my game. To show up for any game, not once. And what, he’s calling you in the middle of the goddamn night like you two are best buds?”

“Franny, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? You’re sorry? Why is he calling you?”

I wag my head. “Franny . . .”

“Just tell me why he’s calling you, Jack. Don’t say shit else to me.”

“I don’t know why,” I mumble. Because how do I explain the truth?

“Not only are you a backstabbing punk, you’re a goddamn liar, too.”

He lets me go, and I slide down into the shower stall, gasping for air.

“We’re done, man. In case that wasn’t clear,” he says in a voice I’ve only heard him use to curse The Coupon. “You even look at me, or at Jillian, and I’ll finish you for good. You got that?”

“Guys, what’s going on? It sounds like a zoo in here,” Jillian says, her voice light, happy. “Oh my God, what happened?” she says, peering into the bathroom, looking at me sitting in the shower, at the hole in the wall, then up at Franny.

“Jack, are you okay?” Jillian says. She tries to come to me, but Franny stops her.

“Did you know about this?” Franny asks her.

“Franny, she has nothing to—” I start.

But Franny takes a big step toward me, his face sharp teeth and venom. “I told you to shut up.”

Jillian pulls him back. “Did I know what, Franny?” she asks. “Look at me, Franny. Look at me! Did I know what?” She cradles his head in her hands, forces his face toward hers.

“About him and my pops. No wonder my pops doesn’t want me. Not when he has Super Jack in his life. What would he want with me when he can have the kid who has it all, right?” Franny laughs, but even from the shower floor, I see the tears in his eyes.

“Baby,” Jillian says, wiping his eyes for him. “Baby,” she repeats. She takes his hands in hers. “I need you.”

Franny’s face softens some.

“I need you,” Jillian repeats. “I WANT you.”

Franny pulls her into his arms. “I promise you I’ll never let you down. Never,” he says, through tears, through anger.

“You don’t have to promise me. I know you won’t. I know,” Jillian says, barely loud enough for me to hear. “Now let’s go home, okay? Take us home, baby.”

Franny nods. Lets Jillian lead him out of the bathroom. But not before they look back at me, one last time.

Franny, with rage spinning deep in his eyes.

Jillian, with hurt, with sadness. A face like goodbye.

And this is the thing I never truly considered.

What if I save Kate but lose everyone else?

Am I prepared to live out the rest of my days As Is?

With these consequences—

No more Franny.

No Jillian.

Knowing that because of me, Franny and his dad may never figure things out.

I’ll be honest with you.

I love Kate. More than nearly anything.

But more than all of those things combined?

I’m not sure.





A Cure for Bad Blood


It’s been four days since I’ve talked to my friends.

Kate keeps saying they just need time, which everyone says about everything—just give it time.

They wouldn’t think that about Time—that its passage makes everything better—if they knew what I knew. That more Time mostly screws things up worse.

That’s why when I get the call, I’m more than relieved to think about something else. I tell Kate it’s a surprise, but at every mile marker she still asks me where are we going?

“So, where’s your car?” Kate asks for the second time this morning. The first time I ignored her, changed the subject. But I doubt that’ll work a second time.

“I sold her.”

“What?” she asks, turning in her seat toward me. “Why?”

“She had a few problems going on. Figured I’d sell her while she was still worth something.”