Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,83

Or like Milo. Not even close. Do you have any idea how lucky you are?”

“I am?” I said.

Gray held his hands out, blatantly ripping off my hear-me-out pose. “You got to this new school, where you didn’t know anyone, and everyone made fun of you, but bam, you went out and found yourself a couple of blood brothers for life. Because you’re Sunny, and that’s what Sunny does.”

“It is?” I said.

“I always wished I had what you had,” said Gray. “Because if you have that as sort of your foundation under your feet, you can do anything. You can become a rock star in a little over four weeks.” He grinned and twinkled his hands, voilà.

He made me smile a lopsided smile.

“You three stuck together for years,” said Gray. “No matter what people called you, like nerd, geek—”

“Okay,” I said.

“—dork, loser—”

“Okay,” I said.

“—virgin, weirdo—”

“We get it, honey,” said Mom.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You never cared what other people thought about you,” said Gray. “I always envied that. And you’re crushing it. ScreenJunkie, Miss Mayhem.” He paused. “Cirrus.”

Gray began crying in earnest now. “I really am super sorry.”

“Me too,” I said.

We cried together now, also something we hadn’t done since the day we left Arroyo Plato.

Coldplay

They discharged Gray a few hours later, once the IV drip ran out. It was almost five in the morning. The three of us tucked Gray into bed—a cozy little parade—and flumpity-dumped back up the stairs to let him sleep.

Yawning, I began a slow search for a glass to fill with water. Mom and Dad sat at the kitchen counter, both lost in thought.

“Mom?” I said.

“What, sweetie.”

“Dad?” I said.

“Yap,” said Dad. He stretched and yawned one of those great big dad-yawns.

“Are you guys happy?” I said.

“Hey, hey, hey,” sang Mom in descending arpeggio. “What makes you say that?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

Dad sat straighter. “Do you want me to be more involved in your fantasy gameplaying? Because I totally would love that, what ho, good sir.”

“And you’re fluent in Fakespearean,” I said with a laugh.

“You’re trying to tell us we work too much,” said Dad. “Aren’t you.”

“I don’t know,” I said again.

Something dinged on Dad’s laptop, momentarily pilfering his attention. Mom gently shut the lid.

I took a breath and said what I’d been wanting to say for years:

“You guys worked a lot less back at our old place.”

I knit my fingers at my belly for a moment, then decided to stop. I put my hands on my hips instead. I wanted answers. I waited.

Dad looked at Mom. You wanna tell the story?

Mom looked back at Dad and touched his face. It was a simple gesture, one I didn’t recall ever having seen. You tell the story.

Dad shoved his laptop away and heaved himself up onto the counter. “Once upon a time, a boy”—he pointed to himself—“met a girl”—he pointed to Mom—“and fell crazy in love.”

Mom gripped his hand. I noticed that their rings aligned.

Rings, hands, Ring of Baphomet, Cirrus.

My gut twisted.

Dad continued. “The boy and girl got married, got jobs, me at Grandpa’s office, Mom somewhere else, had kids”—he gestured at me—“and from that moment on worked day and night to make sure their beautiful new baby boys would never have to work day and night.”

“And it was tough,” said Mom. She shook Dad’s hand as if charging into battle. “Every weekend—every free minute—became a pressure cooker situation.”

“I don’t really understand what that means,” I said.

“You will,” Dad said, and then caught himself and brrt shook his head like a broken robot. “I mean, I hope you never do, is what I meant.”

“Honey,” said Mom.

“Sorry,” said Dad.

“What I’m saying is they wanted to make sure their two beautiful boys always had enough,” said Mom.

I looked around at our outrageous custom kitchen. “Uh, I think we have enough.”

Dad’s face tightened with sorrow. “But these two parents, they were so busy chasing the next dollar they forgot to pay attention to how many they already had.”

Both Mom and Dad fell silent. I let my arms drop. I had been demanding answers from them, and now that I had them, I only felt a growing melancholy.

You forgot to pay attention to a lot of things, I wanted to say.

“We forgot to pay attention to a lot of things,” said Mom.

“I spend all my time trying to keep a super-duper positive attitude,” said Dad quietly. “More like super-stupid attitude.”

Dad-joke, I thought, but didn’t dare say anything. I was so grateful for these words that I just held my breath to hold