That night she held out her backpack for me to carry.
“Take it.”
I shook my head.
“I said, ‘Take it.’？”
Again, I refused.
June dropped the bag where we stood and boldly skipped ahead. “I’m telling Mom,” she declared, sprinting into the light of the H-E-B supermarket parking lot.
I ran after her.
“Mom’s going to kill you,” she sang, grinning back at me wickedly. I knew it didn’t make sense, but June was wily with words when Mom interrogated us in Korean.
“You’d better go get it,” she yelled once she crossed the street that led to our house.
I turned around. Anyone could’ve run away with it if they wanted to.
Heart jackhammering in my chest, I ran all the way back. I could feel my bookbag banging against me. When I reached the nylon straps of hers, I heaved it up with both arms and hurtled back. My lungs burned and my feet slapped against the hard concrete as I bolted.
With each footfall June got closer and closer. Bigger and bigger.
Her head turned as her eyes widened.
Twin headlights flooded my vision as screams fill my ears. I wondered if I’d feel the pain of my body being crushed by the oncoming car. Whether I’d fly into the sky at a strange angle from the impact. But then my face and neck were hot from the engine. My eyes were shut tight. I heard a loud sustained honk and a slammed door from somewhere above me.
“What are you doing?” screamed a tall woman with huge hair as she got out of her enormous SUV. She made the sign of the cross. “I could have killed you.” She had moles all over her face, and as she leaned toward me, I could see down her flowered shirt to her cheetah-print bra.
June ran up and grabbed her bag.
“You idiot,” she said, pinching my belly and pulling hard. “We’re sorry,” June called out, waving to the lady.
I was instantly in tears. Bawling and rubbing my side where I’d been pinched. I was shocked by the near miss and outraged that my sister could be angry at me.
“I can’t believe you didn’t look,” said June, storming off. “You’re such a stupid baby.”
She left me to cry on the street. I wept and wept, hiccupping and furious. I wept about what kind of sister would be that hateful. I wept as if I were at my own funeral.
Moments later she returned, tears streaking her face, red as a busted tomato. She shouldered her bag and mine. “I’m sorry,” she moaned, hugging me hard. My face was mashed against her bony shoulder as I continued to sob. “Shhhhh,” she said again, stroking my hair so hard it hurt. “I’m sorry.” That made me cry harder. Somehow it was even sadder that I’d made June cry.
Whenever I think of my sister in that moment, it hurts my heart. How lonely she must have felt marching into the house, breath held, closing the door, leaning up against it, and bursting into tears before coming back for me.
No matter how much she resented me and however much I disliked her, it was June’s bed I climbed into every night. I was convinced that if I fell asleep before our parents came back they would die. I never had to tell her that. She knew. Back then she knew everything. And as long as I was big spoon, creeping in quietly and wrapping my small body around hers without touching, she’d pretend not to notice. I’d have to be careful to breathe softly because if I breathed out too hard or too much, according to her she’d be poisoned in her sleep from my carbon dioxide. As far as I knew, it was the only thing June was scared of.
chapter 25
Patrick’s standing at the window when I get up. It’s pouring outside.
“Morning,” I croak, opening his bedroom door and yawning, pretending like I’ve been asleep this whole time. Pretending like I didn’t set my alarm for 7:00 a.m. to remove my crusty makeup and reapply it by early windowlight and phone. I even thought about trying to poop without detection while Patrick snored softly, hugging the couch, dead asleep, but I’d rather hold it, poison my microbiome, and die slow.
He shuffles into the kitchen and returns with a cup of coffee. “Sleep well?”
I nod, taking the hot drink.
We stand side by side at the large window. It’s miserable. The kind of umbrella-flipping torrent where everyone’s huddled under awnings, waiting it out.
In his glasses, hair sticking up in the back, with his coffee mug, grinning down at the sad sacks on the street, he looks totally different from the version of him on social media, even the kid from church. This is nice, I tell myself. Other than Jeremy, I’ve never spent a morning with a guy in this way.
“What about you?”
“Great,” he replies, toasting me with his mug.
I search for any hint of resentment at my staying over.
“I guess I should be heading out,” I tell him, before he can beat me to the punch.
He frowns and nods toward the street. “In this? What time do you have to be at class?”
“Eleven.”
“Breakfast?” he asks hopefully. It’s just after eight.
I look to the sky for any indication it’ll let up. It’s a woolen moody mess up there. Patrick smiles. Honestly, I don’t need any further encouragement to ditch.
“I just have to text someone.”
Gina Lombardi’s office texts me back that I’m canceling within the twenty-four-hour cancellation period and that it’ll count as a session.
Whatever. Besides, I’m a little mad at her. Frankly, it’s irresponsible to rile me up with all those questions about June without teaching me how to deal.
“Where do you want to go?” I ask Patrick. I find myself wondering how this memory will feel in the future. If wherever he picks will become our special place and we’ll return for special anniversaries.
“Well,” he says. “Scale of one to ten, how gremlin monster are you feeling?”
“Is ten the gremliniest or…”
He nods. “Ten is comatose, don’t even shower, and roll over to the diner and eat eggs in our matching sweats.”
The idea of staying in his sweats is the closest I’ve come to true joy in a minute.
“That one.”
I borrow two pairs of socks and a pair of Timbs to add to my tab.
“Man,” he says, eyeing me. “Fucking adorable.”
I look down at my feet, cheeks heating, and throw on my coat.
He wasn’t kidding about how close the diner was. It’s a half block, and we bolt, leapfrogging under awnings and storefronts. When we get there, he holds my hand briefly. His palm is warm where mine is wet, and he leads me into the open door and to the counter. I keep reminding myself that it’s not a date. That you don’t go on morning-after, rainy-day dates with someone you almost barf on. The worst part is, I don’t even care that we’re dressed like dorks; I’m so happy. I feel like half of that couple who dresses in onesies and takes selfies and I like it.
The short, beefy Latino guy behind the counter turns Patrick’s cup upright on his saucer and pours steaming coffee as soon as we sit down. He looks to me, and when I nod, he wordlessly pours me a cup as well. “I’m here a lot,” explains Patrick, just as the dude asks him if he’s having the usual.
I’ve always wanted to have a usual.