“No way,” Kenny argues. “Corporate Dorkus 3000.”
“Oh god, it’s the album title all over again,” Hannah says.
“Guys, I haven’t agreed to anything.” It’s hard to protest when I’m laughing. “And besides, if we’re negotiating terms, one of mine is that I never get called a nickname again. No more Suit, or Fixer, or Grim Reaper. Just Theo.”
“Oh, Suit.” Kenny leaps from the couch and musses my hair. “You’ll never be just Theo to us.”
“Kenny, get him a slice of cake,” Hannah says. “He’ll be more persuadable once he’s on a sugar high.”
Kenny nods. “I’ll make it a big one.”
As soon as Kenny and Ripper turn their backs to slice the cake, I find Hannah’s hand and slide my fingers through hers.
I have no idea what’s next.
I’ve never been more excited.
Chapter 49
Hannah
Saturday, November 9, 2024
I’m sitting on my front stoop smoking a cigarette and drinking my third beer of the day, trying to get Ginny to appear, when a familiar gray station wagon rolls to a stop at the curb.
“Fuck.” I spit out the beer and grind my cigarette against the cement, kicking it into the shrubs. The doors of the station wagon open in unison. I stand, wiping my sweaty palms against my shorts. My parents step out of the car.
None of us move. My dad, tall, slender, and fair—the man who gave Ginny and me our blond hair and blue eyes—hangs on to the driver’s-side door with white knuckles, waiting for my mother’s cue. She wrinkles her nose as she studies me, taking in the beer bottle and sweatpants. I’m familiar with this look.
She and I have nothing in common. She’s short and dark-haired with dark eyes. If I hadn’t seen pictures of her from the hospital, I’d wonder if she was really my mom. She wears navy slacks and a white button-up, which is disorienting, since she worked so many hours growing up I’m used to seeing her in scrubs. Outside of them, she doesn’t quite look like herself.
“We heard you came back to Bonita Vista to perform at your high school.” My mother’s tone is accusatory. “We haven’t seen you since Christmas, you won’t return our phone calls, but you’ll visit your friends.” When I say nothing, she adds: “Your father and I decided enough was enough. If you won’t come to us, we’ll come to you.” She squints at my house. “I’m surprised you still live here.”
I look at my dad. The expression on his face is pained enough that I take a deep breath and do what a few months ago would’ve felt unimaginable. I tuck my hair behind my ears. “Well, now that you’re here . . . do you . . . want to come in?”
They still don’t move. “You know how I feel about smoking,” my mom says.
I do know. Sometimes, I think that’s why I still do it.
“It would be nice if you took a shower. Otherwise, I might get sick from the smell.”
“And they wonder,” I mutter to myself, heading for the door, “why I don’t call.”
*
I’m still towel-drying my hair when I find my parents standing in Ginny’s room. It doesn’t surprise me that they’ve gravitated here, since I always do. Neither of them says anything. Maybe they’re committing the details to memory, the phantom traces of Ginny’s hands on her desk, her thoughts in the sticky notes, even the lines of her body still visible in the dresses in the closet. All this beautiful proof of her existence.
Mom frowns. “Why haven’t you boxed this room up? You could use it as an office. Or get a roommate to split the rent.”
Once again, I look to my father. He’s always been the romantic artist to my mother’s hard-nosed pragmatist, which historically always made him more likely to side with me. But right now, he can’t tear his eyes away from Ginny’s calendar.
Seeing them here in her room, it strikes me yet again how hard Ginny and I worked to be different from our parents. They’ve always played by the rules—worked hard, paid their dues, readjusted their dreams to fit the scope of their lives. Good, hardworking middle-class people, I guess. But there’s an aura of disappointment that has always clung to them, a sense that their lives didn’t turn out the way they’d hoped. Or maybe that’s my bias talking. In a lot of ways, it’s just as confusing to be around them at twenty-eight as it was at eight or eighteen. I’m still torn between the urge to judge them and hope for a hug.
I close my eyes. I can practically hear Dr. X saying,We can learn new ways.
“Would you like to sit in the living room and talk?” I push the door open wider, resisting the urge to shoo them out. “I can make you some lemonade. Dad, I have the mix you like.”
He’s still stuck in front of Ginny’s calendar. His hand rises to his mouth. “She didn’t even get to take her test,” he whispers.
