say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” I say, because that is the best I can do. An empty morsel.
I can’t say Mom.
I can’t do that either.
“I know it’s not fair that you’re the one having to comfort me,” he says, eyes on the hills, looking out at the other houses, before glancing back at me. “I do realize that you are the kid here.”
“Am I?” I ask. “I hadn’t noticed.”
He makes his hands into fists and taps his eyes, one-two-three, and then drops them, as if he is done with the self-pity.
“You are just like your mom. An old soul. When you were a baby, you used to lie in your crib and look up at me, and I remember thinking, Man, this kid already sees right through me.” I look over at him. He is wrong. I don’t see right through him. He is deeper and more complex than he likes to admit.
I’ve seen him order cabernet with steak. Many times. Happily.
“Dad?” The question forms again: Are we leaving? But I let it go. “Nothing. Never mind.”
“So forty-four is really old?” His face brightens. He’s now recovered from whatever gripped him.
“Ancient,” I say.
“Better tell Gloria to add Depends to the shopping list, then.” A stupid joke, maybe but I laugh anyway because I can. I can give him that much.
CHAPTER 17
SN: three things: (1) my first crush was on Wonder Woman. I’m a sucker for a girl with a lasso. (2) my mom has a whole pharmacy in her medicine cabinet. Xanax. Vicodin. Percocet. all the good stuff. and she takes them. all the time. like it’s a problem. (3) you have beautiful hands.
Me: Not in order, but…(1) I have my mom’s hands. She used to play piano. I quit after 2 lessons but I should have stuck with it. Sometimes I listen to her favorite pieces and pretend she’s playing. Oh wow, can’t believe I just told you that. (2) I was Wonder Woman for Halloween a few years ago. Except I wore pants instead of blue undies. Chicago = cold. (3) How’s this for irony? My dad is actually a pharmacist. For real. So I know about all those drugs. I’m sorry about your mom.
—
“Hey, Dried Tubers,” Ethan says when I meet him in the library. Same shirt every day, same chair by the Koffee Kart, and now the same table where we met last time. This guy has his routines down.
“Really? That’s how it’s going to be?” I say, though I smile. I like the familiarity. That he would call me a nickname at all. “I thought you said it made a good insult.”
“I decided we should take back the word,” he says, and packs up his books. Apparently, we’ll be walking again. This makes me happy. It’s so much easier to talk when I don’t have to see his eyes. Ethan looks different today, borderline peppy. “How about Tub-ee? Tuberoni? No?”
“Did you get some sleep or something?” I ask.
He looks up at me, startled. “Huh?” He runs his hands through his hair, his fingers raking the pieces into a perfect mess. I want to touch his hair, tousle it like Gem did. The color is so dark, it looks like it bleeds.
“I dunno. It’s just, you usually seem tired. Today you’re more awake.”
“That obvious?” He nudges me with his shoulder.
“Honestly? It’s like Jekyll and Hyde.” I grin at him to show I mean no harm.
“Six hours. In a row.” He says it proudly, like he just won an award. “I’m what you’d call sleep challenged. ‘I read, much of the night, / and go south in the winter.’ ”
“What?”
“Sorry. Quoting ‘The Waste Land.’ I do read much of the night, but I don’t go anywhere come winter, except sometimes Tahoe to snowboard. So, have you read it?”
“ ‘The Waste Land’?” Why can’t I keep up with him? I’m a smart girl. I get at least seven and a half hours a night. And can he touch my shoulder again, please?
“The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”
“Nope.”
“You should. It’s pretty interesting. It’s about a guy with a split personality.”
“I’m sure you relate,” I say.
“Ha,” he says.
“So how about Tubilicious?” I ask. This is all easier than it should be.
“Tubilicious it is, Jessie.” He stops, and then I wait for it. “Holmes.”
—
Later, we find ourselves at a Starbucks, though not the one with the weird barista. Ethan buys me a vanilla latte and waves my hand away when I offer some cash. Does that make