Finding Mr. Brightside (19 page)
Read Finding Mr. Brightside Online
Authors: Jay Clark
The three of us take our seats and start passing plates of food around, salt and pepper shakers, syrup, etc. Suzy’s phone blows up several times as her sister, Jane, tries to set her up on a date. Oh, Aunt Jane, whose life I now know better than my own, thanks to Facebook—e.g., her latest post wondering if her feet aching has more to do with the cold weather or her half-marathon training. Thirty-seven people Liked it, practically begging for the next installment, and I was one of them.
True to form, Aunt Jane won’t take no for an answer, so eventually Suzy stands up and puts the phone inside the Crock-Pot to slow-cook away any future distractions. I’ll have to borrow that recipe from her sometime.
“How do you feel about recently divorced veterinarians?” I ask Suzy when she sits back down. Feeling stupid, I reach under the table for the dog. She’s chewing the piece of bacon Abram just gave her. “There’s this doctor at the Humane Society, sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
Suzy leans forward and smiles. “What’s his name?”
I hold up my phone so she can see for herself.
“Now
that’s
an option,” Suzy says. Abram smiles at me as his mom continues to explore it. I mouth a
Sorry,
he mouths back a
Thank you
.
“I don’t think he has any kids,” I tell Suzy, thinking that’s a huge plus. She looks disappointed for a second, then goes back to staring.
“Okay, enough about my future boyfriend,” Suzy says, handing back my phone, “tell me more about the beach. Did you run into Terry and Linda, by any chance?”
Abram and I look at each other, then back at Suzy, who’s now looking away. “After I called and asked them to keep an eye on you,” she says to the refrigerator.
The three of us share a laugh, splitting it pretty much equally.
ABRAM
J
ULIETTE AND
I put away the dishes while Mom directs Aunt Jane to the Humane Society website over the phone. From the sounds of their conversation, Aunt Jane seems to be approving (we can hear the approval from her end of the line).
“What if he’s a creeper?” Juliette whispers, handing me a bowl to place in the dishwasher.
“Then we’ll design an exit strategy for her.”
“I like where your head’s at,” she says, “but I’m not sure why you put that bowl there.”
“Sorry, baby.” I look up and grin, waiting for her brain to reject the “baby.” “Too soon?”
“Not at all … baby.” She can’t keep a straight face.
Is this a preview of us two years from now, coexisting in our first crappy on-campus apartment together? I’m thinking so. Ten dollars she won’t be scrunching her nose at my pet names by then, either. She’ll be like, “Hey, baby, will you stop putting the cookie sheet in the dishwasher when it doesn’t fit, please? Or maybe just stop making cookies altogether, babes, thanks?” And I’ll say, “I’ll take those requests into consideration, sugar cookie.” She’ll roll her eyes, and then sugar cookie will be her new nickname for a little while, until she goes back to being my baby again.
Juliette’s been trying to hand me a plate for a solid ten seconds now.
“My bad, baby.”
Juliette
T
HERE SHE IS,
standing behind the counter like she’s been expecting me. Mindy hasn’t changed a bit since she last dispensed my pills, so that’s something to appreciate about her. I wore my hair down to surprise Abram today and nearly died from the psychological adjustment on the way over here.
“How are you, Mindy?” I say, sliding my new prescription across the countertop.
She smiles. “I’m well, Juliette. You’re looking tanner than I last saw you.”
I’m
loving
Mindy these days.
I tell her I was at the beach last week, and she says her boyfriend’s parents have a place down that way, OMG, small world. Odd, I’ve never pictured a boyfriend figure living in Mindy’s townhouse—more like a sloppy girl roommate who rolls down the waistband of her baggy sweatpants while making Ramen in the kitchen, a scratched-up dining room table covered in student-loan invoices, and an overfed cat named Mr. Whiskers who’s wondering where it all went wrong. That’s my way of expressing that I’m happy Mindy has someone, too.
“Let me just see if we have this medication in stock.”
“I think you do,” I say. “That was me calling ahead two hours ago.”
Nervous laughter from both sides of the counter. It’s like some sort of customer-service barrier has been broken, her knowing I call every month, me finally acknowledging it. She comments that it’s a lower dosage than I’ve gotten in the past, and I tell her this will be my last bottle.
While I’m waiting, I walk over to the hair-care aisle to see if she’s been restocked. At first I can’t find her, start to panic. I remind myself it’s okay, that this is just a mind-made form of her, not the real person, which is impossible to capture in an image or the words of anyone else’s fuzzy recount, including mine.
Especially
mine. Anyway, I’m still relieved when I find the box.
Hi, Mom. I miss you. You were right about Abram.
A few minutes later, prescription in hand, I walk out the automatic doors and find him leaning down and petting my dad’s early Christmas present: a golden retriever rescue we named Whale. The dog is alternating between looking up at the glowing Redbox screen in front of him, and becoming obsessed with licking off the lotion I applied to Abram’s redeveloping tennis calluses earlier. Something’s wrong with him. I feel like Whale wants to film the canine version of
Prescription for Love
with Abram’s dog and then rent it repeatedly, unable to control himself, just as his crazy dog-mother couldn’t. As soon as he’s past these tricky teen-dog years, I’ll let him make the best decision of his life, at CVS, too.
ABRAM
Y
EP, I’VE BEEN HERE ALL ALONG,
in and out of the store, visiting with Whale the dog, watching my girl be nice to Mindy from the vitamin section. Juliette invited me this time; extended the invitation twenty minutes ago, in my basement. We drove separately, thinking we’d re-create the magical awkwardness of that night we first chatted, but primarily so she could get some solo driving practice. I followed behind her to make sure she did okay, and, hmm, she almost turned left into the wrong lane, accidentally rolling up onto the grassy median that divides the road. She recovered nicely, but she has a ways to go before she’s ready to merge onto any highways.
“Ready to go?” she asks.
“Just one second,” I say, standing up and digging into my pocket.
It’ll be tough to compete with Ben Flynn’s early Christmas present, especially when Juliette doesn’t want me to get her anything out of fear she’ll hate it and accidentally hurt my feelings. Meanwhile, she keeps ordering stuff online with her dad’s credit card and having it shipped directly to my basement’s sliding door, per the extra-specific instructions on the package. The
SHIPPED FROM
address is a PO Box, the shipper’s name A
NONYMOUS,
but it’s got her Secret Santa signature written all over it. So far, she’s gotten me linen sheets for the dorm-room bed she’s acting like she won’t be spending a lot of time in but really will, and new strings for my racquet with the latest in obnoxious lefty-spin technology. Already played with them at the club a few times, in preparation for my comeback this spring. My dad would’ve loved them. And he really would’ve loved the reason why I’m playing again: not because I think it’s what he’d want me to do, but because I want to do it.
“You didn’t buy me anything, did you?” she asks, as I hide it behind my back.
“It’s more of a graduation present than a Christmas gift.” The dog is sniffing at my hands, trying to decide whether to eat the remaining lotion or my surprise. I bring it around to show Juliette.
“Big Red,” she says, accepting the gum with visible relief. Then she turns the package over and finds the tickets. Two of them, naturally, for a European cruise this summer. Wiped out my mom’s Abram’s College Gift fund, but the whole cruise aspect was Mom’s idea, because she thinks it’ll make her worry less about my safety, as well as my tendency to lose important documents.
I put my hands in my pockets, rocking back and forth as I say, “We’ll avoid Moscow, check out Paris for a few days, and we’re less likely to get mugged in a dark alleyway on a boat.”
“My hero.”
“Plus, we’ll be closer to home.”
She nods, knowing I mean the ocean.
“They’re refundable, in case you change your mind.”
“I’m done changing my mind,” she says firmly. Then she smiles, leans forward, and lets me revisit the feeling of her lips on mine, which will never get old, even when we’re old, gray whales.
Jay Clark
is the author of
The Edumacation of
Jay Baker
, which was named a Bank Street College Best Book. He’s also a random blogger. Surprisingly popular entries like “How to stop hating people in 21 minutes” and “8 tips for posting your best selfie yet!” can be found on his website:
jayclarkbooks.com
. He lives in Columbus, Ohio. Sign up for email updates
here
.
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CONTENTS
Copyright © 2015 by Jay Clark
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