The Rom-Commers(40)

“Are you sure it’s Cuthbert who finds this comforting?” I asked.

“Does it matter?” Charlie asked, staying focused.

And before I knew it, I was hooked, too. I watched Charlie finish the patio, and then do the gutters, and then the wall behind the hedge, and then all the patio furniture … until deep into the wee morning hours—without noticing the time pass. I listened to the shush of the spray, and I pointed out when he missed a spot, and I sat companionably mesmerized beside the world’s most beloved screenwriter while he finished off the whole rest of the yard and then leveled up.

That’s when Charlie turned and took in the sight of both Cuthbert and me watching him.

“Good news,” Charlie said then.

“What?” I asked.

“I think Cuthbert likes you.”





Fifteen

WHEN I FINALLY made it back to bed, my earthquake had settled, and I slept hard—until I woke up again, at five, with a start.

And a feeling of dread that my dad might not be okay.

I know that’s a pretty nonspecific worry: a vague sense that someone might not be okay. But I’d done a lot of worrying about my dad over the past ten years. It was like my heart had been cramped into a tight, worried ball all this time, and now—even with nothing particular to worry about—it couldn’t unclamp itself.

I had officially handed my worrying duties over to Sylvie. I knew she was competent and mature. I believed she could handle things. Mostly. Sort of. I just didn’t know how to not be the person who always worried about my dad.

Maybe that’s what my heart was up to these days with the thudding. Trying to untie its own knots.

Or maybe I was just dying.

Maybe I should let myself google it, just this once.

That’s what I was wondering—in bed, in the dark, at five A.M.—when my phone rang. And it was Sylvie—FaceTiming me.

“I knew it!” I said, sitting up in bed. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Sylvie said. There she was, inside the rectangle of my phone, her calm vibe validating her statement. She was in our room, sitting on my bottom bunk, with her hair pulled neatly back like she’d just washed her face.

My hair, in contrast—I couldn’t help but notice from my own smaller FaceTime rectangle—had wiggled its way out of the ponytail I’d gone to bed in, and the alarm on my face plus the wildness of my curls gave me the look of someone who’d just stuck her finger in an electric socket.

“Nothing’s wrong?” I asked. “Then why are you calling?”

“To tell you that.”

“People don’t call to say nothing’s wrong,” I said.

“Normal people don’t call to say that,” Sylvie said, “but this is me and you.”

She had a point. “But it’s five in the morning.”

“It’s seven in the morning here.”

Another good point. Sylvie was sounding more reasonable by the second.

“Can we not FaceTime at this hour?” I asked next. “I am not camera ready.”

“But I want to see you!”

Before I could respond, another face squeezed into Sylvie’s frame. The face of her boyfriend, Salvador, with his ponytail mussed like he’d just woken up, too.

“I think you look great,” Salvador said.

I’d FaceTimed with Salvador several times. They’d been dating since their sophomore year. “Hi, Salvador,” I said.

“Hey, sis,” Salvador said.

Then, to Sylvie: “Salvador is there? At our place?”

Sylvie took a minute to wave as Salvador left to go take a shower. Then she said, “He’s staying with us.”

I didn’t want to feel alarmed. I liked Salvador. He was a great boyfriend for Sylvie—mature and thoughtful and supportive. He’d carved her a pumpkin last Halloween with teeth that spelled out I LOVE YOU.

But boyfriends sleeping over at our apartment was not part of the plan.

“I thought he was spending the summer in Brazil with his grandma,” I said.

“Change of plans.”

“Since when?”

“Since he got into grad school here.”

“He’s starting grad school?”

“Not till August. But he’s taking prerequisites this summer.”

And then, with dread, I asked a question I could already sense the answer to. “He’s just staying there a day or two, right? Until he finds a place of his own?”

“Umm,” Sylvie said.

“He can’t stay with you there long term,” I said.

“The point is, we have an empty bed,” Sylvie said.

“That’s my bed,” I said.

“Yes. And as soon as you come back—whenever that is—we’ll kick him right out.”

But she was missing the point. I wasn’t worried about my bed. “Sylvie, he can’t be there,” I said.

“Why not? Dad is cool with it. He loves Salvador.”

“We all love Salvador,” I said. “That’s not the issue.”

“Then what is the issue?”

“He’s a distraction,” I said.

“He’s not a distraction,” Sylvie said. “He’s helping.”