Finding Mr. Brightside (18 page)

“Romance,” I answer. “Not too much love, though. And with us as the main characters, but me as a less-depressing version of myself. Or just do your own thing, sorry.”

“There once was a whale from Nantucket,” he begins. “She was a female whale named Angela Buckley who frowned her fair share. She was also pretty skinny by her species’ standards, although her absence of blubber didn’t take much, if anything, away from her sleek, intimidating beauty. It just made her cold all the time.”

He kisses me softly on my forehead, asks what I think so far. I curl up against his chest, molding my entire body into his, letting him know he has my interest. “Smart to abandon the ‘ucket’ rhyming scheme early on,” I say quietly. “Angela the whale sounds like a crazy B.”

“Funny you should mention Angela’s mental state,” Abram says. “She wanted her fellow whales to misread her as inaccessible, yes, and believe she had no interest in getting to know them. Not because Angela thought her whale poo didn’t stink—she just had a lot of rules and walls and self-restraining orders on top of being sad, scared, admittedly overmedicated, and, most of all, lost. But then, one day, she found a strapping male whale named Philip with the healthiest appetite she’d ever seen, filling up his convenience basket with food at her favorite twenty-four-hour whale pharmacy.”

He pauses so we can brainstorm a good name for a whale pharmacy. His entries: Rite Whale, Whale Pharm, Whalegreens. Mine: SeaVS, Pills & Krill … and then I forfeit because I swear on the Little Mermaid’s humanity I was going to say Whalegreens.

“Great, so Angela and Philip were both at Whalegreens,” Abram continues. “Philip the whale, who was a bit sad and lonely himself at the time, was waiting for the prescription that had contributed to his excessive sleeping and eating of great-tasting junk such as Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and pizza-on-a-bagel, but I digress.”

He digresses straight into the kitchen, microwaves our snack, and returns with a plate of pepperoni bagel bites. We eat and Abram tells the rest of his story, our story, in a way that makes me realize how in love we really are without making me uncomfortable. When I ask him if there will be anything close to a decent ending for Angela and Philip, he says it doesn’t matter, because
at this very moment
, they’re together, happy.

43

Juliette

“R
EADY
?” A
BRAM ASKS ME,
as we’re packing up the car Monday morning.

I give him the facial expression his question deserves.

“Me neither.”

I hate endings, especially after enjoying what happened beforehand. But it’s time to leave. I’ll miss you, non-barking dogs at the beach. Thanks for the memories, couch bed. You weren’t as creepy as I made you out to be, house. Each goodbye is like a death. And we all know how healthily I deal with that fact of life.

Nevertheless, I’d like to think I’ve changed a bit for the better these past few days. That I won’t regress to taking too many pills, being a reliable no-show to parties, going about my business like it’s just another day at the office inside my head. Crazy, Inc. has a one-man Human Resources Department now, in the form of Abram, who reminds me everything is going to be fine whether I ignore it or not. Yes, Abram made our last mandatory run on the beach enjoyable, our last conversation with Linda and Terry manageable, our last kiss on the couch bed worth getting the bed back out for because we almost forgot to have one last kiss on the couch bed.

Together, we pull out of the driveway and onto the road.

“Squirrel chunks,” I say, pointing toward the curb.

Abram smiles. “Or … a brown golf towel.”

“Jesus.”

“Your driving is looking really accurate, though.”

“Thanks,” I say, re-gripping the wheel. “You’re up, one-to-zero.”

If we ever become the kind of couple who tell people we’re a couple, I’m pretty sure we won’t bring out the worst in each other, on purpose. That’s not really something to brag about, I’m just saying … we make a good couple.

ABRAM

I
’M PROUD OF
J
ULIETTE
for taking the first leg of the trip. Even if it’s a short leg. When she reaches the stop sign just past the security gate, we get out of the car and trade places. I manage to kiss her in passing before getting back into the car. Twenty minutes later, as I’m rolling up beside the tollbooth, she leans over and kisses me. Against all whatnot, we’re definitely in love. I hope she’s still feeling it after I make this announcement.

“I sent you an e-mail this morning.”

After recovering from the shock, she checks her phone. “Why is there a spreadsheet labeled ‘Subtracterall’ attached to it?”

“Open it up and find out.”

She does her nose-scrunch thing. “I’ll save it for later.”

“There are some excellent formulas inside, trust me.”

Juliette downloads the file and starts reviewing the recovery plan I’ve laid out for her, which includes dates, dosages, and even a Strategies column that I’ve pretty much memorized.

1. Take a deep breath and text Abram. (He likes phone calls, too, but knows you’re not a fan.)

2. Let yourself laugh at the humorous Emoji he texts back along with another open invitation to his basement.

3. Go to Abram’s basement and/or let Abram pick you up and eventually take you underground.

4. Share a guilt-free snack with Abram.

5. Kiss him often (this really helps).

6. If, after all that, you still want to pop a pill, Abram and the dog will not judge you.

7. Don’t give yourself a hard time if you slip up along the way. Fail better next time. With Abram.

“So, whataya say?”

She nods and agrees to try it. That’s all anyone could ever ask, including me.

“You know I’m your girlfriend when we get back home, right?” she says, handing me a coconut water.

“Never considered you anything else.”

44

Juliette

T
HIS CAN’T BE MY HOUSE.
The freak haven Abram just pulled up in front of is far too welcoming, like a place where children can giggle and play nearby without fear or parental guardians. Strands of white lights have been strung diagonally along the columns by the front door, perfectly spaced. Matching pots of poinsettias sit beside them. Three cranberry-infested wreaths hang above each garage, the doors of which have been left open for our neighbors to just walk right up and annoy us. Dad’s car is parked in his spot, but that doesn’t stop me from calling his cell for an explanation. He’s not answering. Abram doesn’t think it’s time to alarm the police just yet. He offers to accompany me inside, and I try to entertain the possibility of Abram and my father in the same room together. It only works if I don’t have to be there, too.

“Just to make sure everything’s okay,” he tells me, “then I’ll leave immediately.”

“I bet you say that to all your paranoid girlfriends.”

“Is it working?”

“Yes, actually. Remind me to have you check the closets for intruders.”

He gets my suitcase out of the trunk and rolls it into the garage beside me. The door is unlocked, WTF. Abram points up … to the mistletoe hanging above our heads. Nightmare. I kiss him back, anyway.

The temperature inside the house is warm, almost as if we’re encouraging our guests to kick off their shoes and stay awhile.

“Want me to take off my flip-flops?” Abram asks.

“That’s okay.”

We step into the kitchen. “Dad!” I call out. He never answers—prefers to draw me into his office so he doesn’t have to move—just thought I’d try for the millionth time.

I’m about to offer Abram the nothing we have to eat or drink, but then I think twice and open the fridge. The shelves have been stocked with soda, sliced watermelon, grapes that have already been picked from their stems and placed in a plastic container, meats and cheeses that would’ve required talking to the person manning the deli counter.

We find my father’s office recently cleaned, not a stack of coffee-stained papers in sight. The dimmer switch has been slid up to its Medium setting, not its usual Completely Off. A candle sits flickering on his desk, its pine-tree scent filling the room with the nauseating stench of Christmas spirit.

Dad’s chair has been swiveled away from the door. He’s there. Typing away at his keyboard, in another world, writing. Some things never change … until they have to, because I really want to go to college with Abram.

ABRAM

J
ULIETTE WALKS OVER
and starts inspecting her father, pretends to be weirded out by him wearing jeans and a polo instead of sweatpants and a flannel, but my hunch is she’s relieved by the transformation. Then she smiles and hugs her dad, and they stay like that for a minute, giving me a chance to process that I’m really a fly on the wall in her house.

Juliette steps back and introduces us in her impatient way: “Dad, Abram. Abram, blahhh, I hate introductions.”

Ben Flynn doesn’t smile at me, just stands up and wraps my hand in his cold palm. “Thank you, young man,” he says as we shake. I must look confused by the somber display of gratitude, because he adds, “For keeping my daughter company these past few months.”

It’s like getting extra credit for homework I would’ve done anyway, but I take it and tell him it was no big deal.

“Except it was, because I’m high-maintenance,” Juliette says, guiding me to the couch so I can have a seat. Ben Flynn sits, as well. She remains standing. “Not to change the subject, Father, but haven’t we always been vaguely annoyed by Christmas?”

“We have been, yes,” Ben Flynn admits. “I suppose I thought it wouldn’t hurt to give Christmas another try. Plus, I got you a gift.”

“Thanks, but please no.” She thinks this over again. “What is it?”

“We have to pick it up together, but see how much fun we’re having with the holidays already?” Ben Flynn says, rubbing his hands together facetiously. “What do you think of the lights, Abram?”

I look up at Juliette, then over to her dad. “I like them. Left me wanting more.”

She sighs, sits down next to me as I ask her dad what his latest book is about. “It’s about a man and a woman who meet at CVS,” he explains, and Juliette doesn’t look surprised. Her idea, I gather. The rest of his synopsis sounds familiar, but not
too
familiar in a way that would make me think Ben Flynn just got back from hiding out in the closet of the same beach house as us.

“Do you have a title yet?” I ask.

“I’ve grown partial to Juliette’s suggestion of a few weeks ago:
Prescription for Love
.”

“That was a fake suggestion,” Juliette says, but she’s smiling, relieved her dad is moving forward with this decision, and others, without her. We’re definitely going to college together.

45

ABRAM

I
T’S THE WEEKEND
after getting back from the beach, and Mom’s in the kitchen making breakfast when I walk in searching for a stamp. I find one in her secret candy drawer, slap it on, and slide the envelope toward the pancake griddle so she can see what I’m mailing today.

“Is this what I think it is?” Mom says, pointing the spatula at my college application. I nod, and she wraps her arms around me.

“Just finished filling it out downstairs,” I say proudly. “Accepted the tennis scholarship, too.”

“Whatever you want to do, Abram, as long as you go to school. And to class while you’re there, please—that would be a nice bonus.” She turns back to the pancakes and takes a deep breath. “Oh, thank God, I’m so relieved.”

“Wow, I must’ve really looked like I was going nowhere for a while,” I say.

“Noooo,” Mom says, reaching out and squeezing my hand. “Well, not since you met the beautiful closet organizer downstairs.”

I give her a sheepish grin. “How’d you know she was here already?”

“Moms always know, Abram,” she says with a smile. “Plus, she’s almost always here.”

I find Juliette eavesdropping at the top of the basement stairs.

“Did you hear the part about moms always knowing?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“What did you think?”

“I wanted to believe her,” she says.

“But?”

She shakes her head. “So I believed her.”

Juliette

ABRAM TAKES MY HAND
and leads me toward the breakfasty smells escaping from the kitchen. I forgot to bring my appetite, remembered the tension in my neck. I’m leaving as soon as Abram’s mom says anything passive-aggressive about our trip to the beach. But I’ve eavesdropped on enough of her conversations with her son to know she won’t; that’s just me wanting to go already.

“Mom?” Abram says. Suzy removes several pancakes from the griddle in front of her and turns around. “This is Juliette.”

“Hi,” I say with a weird wave of my hand. Suzy Morgan attacks me, all right … with a vicious hug! Her body radiates warmth, like Abram’s, and I can smell the rosemary-mint conditioner she buys for him in her bouncy blond hair.

“Thank you for coming,” she says, sounding genuine. “Next time I promise not to burn the pancakes.”

“Oh, no, I’m sure they’re fine,” I say, looking over at them.

“They’re mildly burnt,” Abram says by the griddle, picking one up and taking a bite out of it. “Still taste good, though.”

“What can I get you to drink?” Suzy asks me. “We have orange juice, milk…”

What if I were the kind of Bob Evans farm girl who rubbed her tummy and said,
Mmm, yes, can I have a big, tall glass of milk with a straw, please?

“Coffee?”

“Yes!” she exclaims. “We have that.” As if to prove this is a house of no beverage judgment, Abram reaches into the fridge and pops the tab on a can of Sunkist.

“It’s a little on the strong side,” Suzy apologizes, handing me a huge casino-branded mug with a red 7-shaped handle. Abram smiles to himself, well aware of my caffeine-glugging tolerance (one of my few high tolerances).

“I’ll just sip it,” I tell Suzy, because she hasn’t stopped caring yet. She smiles and buzzes back to the carafe to pour a cup for herself, too.