“You did help,” I said. “You got it all up online so fast.”
“That’s true.”
We stood there grinning.
“Never underestimate the need for a computer geek,” I told him.
“Which reminds me,” he said, “I should probably go because I got so much traffic on my website it crashed. I need to see if I can fix it.”
I took a step closer to him, and he set the bag down on the floor.
“All right,” I said. “If you really have to.”
“I don’t have to go,” he said. “If you need me, I can stay as long as you want. You know, strictly as a friend. Because, I know you said you needed time to get over that Jon guy, and then to figure out everything with your dad, and you just rescued him an hour ago and everything, so that’s not actually a lot of time. I get that. And I know I said I’d wait for you, and I still will, but if you needed me now, I’m here for you. Seriously. Don’t take this as pressure or anything, but I’m totally willing to forgo the thirty-year waiting period and—”
“Trent?” I said. “Just shut up and kiss me.”
And then his arms were around my waist, and his mouth was on mine, and I was finally brushing his hair back with my hand. And it was just as silky as I’d always imagined. I guess I’d expected Trent to taste like coffee, but his breath was toothpaste fresh. I traced his tattoo with my finger, even though I couldn’t see it, and pressed myself closer to him. As we kissed, his arms tightened around me, and our mouths opened slightly. Very lightly, with the tip of my tongue, I touched his crooked tooth, and a shudder ran all the way through me.
And then a voice growled, “What the hell’s going on out here?”
We jumped apart. LaVon stood outside his door, scowling at us.
“Oh, you know,” Trent said, putting the width of the hall between us and smoothing his hair, “just the usual. Boy meets girl, boy charms girl, boy kisses girl, et cetera, et cetera. But they don’t do anything else because that would be bad. Very bad, and the boy definitely does not want to be killed by either the neighbor or the dad.…”
Trent’s babbling trailed off into silence, which grew and grew while the three of us stood there not looking at each other. Finally, LaVon’s laughter broke the tension, and we all cracked up. “He’s as crazy as you, James. You two will make a great couple.” He shook his head at us and went back into his room.
“So…about that waiting period,” Trent said.
“It’s over.”
“Fastest thirty years of my life.” He closed the distance between us.
After a while, I came up for breath thinking we better slow down or I’d need to ask Stub for another room. “I should probably check on my dad,” I said.
“Right. Okay.” Trent looked a little dazed himself. “And I need to fix my website.” He picked up the bag. “Oh, yeah, I got these too.” Like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, he produced a bouquet of daffodils.
“Awww…you remembered.”
“Yep. And your birthday’s April twentieth,” he said. “Only forty-six more shopping days.”
It took us another ten minutes to say good-bye, and the flowers were a little bit crushed by the time he left, but I planned to press them in my complete works of Shakespeare anyway so I could keep them for always.
“James?” Dad mumbled when I came into the room.
“I’m right here,” I said. I scooted the folding chair LaVon had lent me up to the bed. “What do you need?”
He opened his eyes a little. “I just want to say…I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” he said. “It’s really not.” A tear slid down the side of his face and into his ear. “But I’ll make it up to you.”
“You’ll go back to Dr. Kennedy?”
“As soon as he’ll see me,” he said. “And I’ll talk to the lawyer about the house too.”
“Okay. Sounds good.” What could I say? He was my dad. So he’d screwed up. We all did. And yeah, this was on a pretty massive scale, but sometimes we mess up big. I knew he’d forgive me if and when I made a disastrous choice or two.
“Know what I missed most?” Dad asked.
“Me?”
“Of course,” he said. “But I also missed you reading plays aloud to me.”
“I’ll do it again,” I said. “Don’t worry.”
“Would you read to me now?” he asked.
“Shouldn’t you rest?”
“Please?”
“Yeah, okay.” I had recycled all the cartons from my shoes and clothing, but my books, plays, and memorabilia boxes were piled at one end of my bed, still sealed. “What do you want to hear?” I asked, shifting them around.
“I don’t care,” he said. “Something cheerful.”
“No King Lear, then?” I asked.
“No…definitely not Lear.”
I dragged the box over by the lamp, used my key to cut the tape. Inside was a large manila envelope with my name on it in Dad’s handwriting. I opened it and slid out the contents. There were several pieces of paper, and clipped to the top one were ten one-hundred-dollar bills. A thousand dollars? I examined the first sheet. It was the title for the Beast, signed over to me. The other papers were some sort of bank statement. Next to the account number was my name. In my father’s handwriting, it said, Your grandfather left you this for college, but you can use some of it now. I looked at the balance: $102,018.86.
“James?” Dad asked. “Did you find something good?”
I swallowed hard. Silent tears ran down my face. “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah. I found something really good.”
Leave it to Dad to put the envelope in the one carton he’d been sure I would open, and have it turn out to be the box I couldn’t face because it contained all my memories and dreams.
“I’m ready when you are,” Dad said.
I pulled out my complete volume of Shakespeare, opened to All’s Well That Ends Well, and began to read aloud to my father.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Michael Bourret—thank you for your insights, encouragement, and for your lightning-quick responses to my never-ending questions. Sometimes you’re so fast I think you must be answering my e-mails while I’m still pushing the Send button. Merci beaucoup!
Stacey Barney—thank you for your faith in me, and thank you for always asking all the right questions so the story comes out better than I could’ve hoped. I’m so happy to count myself as one of your writers.
Thanks to the sales and publicity team at Penguin, especially Penny Mason, Vimala Jeevanandam, and Caroline Sun. And thank you to all the wonderful indie bookstores and the staff at Powell’s who hand-sold my first book with such enthusiasm. When you grow up in Portland, it’s a dream come true to see your book in the window at Powell’s Books.
Special thanks to my friends, family, fact checkers, early readers, and cheerleaders. Thank you to Linda Anthony, Frank Anthony, Eileen Cook, Nova Ren Suma, Sarah & Cheryl Tradewell, Kelly & Nicole Berthelot, Alyson Beecher, and Reggie & Mavie Cruz. Also, special thanks to the Brouhahas—Kim Thacker and Alexa Barry—who read so many versions of this manuscript I’m surprised they can see straight anymore. And Joelle Charbonneau, please take a bow for all your assistance with the musical theatre aspect of the story. I could never really sing! Plus, it’s always better to have two Joelles on the job if you can.
To Ms. Peacock’s Grade 6 & 7 classes, I’d like to say thank you for reminding me it only gets done with “less talking, and more writing.” Lots of love, and a big thank you, to Ashly Anthony for promoting her auntie’s first book to her whole third-grade class (and beyond). Every writer needs someone like you.
Thanks to Mark Cotter for his expertise and for keeping me from making up the law to suit my plot, no matter how inconvenient I thought it was at the time.
I’ve been waiting for the opportunity to show my gratitude publicly to writer Arthur Slade for introducing me to the idea of the treadmill desk, and now I’ve
got my chance. Thanks, Art! And thanks to Ken Capon for building it for me. Without it, I’d need bigger pants.
As always, thank you to my husband, Victor, for making dinner when I was too tired to think, for growing most of our food, for riding his bike to the store a thousand times for the few items he couldn’t grow, but I had to have to keep writing (yeah, I mean doughnuts—thus the need for the treadmill desk), for a wonderful author picture, and for endless cups of tea. You’re the best. As before, without you, there would be no book at all. I love you, Pea.
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