Accidental

by Alex Richards

  “What do you think?” Grandpa asks.

  A year ago, I would have screamed yes at the top of my lungs. Three months ago, even. Now, I swallow, trying not to look petrified, because I can see how much this means to them. How much of a peace offering it is.

  So I hug them. I thank them. I say yes.

  And I don’t let myself cry until they’re back in their car, driving toward home.

  43

  The night before we leave, Milo comes over for dinner.

  I know. It is terrifying for all of us.

  “Nice tie.” I smirk, putting a napkin in my lap.

  “Why, thank you,” he replies evenly.

  No joke, he’s never looked more ridiculous. Blue gingham button-down, striped tie, pressed khakis. Frigging khakis. I mean, did he mug a golf pro on his way over? There’s even mousse in his hair. Frigging mousse. Still sexy, but in a Max-from-Rushmore kind of way, which Gran and Grandpa seem to approve of.

  “You’re from Nevada?” Grandpa asks after saying grace.

  “Yes, sir. Las Vegas.”

  Gran raises an eyebrow, as if Milo is currently spinning a roulette wheel rather than eating asparagus. I roll my eyes.

  “It’s not all casinos,” he adds with a laugh. “There are parks and stuff.”

  “And what do your parents do?”

  “Gran,” I moan.

  She opens her mouth in protest but then closes it, nodding politely. “Sorry to pry, Milo.”

  “No, it’s cool. My mom’s a pastry chef. She works at that bakery, down on Water Street?”

  “I’ve never been.” Gran’s cheeks pinch with embarrassment.

  “I’ll bring you something. Next time I come over.”

  Gran’s eyes light up. “Well, tell her not to go to any trouble.”

  “No trouble.” He wipes his mouth, shoulders stiffening. “My dad manages a chain of office supply stores.”

  “Can’t go wrong with office supplies,” muses Grandpa.

  I gulp down water.

  “You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Carlson. That needlepoint over there—is that Martin Van Buren?”

  I swear, my grandmother blushes. “Why, yes, it is. People don’t tend to recognize anyone apart from Lincoln.”

  “No, ma’am. Your Van Buren is on point. I wrote a paper on him last year. Did you know the word OK actually comes from Van Buren’s nickname? People called him Old Kinderhook because of where he was from in New York, and when he was running for president, the Democratic Party would be all like, ‘Vote for OK’ and stuff. Anyway, random factoid for you.”

  Grandpa nods, mouth turned down in contemplative fascination.

  We eat our vegetarian pizza casserole with the lentils instead of tofu, which isn’t actually horrible, and I knock knees with Milo under the table. He tugs at the collar of his shirt. In a cruel kind of way, it melts my heart a little to see him sweat. Maybe Gran’s too, because she offers him the biggest slice of cheesecake for dessert, and extra strawberries too.

  “You good?” he asks me after dinner.

  There’s obviously zero chance of us making out, so we sit at the kitchen counter, fingers laced while the news blares for my hearing-impaired grandparents in the living room.

  “I’m okay. Tired.”

  “Any word from your dad?”

  I wince.

  “Sorry. I figured you were already thinking about him.”

  “I was thinking about your gorgeous lips,” I murmur. “But not anymore.”

  “Oof. Y’done fucked up, Milo.”

  “You’re right, though.” I sigh. “I was thinking about him earlier, while I packed. I wonder how long it’s been since he visited Mom’s grave. It’ll be weird to be there without him. In a way.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re glad you’re going, though?”

  “I think so. It’s going to be fucking weird. But, yeah, I think so.”

  He licks his lips and I shiver, leaning in to kiss his earlobe, his chin, his—I pull back. “Have you talked to your dad?”

  “Wow, who’s the mood killer now?” he says breathlessly.

  I snort.

  “You sure you want to talk about this?”

  “I asked, didn’t I.”

  Milo shrugs and pulls back a bit.

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “It looks like my dad’s finally starting to come around.”

  “About paying for your summer program?” I shriek, smacking his palm for a high five. “Milo, that’s amazing! Why didn’t you want to tell me?”

  “The dad part?” He winces. “After everything you’ve been through, I didn’t want to rub it in.”

  My heart sinks, but I tug my lips into a grin because Milo deserves this. “Don’t be ridiculous. You can tell me anything. Even if you’re not bitching and moaning. Even if you’re happy.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you going to visit him?”

  “That’s part of the agreement,” he says. “I have to spend a week with him on either end of the program.”

  I raise a hubba-hubba eyebrow. “How does he feel about extra visitors?”

  “I think I can add that clause to the contract.” He smiles. “Your grandparents would let you come to Vegas with me?”

  “Oh.” I shake my head. “Not a fucking chance.”

  “Great, I’ll buy you a ticket!” He kisses me again, eyes flicking toward the living room first. “So, how long are you abandoning me for?”

  “Only three days.”

  “I’m going to miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you more.”

  “You all packed?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did you remember your toothbrush?”

  “Yep.” I giggle.

  “And your phone charger?”

  I nod, leaning in to kiss him again.

  It starts out as a you’re-so-silly peck on the lips, but Milo slides his hands around my waist, urging me closer to him. My eyes drift shut, allowing my body to relax, letting myself think about absolutely nothing. Blissful, blank-brained perfection. Only tingling forearms and legs and in-between legs. It’s risky, kissing like this with my grandparents in the next room, but I don’t want to stop. I want to tell Connie Ireland she’s fired, because I’ve found a better form of therapy and his name is Milo Schmidt. But then Milo moans, and we hear Gran cough in the next room.

  “Shit!” He giggles, pulling away.

  “Busted!” I whisper, and I don’t even care that my cheeks are turning red.

  We laugh silently, fingers laced, snorting back lust and embarrassment until the TV flickers off and Grandpa yawns overdramatically. Our flight to Little Rock is early tomorrow. We all need our rest. Milo bids a polite farewell to my grandparents, and I walk him to the front door. The smell of his hair, his broad shoulders as he hugs me. I wish I could pack this gorgeous boy in my carry-on bag.

  “Text me when you land?” Milo says, kissing the top of my head.

  “Yup.”

  “And when you get to the hotel?” he adds. “In fact, text me from the car in the morning, and from the airport in Albuquerque.”

  “Jeez.” I laugh, pushing him out the door. “Yes, I’ll text you from everywhere. From the bathroom. From the newsstand. Before I put my phone in airplane mode on the runway. In fact, why don’t I hand the phone to the security guy and have him text you while I’m walking through the X-ray machine?”

  “Perfect.” He waves over his shoulder and jogs down the porch steps.

  I close the front door, leaning against it.

  Right away, my phone buzzes.

  Milo: I love you.

  Me: I love you too.

  44

  It’s still dark when we pile into the car. Grandpa reverses onto the street, and I peer through the back window to see which neighbors are up at 6 a.m. Half the block is still quiet, the other half grinding coffee, news flickering on their TVs. We drive south on I-25, and the
sky grows into a bright, exploded-goldfish color as the sun rises over the Sandia Mountains.

  “Shall I put on the radio?” Gran asks. “Or should we sit with our thoughts?”

  “Radio is fine,” I mumble.

  She nudges her glasses down the bridge of her nose, squinting and pecking at the dials until a mild country song drifts quietly through the speakers. My thoughts drown it out almost immediately, remembering back to the last time I was on an airplane. Nine years ago, I think. Disneyland, for my seventh birthday. The peak of my mom-questions phase. When I began to realize how badly I needed her. God, what kind of superficial freak was I that a photo op with Cinderella could subdue all that wonder?

  “Can we turn up the heat?” I ask, a shiver stinging my spine.

  I bite my thumbnail, counting piñon bushes sprinkled like Dalmatian spots on the mountains. Panic begins to nibble at my limbs, burning toward my heart like the lit end of a cigarette. Suddenly, all I can imagine is the airless main cabin of the plane we’re about to board, the shake of my knees as I walk toward my mother’s grave.

  I can’t do this, I can’t do it, I can’t.

  I blink hard and stare through the windshield. Blue skies and clouds claw their way through the orange, turning dawn into day. I take a deep breath. Connie told me to inhale slowly when I feel panic coming on, careful not to breathe too fast or exhale too soon. Inhale. One … two … three … four … Exhale. But my lungs only pace inside my chest. I reach for Gran.

  She squeezes my hand as we dip past the casino. “Getting restless?”

  “Yes,” I say sharply.

  Her eyes dart to mine in the rearview mirror, then over to Grandpa. “Pull over.”

  “No,” I beg. “Don’t stop. I don’t want to miss the flight.”

  After a bit of silent deliberation between the two of them, we keep driving.

  “Do you know what song I used to sing when Amanda was a baby?” Gran asks, still holding my hand. Her fingers slide up my wrist, squeezing the pressure point I taught her. “ ‘All the Pretty Little Horses.’ Do you remember that one?”

  I shake my head, trying to replace a wave of panic with a wave of calm. Panic for calm, panic for calm. Gran’s voice fills the car. Trees and mountains whiz by, and she sings. Sweet, soft, Southern.

  The ice-cream headache in my heart begins to melt.

  • • •

  Claustrophobia sets in when we get on the plane, as predicted. Me, sandwiched between my grandparents. Fiddling with the air vents, angling all three of them at my bursting temples. Gran strokes my forearm, but it feels like a rake against my skin.

  How can she not hate me? For taking her baby, their rifle, their Little Rock life. Forcing them to relocate to some dusty Southwestern town. They haven’t visited their own daughter’s grave in thirteen years, for Christ’s sake. Will her headstone be covered in moss by now?

  “It’s an hour flight to Dallas, then two hours from Dallas to Little Rock.” Grandpa says, grabbing the in-flight magazine out of the seatback pouch.

  I look at the cover and wonder if he’s ever even heard of Cardi B.

  “Pull the shade down,” Gran says. “They require that for takeoff now.”

  Grandpa frowns. “What?”

  “The shade. Pull—” She huffs, leaning over me to do it herself. “Gum?” she says to me.

  I shake my head, eyelids fluttering. Fluttering more. Maybe it’s better that I couldn’t sleep last night, that I saved my exhaustion for this cramped, airless flight. I yawn, and Grandpa shrugs his shoulder a bit, offering it as a pillow. His flannel shirt is soft and smells of cedar.

  If they do hate me, they cover it up pretty well.

  • • •

  We drive from the airport toward the hotel in a mausoleum-like silence. Our rental car has this vague smoky smell—cigarettes from the previous renter, probably—but all I can think about is gun smoke. Is it similar to this? Thin and musty and vaguely sour.

  Did smoke come out of the gun when I fired it?

  Did my mother die instantly, or did she see me first?

  Tree branches sway like dangly earrings as we pass them. Not piñons like I’m used to, but big furry ones, tall and leafless. Buds of spring on their brittle fingers.

  “Are we going straight to the cemetery?” I ask.

  Grandpa scratches his ear.

  “Please, can we go to the hotel?” I add quickly.

  “Yes,” Gran says, and I hear the relief in her exhale.

  This must be torture for them too.

  • • •

  Our rooms are adjoining, but we don’t unbolt the connecting door. I lie on the bed with my arms folded in an X across my chest.

  Is that how she was buried?

  Did they put her in her favorite dress?

  Questions knock around inside me, but I’ll never ask them out loud. Even if Gran does have the answers.

  • • •

  None of us push for hitting the cemetery right away. We nap for a little, then spend the afternoon walking along the river before heading back to the hotel for dinner.

  “We’ll go tomorrow morning,” Gran decides. “That will be better.”

  I fish an ice cube out of my Sprite. “Okay.”

  The hotel restaurant still has last month’s St. Paddy’s Day decorations up, forgotten cardboard clovers and doilies. We’re the only ones eating, and yet they put us at the biggest table, the three of us crowded around one side in a half moon. We check our phones while we wait for the food to come.

  Me: Greetings from the Natural State. We’re saving the cemetery for tomorrow.

  Gabby: Good luck.

  Leah: Try to relax tonight.

  Gabby: Watch something funny.

  Leah: There’s a Purse Museum.

  Leah: I googled it. Might be fun.

  Gabby: A purse museum, Leah?

  Leah: Hello, purses = fashion!

  Leah: Whatever. I’m just trying to distract her.

  Gabby:

  I giggle.

  Me: Thanks, guys.

  Leah: I’m sending you white light for tomorrow.

  Gabby: Me too. (Even though white light is bullshit.)

  Me: Gracias. Buenas noches. .

  The waiter puts a cranberry walnut salad that I barely remember ordering down on the table in front of me. The little goat-cheese rounds remind me of marshmallows, and I wish Leah and Gabby were here with me. They would have brought marshmallows for taffy. We would have watched movies all night and snuck into the hotel gym to reenact that OK Go video with the treadmills. I’d still have the same knot in my stomach, but I would be laughing too.

  In the elevator back up to our rooms, there’s a toddler having a major meltdown. Kicking her legs, screaming no at top volume. I imagine it’s me, wriggling out of my mom’s arms. Surely I had tantrums like this. Maybe Gran’s thinking the same thing, because she smiles at the mother. One of those aren’t-kids-a-glorious-handful looks that the lady smiles politely at before whisper-barking at her kid.

  “Are you going straight to sleep?” Gran asks when the elevator reaches our floor.

  “I might watch TV for a while.”

  “Make sure you bolt the door from the inside,” she tells me. “And if you need ice, call Grandpa. Don’t get it yourself. And don’t stay up too late.”

  I smile. “Okay, Gran.”

  I hug them both good night, double-checking the bolt after locking myself in my room. It feels super weird, staying in my own hotel room with my own miniature toiletries. Is this what being a grown-up is like? Because it’s boring. I flip on the TV and change into a pink unicorn onesie, then dial Milo’s number.

  “Hey, stranger.”

  Just hearing his voice makes me grin. “There are forty-seven channels on my TV.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yeah.” I flip through at super speed, past the news and law dramas and cartoons, until I see a guy in an apron stuffing a bunch of cheddar and onions into a blender. “Info
mercials. Perfect. Man, I so need a Magic Bullet. I think they’re making nacho cheese sauce.”

  “Don’t buy one before your birthday,” he singsongs. “Shit, I don’t even know when your birthday is.”

  “November seventh. Yours?”

  “September twenty-first.”

  “That makes you a …?”

  “Virgo,” he says. “We’re very sensitive.”

  “One of your best qualities. I’m strong-willed and passionate.”

  “Wait, seriously?” He feigns a gasp. “That comes as a huge surprise.”

  I roll onto my stomach and stretch my legs on the soft, white sheets. Adulting feels kind of cool, actually, on a queen-size bed surrounded by fluffy pillows. I imagine him here with me, the two of us nuzzled up together. But, like, not with my grandparents on the other side of the wall. I can hear Grandpa snoring already.

  “Where are you?” I ask, watching cheddar crumble.

  “Home. Mom’s paying bills. It’s cold tonight so I’m being manly and trying to light the fire. This shit is difficult.”

  “Are you using kindling?”

  “That’s the little stick things?”

  “Oh, man.” I giggle. “You would so die on a deserted island. Not to toot my own horn, but I’m pretty next-level at lighting fires. Grandpa taught me how.”

  “Nice of him to pass the torch,” he says gleefully.

  “Ouch.” I wince, biting back laughter. “Never tell a joke again.”

  He agrees, and we get quiet for a minute. I listen to him strike matches and swear a lot. The Magic Bullet guy finishes the nachos and starts in on a piña colada smoothie. I crawl up to the top of the bed, pulling the covers up with a yawn.

  “I give up,” Milo grumbles. “Tell me everything. Did you go to the cemetery?”

  “Tomorrow. I guess I should have known it would be weird, but it is so weird. I’m honestly dreading it.”

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “That’s what your grandparents are there for.”

  “What if I lose it? What if they lose it? I don’t think I could handle watching my grandpa cry.”

  “Men cry. Take my word for it. If the dude cries, give him a hug.”

  “Do you ever cry?” I ask.

  “Hey, I am one seriously evolved male specimen.”