Funny Story(79)

He touches my elbow. “Just text me if you need an out.”

My brow lifts. “You’ll cause a diversion?”

“If I have to.”

I turn toward the hall. “He never stays long. This is probably a thirty-minute interlude on their way somewhere better. We’ll get it over with. Or I will—you’re not obligated to—”

“I’ll stay,” he says. “Unless you don’t want me to?”

“No, I definitely want you to,” I admit. “It’s just that I absolutely do not expect you to endure this.”

He runs a hand over my elbow, and I do my best not to shiver: “Someone once told me I’m very good with strangers. Come on.”

As we walk into the living room, Dad blows out a puff of smoke. Julia’s stuff has all been moved into a tower in the corner, the air mattress three-quarters deflated and balled up at the bottom, so that our guests can sit on the couch, two pairs of intensely white teeth floating against sun-bronzed skin.

“There she is!” Dad says, followed by a hacking cough.

“Here I am!” I set the wineglasses on the coffee table before perching on the very edge of the chair perpendicular to the couch. “And you. And Starfire.”

Starfire beams at me. Dad beams at Starfire. Miles and Julia exchange a bewildered glance.

“These are for you,” Dad says, scooting forward. He balances his joint on the corner of the coffee table and produces an—admittedly beautiful—bouquet from down on the rug. “We thought they looked just like you.”

“Your aura, of course,” Starfire puts in. “It’s hard to judge in pictures, but JayJay was drawn to these, and we compared them to the picture he keeps in his wallet.”

At my blank stare, Dad chimes in, “Your old senior photo!”

News to me that Dad has a copy of that. I’m pretty sure Mom and I agreed they were so bad it wasn’t worth getting any printed, and just sent the file for the least awkward one to my school to use.

“Thanks,” I say stiffly, leaning over to accept the bouquet.

“That’s something I loved about him right away,” Starfire says dreamily, looking up at Dad as if a halo floats above his head. I’ve seen that look on plenty of Girlfriends Past. “He never shows up empty-handed.”

As a kid, I loved that about him too.

Until I realized his gifts were consolation prizes: Yes, I canceled our spring break visit, but my buddy gave us tickets to an amusement park!

I missed your choir concert, but isn’t this candy my chocolatier girlfriend makes amazing?

I set the bouquet on the coffee table, and Julia jumps up. “I’ll put that in water,” she says, and flees the scene.

Miles, genius that he is, starts filling the wineglasses and asks, “So, how’d you two meet?” He sits back onto the other chair, mimicking my ready-to-run posture.

“Starfire is my life coach,” Dad says, after a gulp.

Starfire nods, a smile still stretched tight across her lips. “But we actually knew each other before that.”

“Apparently, we were married in a past life,” Dad says, like, Can you believe that coincidence?

Starfire nods. “Several times.”

“Oh,” Miles says. “Well. Congratulations.”

“I was an heiress on the Titanic,” Starfire explains. “And Jason was a handsome artist, but he was so, so poor. My social circles never would have approved. But we had a torrid affair, and he saved my life.” She goes back to nodding, a very earnest bobblehead.

Miles and I make eye contact. He looks like he’s trying so hard not to laugh he might throw up instead.

“So just,” I say, “exactly the plot of the movie, then.”

Starfire’s head cocks to one side. “What movie?”

“What brings you into town?” Miles, with the assist. “You live in California, right?”

“That’s right.” Dad relights his joint. “But we’re on our—”

“Excuse me,” Miles cuts in, smiling pleasantly. “Would you mind waiting to smoke until you’re outside?” He says it so warmly and naturally. He really does have a superpower.

Just as unflappably affable, Dad says, “Oh, sure! Of course,” and tucks the joint back in his T-shirt pocket.

“So, California?” Miles says.

“Right,” Dad says. “But we’re driving across the country to celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?” I ask.

“Oh, Daffy,” Starfire says, officially the first adult to ever abbreviate my two-syllable name that way. “Our union.”

Dad frowns, a vague look of hurt around his eyes. “Didn’t you get the card?”

“What card?” I say.

“The birthday card,” he says. “Where I told you we got married!”

“You told me in a birthday card?” I say.

“You didn’t see it?” he says again, still the injured party.

“When was your birthday?” Miles asks, brow furrowing.

“End of April,” I say.

He frowns at that, no doubt doing the math, realizing I was already living with him.

“I must’ve misplaced the card,” I tell Dad.