“Carcass. Yes. That was your other line of complaint. So I switched to Coco as a joke. Which you also kind of hated, but maybe secretly sort of loved?”
“Huh. I do like that Pixar movie. And I’m kinda like that kid. We both wear hoodies a lot.”
“Actually,” Maggie says, folding my fingers into hers, “I would joke with you about that song Miguel sings to get his great-grandma Coco to remember her dad. ‘Remember Me.’”
“Oh. Yeah. More relevant than the hoodies.”
We both go quiet, reminded of the horror of our situation. Because, once I looped, I definitively didnotremember Maggie. And I’ll likely forget her again. I sort ofamCoco. But no song, not even that one Maggie wrote about me, is going to snap me out of it.
I must lighten the mood.
“In that case,” I say, “maybe I should call you Maguel.”
“Please, no,” Maggie says, gently shoving my chest. “You tried to do that last time too.”
“Of course I did. Because it’s a brilliant nickname. Why do you get to call me Coco but I can’t call you Maguel?”
Maggie throws her head back and sighs. “Fiiiiine. I guess you can if you really, really need to.”
“I do, Maguel. I really, really do.”
Maggie narrows her eyes, touches her forehead to mine, and growls.
I growl back.
Her gum slides into my mouth as we start kissing again.
June.
Maggie
When I come downstairs on the morning of Mom’s wedding, she’s in the kitchen, hovering over the counter with Ron and Vivian, who’s pointing to her iPad and talking them through the ceremony.
“Morning, Mags,” Mom says without looking up. “Vivvy is making sure we’re not a clueless bride and groom.”
“A rehearsal breakfast, if you will,” Vivian says in her big, cozy lavender hooded sweatshirt.
“Cute.” Out the window over the sink, I see that the caterers are already in the backyard, setting up tables and dozens of chairs beneath an ominous blanket of gray cloud. “Exciting day.”
“I know,” Ron says, putting an arm around Mom and giving a gentle squeeze. “I barely slept. Just can’t wait to be married to your mom.”
“Awww,” Mom says.
“I thought the bride and groom aren’t supposed to see each other until the actual wedding,” I say, with more downer energy than I’d intended.
“Oh, that’s just a silly tradition,” Mom says.
“Yeah,” Ron agrees, dipping a pita chip into a container of lemon dill hummus. “We don’t need to hide from each other. We have nothing to hide!”
“I always thought it was about, like, building up suspense,” I say. “Or drama.”
“We’ve all had enough drama,” Mom says. “No more drama!”
“Okay, let’s get back to it,” Vivian says. “Eyes on me. We’re up to the rings.”
“As you were,” I say, feeling my phone buzz in the front pouch ofmybig, cozy hooded sweatshirt as I investigate the contents of the fridge. I grab a slice of sourdough bread and throw it in the toaster before pulling out my phone.
Can’t wait to see you dazzle em today, kiddo
