Opposite of Always

by Justin A. Reynolds

  “So, then your last name should be Hard,” Jillian says, high-fiving Kate before adding her hand to our hand pile.

  Kate laughs.

  “Well, what are you waiting for, Kate,” I say. “You better get in on this.”

  “But I’m not in the band,” she protests.

  “But you definitely rock, right?” Jillian says.

  “Hard, right?” Franny adds.

  And Kate, still laughing, puts her hand into our huddle.

  “Oh yeah, now we’re ready,” I say.

  “Rock hard on three,” Franny shouts, his eyebrows arched intensely. “One-two-three . . .”

  And the day’s so perfect it’s hard to believe that today also marked another anniversary.

  That this is the night that everything’s gone black.

  Except this time Kate isn’t in any hospital.

  Her treatment’s working. Even better than we could’ve hoped for, according to Dr. Sowunmi. There are a dozen reasons to be optimistic. To be happy.

  So, the question is, why am I so afraid?

  “Maybe you can stay tonight,” I suggest to Kate.

  She laughs. “You mean, as in at your house, with your parents’ consent?”

  “Why not?” And no, I’m not entirely sure my parents would be excited about a Jack-Kate sleepover, but tonight I don’t want to let her out of my sight.

  Despite my best efforts, Kate’s not having it. “I have plans with Kira in the morning, and you should be with your folks tonight,” she insists.

  There’s no changing her mind, either.

  She won’t even let me give her a ride back to her parents’ house.

  “Go back inside and get drunk with your parents,” she says, smiling.

  “Don’t worry, Jack,” Jillian assures me, starting up her car. “I’ll get her home safe.”

  My parents and I share a bottle of wine and I listen to them reminisce about their courtship and the first years of their marriage and I wonder what it would’ve been like to have known them back then, the younger versions of my parents. Would I have thought they were cool? Might we have been friends? What if I had Back to the Future’d it and had traveled back far enough to go to prom with my mom? It’s disturbing to contemplate (that last question, anyway).

  Before I climb into bed, I set my phone ringer to deafening, just in case.

  I call Kate, but she doesn’t answer. I text her to call me whenever.

  Franny, Jillian, and I group-text into the wee hours; I’m determined to stay awake all night, like maybe that could be the difference.

  I wake up, in what I think is the middle of the night, to my alarm.

  I shake the sleep from my brain, reach for my phone.

  Only it’s not an alarm.

  “Jack, I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Kate screeches into the phone.

  “Wait, what do you mean? What’s going on?”

  “I think I’m going into crisis,” she says.

  “But you can’t. The treatment. Dr. Sowunmi said—”

  “Jack, I’m scared . . . it feels different this time. Worse than before . . . I don’t know what to do.”

  “Where are you?”

  Kate’s breathing is jagged.

  “Kate, where are you? I’ll come to you. I’ll call an ambulance. Just tell me where you are . . .”

  I race to the top of the stairs. I can’t believe it. This is happening again.

  “Jack . . . ,” she says, faintly. I hear a thud, like maybe she’s dropped her phone.

  “I’m coming,” I swear to her, though I don’t know where she is.

  I tear down the stairs, careful to hit each step. I make it to the bottom without falling. No cosmic trips. No black-hole surprises.

  Twenty seconds later I’m backing Dad’s car out of the driveway.

  The other injection, I think. Kate needs the second injection.

  In the car I dial. The phone rings so long I expect voice mail, but then—

  “Hello?”

  “You lied,” I say to him.

  “What? Who is this?”

  “You told me you could save her.”

  “Jack?”

  “She’s still going to die, though, isn’t she?”

  “Jack,” he says, and I can hear someone say something in the background, hear his hand cover the speaker, everything muffled. “Jack, listen to me,” he starts again.

  “Just tell me the truth, Doc.”

  “The only truth about medicine is—there is no truth. We don’t know. We practice at it and we don’t always get it right. That’s why we say practicing medicine. Sometimes we get it really wrong.”

  “But you’re different. Kate, her family, they all believe in you. Everyone says you’re the best.”

  A long pause, a deep sigh. “I wish I was better.”

  “. . .”

  “Jack? Jack? You there?”

  “Night, Doc.” I toss my phone onto the passenger seat.

  I stand on the gas and the car lurches forward.

  I can’t help but wonder what I’m doing. Is there a chance that none of this is real? Maybe I’m in a coma and this is all a byproduct of narcotics and my own screwed-up subconscious. Or maybe my entire life is an elaborately staged production, some medium-budget reality television show, and everyone I know is a paid actor, like that Truman Show flick. What if Mom and Dad aren’t even my real parents? What if Jillian and Franny were hired to be my best friends? And Kate. What if she’s . . . what if we’re not really in lo—

  Then a bomb explodes.

  Rather, that’s what I think at first, what the impact is like. The nose of the car crinkles shut, folding in on itself like a construction-paper fan, metal bending, tearing. I feel heat and fire. Smell smoke. Someone, something screams. But from where? And then I realize it’s me. I’m screaming. And I can’t stop. I can’t. But it doesn’t matter, the screaming, because I start thinking of it less as a sign of weakness, of fear. It’s my battle cry. Because I’m going to make it to Kate even if I have to crawl on all fours, or hobble on one leg. I don’t care.

  Maybe, in the end, none of this turns out to be real.

  But it’s real to me.

  “Kid, kid, are you okay?” a lady is yelling into my window. “Oh my God, oh my God, I didn’t see you. I swear, I looked both ways and everything but you just came out of nowhere . . .”

  I try and push my door open but it doesn’t budge. “Get back,” I tell the lady. I kick out the remaining broken glass and climb out the driver’s side window. But my legs give out and I collapse to the ground.

  Her hand touches my shoulder. “You need to stay still. I’ve already called 9-1-1.”

  But I stand up anyway. My legs are wobbly but I’m okay. I’ll be okay.

  “Oh my God, what are you doing? You shouldn’t move. You might make things worse. Maybe you have a concussion. Maybe some broken bones, or—”

  I move past her and start down the road.

  “My girlfriend,” I tell her. “I have to get to her. She’s dying.”

  I hear sirens a few streets away and I pick up the pace, which still isn’t fast, considering my lungs are on fire and I think my right kneecap’s broken. It never occurred to me that you could break a knee. I’ve never heard someone say yeah, I’ll be okay, just a broken knee.

  “Oh, God, was there someone else in the car? Your girlfriend? The ambulance is coming. The paramedics will . . .”

  Only I don’t hear another word she says.

  All I can think is, I tried. I tried so hard to do everything right. But I failed.

  A bright light flares behind my pupils. My brain spins in my skull. My teeth play musical chairs in my gums. And it’s as though my heart’s plugged into an exposed electrical socket in the middle of a typhoon.

  In other words, it happens.

  Again, it happens.

  Four You & Me

  I Can’t Even

  The only thing worse than losing someone you love i
s losing them again.

  People say I’d do anything to see them again, to hear their voice just once more, but what they don’t consider is losing them all over again. That it doesn’t get easier. If anything, it’s harder. So much harder.

  “Excuse me, man, but you’re sort of damming up the steps,” Kate says.

  “Sorry. I’ll get out of your way.” And I do. I get the hell out of her way, out of her path, out of her stratosphere.

  Because even after all that we’ve been through together, even though I’m so very happy to see her alive once more, I can’t do it again.

  I’m sorry. I just can’t.

  Don’t hate me, but I’m going to say something ridiculously, exceptionally hole in the head stupid. As in, I’m going to invoke cliché to explain my running away from Kate.

  Three strikes and you’re out.

  You see, it’s just occurred to me (well, it occurred to me before but I promptly shoved the thought into the dankest, most cobwebbed corner of my brain) that maybe I’m not supposed to save Kate. That maybe we aren’t even supposed to meet. Suppose the way I save her is that I leave her alone altogether.

  I had my three swings, and I missed—badly, wildly.

  Now I’m out.

  And I do the one thing I should’ve done in the first place. I storm the kitchen, slicing through the crowd, pausing long enough to tell the group huddled around the TV to stay tuned because State is about to make a huge comeback, no way, man, they say dismissively, but I don’t argue. I weave through the dancers and drinkers until I’m right behind her.

  She turns around, like she knows what happens next. Like she’s been waiting for me.

  “Jack,” Jillian says, “what are you doing?”

  “What I should’ve ages ago.”

  I pull her close and peer into her eyes and I press my lips against hers and I wait for her to push me away. But she doesn’t move, except to open her mouth, her warm tongue slips between my lips, her fingers cradling my head, and this isn’t how I imagined things, but it’ll be okay.

  Everything’s okay.

  How to Betray Everything You’ve Known

  The only thing I’m surprised about is that Franny hasn’t beaten my ass . . . yet.

  He’s shoved me, bumped into me, given me the Franny Disintegrating Stare of Excruciatingly Uncomfortable Death plenty of times up and down the school hallway, but so far he hasn’t decided to kill me.

  I know I deserve any pain he chooses to dish out.

  Franny’s being nice to Jillian. Maybe even nicer to her now, if that makes sense. Perhaps it’s true, about not appreciating what you have until it’s gone.

  I don’t need to be without Kate to appreciate her.

  But I’m still without her, just the same.

  It’s hard being an asshole, or at least it’s hard knowing your former best friend thinks you’re the World’s Biggest Asshole, and that you can’t really disagree with him.

  And maybe there’s not exactly the happiness circus going crazy in my stomach, but I’m pretty happy with Jillian. She gets me. And she really knows me. There’s something to be said for spending the last four years of your life growing up with someone. She’s been there. And she’s still here.

  The Disappointment of Ancestors

  I hold out as long as I can before telling my parents.

  Of course, they’ve asked and asked, Where’s Franny? Is he okay? Are you two okay?

  I pick my fork back up, spear some brussels sprouts. Why are brussels sprouts the universal vegetable for tension? Every time there is unease over dinner, brussels sprouts are likely on the table. I feel bad for brussels sprouts. What a thankless gig. Everyone hates you because 1) no one prepares you properly, or because 2) you remind them of some awful dinner where they received terrible news. Poor brussels sprouts. I’m actually a fan, myself. Because normally Mom nails them.

  But tonight they don’t taste the same.

  And it’s safe to say that I’ve never seen my parents so angry.

  Especially with me.

  For your convenience, I’ve prepared a table of the highlowlights for you.

  Mom and Dad’s Table of Supreme Sadness & Major Disappointment

  MOM DAD

  I just can’t believe you would do that to Franny! He’s your best friend, Jack! You guys have taken baths together!

  I just can’t emphasize enough how thoroughly disappointed I am in you right now. I wish there was a way I could emphasize it, but I don’t think there is.

  Okay, maybe a Disappointment Scale. On a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being disappointment of the worst kind, like say you were a murderer or something. I’d say this is a solid 8.5.

  Jillian over Franny, Jack? You never choose a ho over your bro. Even I know that. Haven’t you heard that before?

  I go to all of Franny’s games. I’ve literally never missed any of his games. Do you know how awkward that’s going to be for me to keep going even though he and my son are no longer friends? Did you ever think about that, Jack?

  I buy extra groceries each week just because I know Franny is going to be here. And now what? Am I supposed to just rethink my entire grocery-shopping strategy?

  How many times has he spent the night over here? A thousand? Three thousand? I feel like a thousand is a very realistic estimate.

  Your mom and I have done our best to raise you right. All of our friends are constantly remarking on how good a kid you are. Now what are they gonna think?

  Franny hasn’t had a lot of good things happen in his life and now he can add Betrayed by His Supposed Best Friend to the list. Awesome!

  I just don’t understand. Did we not teach you the value of friendship?

  Who are you right now? Because you’re not the Jack I know. Where’s my son Jack? My friend Jack? That’s what I want to know.

  No, seriously, who are you?

  Jack, You Suck, Man

  And I get it, of course.

  I’m mad at me, too.

  But tell me, what was I supposed to do?

  Keep trying the same thing over and over again?

  It wasn’t working, guys.

  I’m sorry.

  I tried and I failed.

  And then I tried and I failed more.

  What choice did I have?

  No, seriously, help me figure it out. I’ll wait.

  Lesson number whatever: Keep your replays straight.

  When you’ve experienced the same, or at least very similar, moments multiple times over, it’s easy for your brain to splice them together to make one scene.

  The problem is you say things that the other person doesn’t understand because things—small, micro things—don’t happen exactly the same.

  JILLIAN: Hey, where are you?

  ME: Look up

  She looks up from the mound of pizza dough she’s kneading, only to see me doing some weird impromptu jig in the storefront window, beside the giant Pizza Pauper decal. I open the door, the wind pushing its way inside behind me, the door chimes rattling.

  “You’re late, Jack King,” Jillian says, folding her arms.

  “Better late than—” but I don’t finish my sentence. I step behind the counter and kiss her instead, her nose wrinkling against my own.

  How many times did I dream this?

  Kissing Jillian.

  Jillian kissing me back.

  And now it’s here.

  We stop kissing, and she grins, puts a hand on her hip. “So, you gonna help me with my French or did you just come here to eat my face?”

  “Hmmm,” I say, tapping my chin. “Definitely the latter.” I lean over to kiss her and she playfully moves away.

  “Babe, come on, please,” she pleads. “I’m bombing French.”

  “You’re not bombing French. Your idea of bombing is an A-minus.”

  “Well, if I’m going to study abroad at Whittier then I need to learn the language, don’t you think? Otherwise, how am I going to order us room service?”


  My throat tightens, because honestly whenever I think seriously about the future, it’s still hard to imagine mine without Kate.

  And it’s like Jillian can read my mind because she asks, “You think we did the right thing? Deciding to be together?”

  This isn’t the first time we’ve wondered this aloud. Each time I answer the same way. “The way things happened, it felt like the only decision we could make.”

  “Yeah,” she says, not super convincingly. “You still coming for dinner tonight? Mom’s making your favorite.”

  “White bean sausage chili?”

  “You’re so spoiled.”

  “How is your mom doing anyway?”

  Jillian shakes her head. “We got into it again.”

  “About your dad?”

  “The thing I dislike most about this situation, in which there are plenty of things to dislike, is not the sight of my mom, but what the sight of her does to me. Which I know sounds selfish, but.”

  “It’s not selfish, J. You get to feel things, too.”

  “You should never have to pity your parents. I mean, not this way.” She stops rolling the dough. “I mean, every time I come into the house, I feel like she’s just waiting for me, ready to pounce. Like she’s just rechanneling all of the energy she used on Dad into me. And I love my mom, but . . . it’s just too much sometimes. And she’s all over the place. Happy and sad and laughing and angry and . . . it’s a lot. Not to mention, she’s rearranged everything in the house.”

  “Like, the furniture? She’s always done that, though, right?”

  “Not just the furniture. All the furniture. And yesterday, I came home to all our dishes, pots and pans, all our food, like the entire pantry, spread out across the kitchen table, the counter, and on the kitchen floor.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because she felt like things could be better organized.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That makes me sad.”

  Jillian nods. “Part of me wants Dad to come back and make amends so Mom can go back to being Mom again. But also, part of me wants to never see him again, too. And depending on when you ask me, the ratio of see him versus never see him is always in flux. I mean, this is his mess, and he’s just gone. How could he just leave, Jack?”