The waiter dropped two Diet Cokes on the table with the promise to return shortly.
“I just want to be on the other side of it all,” she said, sipping her drink. “Like you.”
Milo closed his eyes and laughed. “You’ve only seen the good days.”
Her lips sloped. “Don’t tell me that.”
“I think year five was the hardest for me.”
“Five!”
“Ten was really weird, too. Something about another five years just slipping away…”
She sighed, leaning back against the chair and twisting the paper wrapper from her straw between her fingers.
“This conversation is depressing me.”
Milo rolled his eyes. “Your dead mom is depressing you. I’m only calling attention to it.”
Hanna sat up straight, her ears ringing like he’d just punched her.
Lisa passed away. She lost her battle. Or Hanna’s least favorite, the lord called her home.
No one ever called Lisa what she was—dead.
Milo set his drink down. “Hanna—sorry, the direct thing?—”
A sharp laugh cut through her chest, the kind that had edges and teeth. Her head spun with such a sudden lightness, such a relief. She was still laughing when a salad and a plate of fries appeared.
“Everyone avoids that word,” she finally said, his eyes wide with concern. “I love that you don’t.”
“You gotta fight fucked up with fucked up,” he said, reaching across the table and snagging a fry. Hanna slapped at his hand.
“I haven’t even had one yet!”
“Fine, fine,” he muttered, pulling his hand back. “But next time hit harder so I’ve got something to fantasize about later.”
Hanna scoffed, her cheeks turning pink, but Milo moved on, unfazed as ever.
“What are you doing tonight?”
“Hmm,” Hanna picked up a fry and pointed it at him. “Why? Chloe busy?”
“We’re going to a friend’s show, if you want to come.”
Hanna, unfortunately, had fallen into the trap that was Chloe. She was fun to be around, even if Hanna frequently had dreams that she was her.
“What kind of show?”
“Cover band. Mostly nineties grunge.”
She’d seen Sara fussing with a seating chart diagram on her laptop that morning. If she were at home, she’d likely get roped into the logistics of how to keep Logan as far away from her as possible, and that wasn't nearly as appealing.
“Yeah,” she said. “Okay.”
“I’ll come grab you at eight-ish? Wear my flannel, it’s very Cobain.”
Hanna giggled and pushed her plate of fries toward him, her veins still buzzing with the high of not having to talk around the pain in her chest.
