Finding Mr. Brightside (9 page)

“It’s nice here,” Juliette says. Then she coughs a couple of times and closes her eyes, enjoying the wind in her immovable bun. The relaxation lasts a minute or so before she’s removing one of her two jackets and turning her heated seat down from High to Low … and then back up to Medium. Sitting up straighter, she cranes her neck around toward her open window, trying to see as much of the ocean as possible. Makes me feel like we’ve made the right irresponsible decision.

We stop at the Piggly Wiggly to pick up a few groceries, and I only oink three or four times while we’re there. Juliette oinks once in the frozen-foods section, but softly enough to keep her dignity. Twenty minutes later, I’m creeping the car through the gates of our private neighborhood, holding up my permit to the Kindle-reading security guard, who grins and points to his device like he’s got a real page-turner in his hands. I glance in the direction of the country club as I roll the car over a speed bump, past the tennis courts where my father and I used to hit for hours. Clay was his favorite surface to play on. And mine. I catch Juliette making a mental note of my interest in the courts, but then she turns away before I can take notes with her.

Our house is the last on the street. Looks a lot like the others—picturesque, manicured, surrounded by palm trees. On the front side, the sound of palm fronds rustling in the breeze is pretty much a constant. The back of the house sits up against the beach, protected from the tide by a sand dune. Juliette’s staring at her arm, and for a second I wish we could ride around town for the next four days instead of going inside—that way, I could guarantee we wouldn’t find some sort of immediate setback left behind by our parents. But suppose we did drive away from any potential difficulties inside … then what? We’d still be the same people regardless of our surroundings, and eventually our pasts would catch up and be like,
Hey, guys, remember how shitty we were?

“C’mon,” I say to Juliette, “let’s go have some fun.”

“Even if it kills us?”

“Nope.” I turn off the car and jiggle my keys. “The alive-only kind.”

Juliette

T
HE
M
ORGANS’ TWO-STORY
beach house might be considered charming by someone with an easily charmed outlook on life. To me, it looks overwhelming. Also, keeping Ian Morgan’s “travel lightly” text to my mother in mind, I definitely overpacked. The veins are popping on Abram’s arm as he carries my suitcase toward the door.

“You should just roll it, yes?” My third time telling him this, but who’s counting?

“Nope, not a problem,” he says, adjusting his grip between breaths. He hoists my problem up the stairs of the wraparound deck and through the front door, which, in my reluctance to go anywhere near the house, I almost forget to hold open for him. He steps inside, and I’m right behind him, in spirit. I hear the suitcase rolling along the floor as I’m shutting myself out. Removing my phone from my purse, I try to think of something to text my dad, but nothing seems appropriate given that this whole situation is somewhat inappropriate. I decide on:
Here. Love you.
A few tense hair adjustments later, I get his comparably affectionate
Thanks—love you, too
response. Nice to know he’s still the kind of parent who can be the bigger person.

“Ready for the grand tour?” Abram asks, walking back out a minute later.

“Don’t forget to text your mom,” I say, putting away my phone.

“Next thing on my list.” He smiles because there isn’t any such list as I look down at his long fingers, still outstretched in warm welcome. Not for the first time I notice how veiny and sinewy his hands are.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

“The ocean.”

And strong hands. Back at his basement, between sea-creature documentaries, Abram will go outside but leave the screen door open in case I need anything, and I’ll hear him clipping his nails for a solid twenty minutes, disturbing the locusts for a change. The effort obviously isn’t lost on me, but who knows where the self-control hides when it’s time to fill out college applications. Probably the same hole mine’s crawling into right now.

Without warning, Abram does exactly what I wasn’t prepared to admit to wanting all along. He reaches out and presses his cushiony palm against my bony counterpart, which is eager to escape its cold, low-blood-pressure prison and burrow into his skin as our fingers slide into place together.

“Promise not to run away?” he says.

“Never.”

As in,
Never promising that.
Abram knows what I meant.

“I’ll let you run beside me if I do,” I add.

He squeezes my hand.

20

ABRAM

T
HOUGHT IT MIGHT
help Juliette get settled if we went upstairs and unpacked immediately, without so much as stopping to turn on the TV. Bad call, the dread seems to be settling in as we stand just inside the entryway of the master bedroom, staring at the intimidating four-poster king. The floorboards creak every time one of us moves, and it wasn’t just her paranoia expressing itself a second ago; I think it
is
colder in this room versus every other room in the house. The peppermint-scented cleaning products and the pale-blue linen duvet are subtracting a few more degrees, as is my dad’s metallic-gray tennis racquet leaning against the closet door.

“Maybe we should sleep downstairs,” she suggests, already leaning in that direction. “Where there aren’t any ghosts.”

“There’s a ghost-free couch bed in the living room,” I say.

“Sounds lovely.”

We roll our suitcases back down the hallway, past the other available bedrooms, to the top of the stairs. Juliette tells me just to push hers down and let the suitcase land where it may, but that sounds like a red herring option whereby the girl is temporarily convincing herself she won’t blame the boy for whatever happens. I grab the handle and lift, taking a break every few steps because she keeps recommending it. One of these days, she’ll let me perform a favor for her without calculating what she owes me, which is always going to be nothing. Except maybe a kiss, if our relationship ever reaches the level—pinnacle?—where favors can be repaid sexually (in a respectful manner).

Once downstairs, we pull out the couch bed and cover the mattress with as many sheets and pillows as we can find outside of the master bedroom, topping it with her dad’s flame-retardant blanket. She’s already predicting how cold she’s going to be tonight. My theory on that is she’d be less freezing if she’d stop mentioning it out loud, like self-fulfilling body temperature. It’s not very well thought-out, but it still feels like I’m onto something.

“You sure you’re okay with staying down here?” she asks, as if I’d nitpick the conditions in which I get to sleep with her completely awake beside me.

“We can do whatever we want,” I remind her, smiling. “There’s no right or wrong on vacation.”

She frowns, looks like she’s thinking this over until it sounds more wrong in her brain. Then she says, “You’re right.”

“Not necessarily.”

She arches an eyebrow, perhaps impressed I didn’t fall for her trick. Perhaps not, but I leave it at that and turn on the gas fireplace, which makes her happy. By the time we have everything situated in our ad hoc bedroom, the sun is setting. Juliette asks if I’m hungry, and I’m like, “Hell, yeah!” The immediacy of my enthusiasm startles her.

We head into the kitchen and she has a seat at the bar as I gather the makings of several multi-ingredient sandwiches. She answers my “How many?” question with a “Zero.”

“Already ate,” she insists.

I stare inside the fridge for a minute, trying to remember that occurring recently.

“Food?” I ask, shutting the door.

“Pill,” she says, as a load of fresh cubes crashes into the ice maker.

Her choosing Adderall over a sandwich may not be wrong by my lax vacation standards, but it still feels like a sore subject that needs to be addressed while we’re here.

“Speaking of pills, guess what tonight is?” she asks.

“Tonight I’m officially Paxil-free, thanks to you.”

“A monkey could have made that spreadsheet,” she demurs.

“No way. But what about a Piggly Wiggly?”

She groans, swiveling back and forth in her bar stool. “So … are you feeling depressed right now?”

“Yes.” I reach into a nearby cabinet and set an empty plate down in front of her. “But only because you won’t have a sandwich with me.”

21

Juliette

A
ND THIS IS WHY
I rarely bring up the truth about myself—Abram gets all low-key worried about a lost cause. I’m blowing air into my cheeks to make my face appear more well-fed, and it might be my least effective ruse yet; for sure the least attractive. Right now he could easily point out all the reasons I shouldn’t be taking Adderall, including death of appetite, so why isn’t he? He’s opting to say nothing at all, which is … making me hungrier?

“What about half a sandwich?” I hear myself say.

Abram flashes me a relieved smile, wags the butter knife in my direction like I won’t regret this, then begins the multi-ingredient congealment process. Every once in a while, he’ll look toward the door like he’s expecting his dad to walk in at any moment, and my heart attacks me. In defense, I picture my mother walking in on the arm of Ian Morgan, acting like the four of us are on a perfectly deranged
couples retreat
together, and then heading straight for the wine bottles that line the top of the cabinets as I slip out the back door. She’d have a much easier time lighting up the room without me, I’m sure.

“You ate your whole half,” Abram points out, smiling. I look down at my plate. Empty. Hunger blackout.

“Want to test out the hot tub in a few?” he asks, pointing toward the back of the house, as if the convenience of the location will make it harder to resist.

“Only if we can get tested for staph infections afterward.”

“There’s an urgent-care down the road,” he says, laughing.

I’m serious, just ask Heidi about her leg wound that bubbled open for two months after she took a dip in a hot tub—she’s fascinated by the experience now, having had plenty of time to make peace with the disgustingness of it. (I’m going to need a few more years.) I wish Abram had asked me a question I could’ve said yes to, even though he seems fine with yet another no.

“How do you do that?” I ask.

He points to his chewing mouth, like,
Eat an abundance of sandwiches?

I shake my head. “Accept everything, all the time, even when there’s no good reason for it.”

He swallows. “Why fight it?”

“Because otherwise it will never change?”

“It’s more likely to change if I don’t force it,” he says, an understated confidence to his tone. “I could teach you how to go with the flow sometime, if you want.”

“You already have been,” I say, without sarcasm. “Just keep doing what you’re not realizing you’re doing.”

“Will do,” he promises, as I wipe a crumb from the corner of his lip. “Unwittingly, of course.”

My hand freezes by his face for a second.

I stand up and throw away our paper plates—before he can see the goose bumps on my arms—and watch from the corner of my eye as he stretches, pats his stomach, and then yawns, not all that concerned about whatever’s not going to happen next.

“Okay,” I say, “let’s go hot-tubbing.”

That must be the new Juliette talking; she’s a gung-ho ho-bag who’s totally down for mostly naked and highly unsanitary experiences. Meanwhile, the old me is like,
Girl, good luck with her. I’ll just be over here thinking about where to hide your pills from the ghosts.

As Abram and I head toward the living room to change, I look back at the kitchen one last time, mentally apologizing to my mother for making up a back-from-the-grave scenario in which I wasn’t happy to see her. Maybe my negativity patterns will stop repeating themselves in the hot tub tonight, or at the beach tomorrow, or neither because I’ll be wearing a swimsuit.

22

ABRAM

I
’VE GROWN ACCUSTOMED
to my mom asking if I remembered to pack this or that until she just ends up doing it for me, so it’s still not her fault I forgot my swim trunks, but that’s why they’re back home in a pile somewhere. This oversight reminds me to send her a text saying we got here safely and the house is okay, so all isn’t lost. Mom texts back an immediate thank-you, with multiple exclamations, then sends a picture of herself and Aunt Jane smiling next to a slot machine, three diamond symbols glittering up the screen. Seconds later, Aunt Jane texts:

You owe me a souvenir for keeping her entertained, Mr. Romance. (And, yes, I realize we would’ve gone to the casino anyway.)

She thinks of everything, Aunt Jane.

I put on a pair of swimsuit-looking gym shorts while waiting for Juliette to finish changing in the bathroom. She’s been in there awhile, probably being overly critical of her flawless appearance. “Hey, you need more toilet paper?” I call out, trying to stop the critique by implying she’s taking an evening poo.

She flings open the door a second later, wearing a custom death-look that makes it harder to stare at her in that red bikini, but I still find a way.

“I wasn’t … you know.”

“Of course,” I say, like a distinguished gentleman. I hide my snicker behind the towel I’m offering to her. She throws it back at me, grabs her huge purse, and walks toward the door. Perhaps a reluctant dip in the hot tub will help her relax.

As we step outside, the whole backyard scene—the sandy deck underneath our feet, the sound of the ocean crashing predictably against the shore—does seem less to her hating. There’s another shift in mood as we close in on the hot tub and remove the cover, and the motor starts whirring like it’s been waiting for company to come. My right foot is almost touching the swirling, foamy water when she holds out her palm in warning.

“Orville Redenbacher died in a hot tub,” she pronounces.