Opposite of Always(80)

“Babe, come on, please,” she pleads. “I’m bombing French.”

“You’re not bombing French. Your idea of bombing is an A-minus.”

“Well, if I’m going to study abroad at Whittier then I need to learn the language, don’t you think? Otherwise, how am I going to order us room service?”

My throat tightens, because honestly whenever I think seriously about the future, it’s still hard to imagine mine without Kate.

And it’s like Jillian can read my mind because she asks, “You think we did the right thing? Deciding to be together?”

This isn’t the first time we’ve wondered this aloud. Each time I answer the same way. “The way things happened, it felt like the only decision we could make.”

“Yeah,” she says, not super convincingly. “You still coming for dinner tonight? Mom’s making your favorite.”

“White bean sausage chili?”

“You’re so spoiled.”

“How is your mom doing anyway?”

Jillian shakes her head. “We got into it again.”

“About your dad?”

“The thing I dislike most about this situation, in which there are plenty of things to dislike, is not the sight of my mom, but what the sight of her does to me. Which I know sounds selfish, but.”

“It’s not selfish, J. You get to feel things, too.”

“You should never have to pity your parents. I mean, not this way.” She stops rolling the dough. “I mean, every time I come into the house, I feel like she’s just waiting for me, ready to pounce. Like she’s just rechanneling all of the energy she used on Dad into me. And I love my mom, but . . . it’s just too much sometimes. And she’s all over the place. Happy and sad and laughing and angry and . . . it’s a lot. Not to mention, she’s rearranged everything in the house.”

“Like, the furniture? She’s always done that, though, right?”

“Not just the furniture. All the furniture. And yesterday, I came home to all our dishes, pots and pans, all our food, like the entire pantry, spread out across the kitchen table, the counter, and on the kitchen floor.”

“What? Why?”

“Because she felt like things could be better organized.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“That makes me sad.”

Jillian nods. “Part of me wants Dad to come back and make amends so Mom can go back to being Mom again. But also, part of me wants to never see him again, too. And depending on when you ask me, the ratio of see him versus never see him is always in flux. I mean, this is his mess, and he’s just gone. How could he just leave, Jack?”

“I don’t know. I’m sure he misses you. I’m sure he’s somewhere sad and regretful.”

“I hope so,” Jillian says. “But whenever I imagine him, I picture him somewhere really happy. I see him laughing, tossing his head back like a wolf. Ha.”

“You think Franny feels like your mom?”

Jillian shrugs. “Mom lost her love and her best friend. Franny lost love and two best friends. You do the math.”

“I hate math.”

Jillian wipes her doughy hands onto her apron. “I heard The Coupon got released.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Oh yeah?”

But I already know this.

I’m meeting Franny’s dad tomorrow.





Why I Already Know


“Mr. Hogan,” I say, extending my hand.

But Franny’s dad laughs, grabs me by my shoulders. “Ha, look at you, a full-grown man now. Peach fuzz and everything.”

And I nearly say well, it has been eight years. But I smile instead.

“It’s good to see you, sir.”

“You either call me Francisco or you call me nothing. And don’t even think about calling me sir again.”

“Okay,” I say, deciding in my brain to not refer to Franny’s dad as anything. “So, the reason I wanted to see you was—”

“Hold on,” Franny’s dad says, motioning for the waitress. “You guys have anything good on tap?”

The waitress rattles off the list. “I’ll take a tall of that last one, honey,” he says, flashing her a smile that makes her blush, proving that million-watt smiles are highly genetic. He turns back to me. “Now, why are we here?”

He laughs for three minutes straight when I tell him. But he agrees to help.

“There is one other thing, though, Mr. Hogan.”

Just because Franny despises me doesn’t mean I don’t care about what happens to him. Or to Kate. Although I’m making different choices this time, I still want them to be happy, to have what they need.

“Told you to cut that mister crap.”

“Sorry. The thing is, sir, I mean, uh . . . the thing is I don’t think you understand how much Franny’s missed you.”

Franny’s dad chews on a toothpick. We’re at a bar and grill he chose. He claimed they have the best corned beef, though he’s mainly feasting on beer.

I wait until he takes a big bite from his sandwich before I tell him things that Franny probably wouldn’t want him to know.

“On Franny’s twelfth birthday he waited in the window for you to come for like three hours. He did that even though Abuela told him you weren’t coming. Even though in his heart, he knew you weren’t coming. That you couldn’t come. It was the only time I remember Franny crying when we were kids.”