“Where did his family live?” Jonah asks. “Miami?”
“No, no, that’s where he was born, but he was from the middle of the state somewhere. Swamp country. I don’t remember the name of the town.” He sighs, slow and rasping, like leaves over concrete. “I wished for many years to see him again. To apologize for how I’d reacted. To get that second chance. But we all must live with our decisions. I have no idea if he’s even alive.”
A silence falls over the porch for a moment, broken only by a rapid-fire staccato of someone typing like a hundred and fifty words per minute. On the screen, I see Jonah feverishly working away at something on his computer and I think: Seriously, Jonah? Right now? What could possibly be so important?
“Maybe we can find him,” I say, trying to steer Arlo’s focus from Jonah.
Oh god. Jonah and I went over this. Do not say anything about looking for Winter! Because we have zero clues and we don’t want to get his hopes up and yeah Arlo is looking at me and if his hopes are as high as his bushy white eyebrows I’m screwed.
“Just . . . you know . . . we were going to try,” I say. “If he’s alive. I mean who knows.”
I don’t even want to look at my phone because I am really going off-script here, but I glance down because I need some backup stat.
Jonah looks up sharply from inside the phone. “Arlo,” he says with a new kind of authority that is actually pretty attractive. “One way or another, we’ll find out what happened to Winter. I can promise you that.”
I fully expect Arlo to tell us to leave it alone or, you know, stop digging up his skeletons, but instead he just smiles. “That would be nice.”
I exchange a furtive look with Jonah. Yeah. We’re in it now.
chapter twelve
JONAH
I wake to a gentle rapping on the window. No . . . wait . . . that one was a bang. Then what might be splintering glass. I roll out of bed and run to the window, expecting a flock of deranged pigeons.
Instead, I find Carlos F. Santi.
He’s standing next to the fountain in a pair of soccer shorts, runners, and no shirt, which is his modus operandi, since he has a six-pack and no sense of basic human civility. We’ve been best friends since we were five, and are about as different as functionally possible, but we’ve never even had a fight. This is the longest I’ve ever gone without seeing him . . . two whole weeks.
“Dude!” I shout, sliding the window up and looking down at him. “Why are you trebuchet-ing my house?”
“Why did you write ‘hello from here’ on your window?” Carlos counters.
I really should clean that off. “Never mind that. What happened to texting people?”
“You don’t answer me.”
“I do so—”
“Correctly,” Carlos cuts in. “By saying yes, Carlos, I will come hang out.”
“Do you watch the news?”
“Hell no.”
“But you have heard there’s a global pandemic going on.”
He is now trying to pet a koi fish. He gets easily distracted. “Once or twice.”
“And you do understand the gist of it? I can’t just come hang out . . . Olivia’s here, man.”
“And she’s immunally composted. I know.”
“Points for effort. The fact is I can’t just come hang out.”
“Well . . . can’t we sit outside? Like sixty feet apart or whatever it is? I need to tan.”
“Sixty feet might be excessive. And you already look like a bronze statue.”
“How do you think I maintain the base?” he says, staring directly at the sun. “You have to treat your body like a temple. I bet you haven’t done a push-up in weeks, have you?”
I pause. “Yes?”
“Come on.”
He walks onto the lawn, rolls his already short shorts up even higher, and plops down onto his back, tanning in my front yard. I have a backyard with a pool and lawn chairs and am about to suggest that alternative, but I think Olivia is out there cooking another flatbread over the chiminea, and I don’t want to risk bringing anyone around her.
So, I am soon sprawled out in the front yard a mere sixteen feet or so away from Carlos, feeling my decidedly unbronzed skin frying under the midday sun.
“Did I mention I hate tanning?” I mutter.
“Do you know they closed the tennis club? Tennis, bro. You have to stay away from each other in tennis.” Carlos flips over to his stomach, where he is muffled by the grass. “I hate 2020 already.”
“School starts on Monday anyway.”
“I can barely stay awake when I’m in real class. Now I’ll have a bed beside me! And they want me to just not take a nap? Maybe we should get together for classes—”
“Carlos.”
“Shit. I keep forgetting. So . . . the message in the window,” he says, rolling onto his back again and looking at me. “What’s that about? Who are you saying hi to? The neighbor? Isn’t it just some old lady who smokes like seven packs a day?”
I sigh deeply. “No. It’s not for Mrs. Clodden. There’s . . . a girl. Max.”
“No way.” He sits up, grinning. “You’re dating someone—”
“No. I mean . . . I asked her out a few days ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me!”
“She didn’t exactly say yes.”
Carlos looks at me for a moment, as if trying to work it out. “So . . . she rejected you . . .”
“Temporarily? Maybe. I’m unclear.”
“Oh. That sucks, man. I thought the sign thing was pretty cute—”
“She’s considering,” I say with a touch of defensiveness.
Carlos lies back down, centering himself to the sun. His thick black hair is still cut into a perfect fade, and his annoyingly chiseled features are now adorned with a perfect dappling of stubble. “That’s weird. Me, I like to think fast. I just follow my rock-hard gut.”
“You should try using your rock-hard brain. You’ve had three boyfriends in the last six months.”
“So what? I like selection. You know how they say ‘we’re like two peas in a pod’?”
“Yes . . .”
“Well, it’s wrong. There are multiple peas.”
I stare up at the clouds. “That’s. . . . actually true.”
“Listen, if you really like her, call her up. Say: Max, are you on board or not? This ship is about to sail.”
“That is literally the worst advice I’ve ever heard.”
Carlos laughs. “So you want to go play soccer or what?”
“No. Go put a shirt on and stay home. And don’t talk to any strangers on the way.”
“Fine, Dad. How are you doing, anyway? With the being a little crazy stuff.”
I feel a pang at the word Dad. I think of mine, holed up in Madrid. We spoke again last night and he said he was feeling fine and would be free to leave his hotel room soon. “Nothing to worry about, buddy,” he had said with his usual easy smile. I firmly disagreed.
I worry about nothing routinely. This is definitely not nothing.
“They’re called anxiety disorders . . . but terrible. Thank you for asking.”
“Anything I can do?” he asks, standing up and stretching.
“No. Well . . . yes. Don’t tell anyone about Max.”
“I already posted something on IG.”
“Carlos—”
He grins, patting the phone in his pocket. “Joking. Let me know how it goes. Oh . . . there has been talk of secret parties lately. Just, like, people we know. Totally safe. You interested?”
“Go.”
Carlos laughs again and heads down the street at a languorous pace. Mrs. Clodden watches him go, smoking her seven hundredth cigarette today and leaning to take in the view as long as possible.
From: Jonah Stephens
To: John Stephens
Date: April 9, 2020
Subject: Touching Base
Hey Dad,
Just checking in. Figured you’re getting bored stuck in a hotel room all day. Everything is fine here. Olivia is on to painting, which is good, because I have three vases in my room now and I’m sick of flatbread. She’s probably painting a Rembrandt as we speak. To be honest, the flatbread was delicious.
Why is she so damn good at everything? Clearly, one of us is adopted.
It’s her, right? You can tell me.
Anyway, wish you were here . . . we could all use the moral support.
-J
P.S. What’s your temp? Did you get tested again? Still negative, right?
I read it back and sigh. I was trying to keep it casual, but it really fell off at the end there. I consider sending a less neurotic follow-up, but whatever, my dad knows me by now.
I head downstairs for dinner.
Olivia and Kate are already sitting there, talking and laughing and just being the best of friends. Their relationship is a source of great contention between Olivia and me . . . because she’s a traitor.
We’ve been eating outside a lot, but it’s gray and misty and tonight they’re at the kitchen table—a huge, live edge oak table that I’m pretty sure cost as much as a new car. My dad was going to get me said new car last year . . . and then Kate said: “Young men should work for their first vehicle” and gave him a whole speech about character. She’s evil, but she’s a great lawyer.
I still ride a bike.
We are having duck a l’orange tonight with walnut pecan salad . . . all of the ingredients ordered fresh today. Unfortunately Max was booked, so Claudio brought it again. By force of habit—and extreme boredom—I did look out the window anyway when he showed up, and he saw my hello on the window and laughed and waved and this is my life now.
I take a bite of duck—it’s utterly delicious, but I refuse to admit it—and sit abjectly on my distant end of the table. It’s ridiculous, of course. Olivia may be a traitor, but that’s better than a petulant toddler. But in fairness, Kate has quashed my dreams of a dog and a car, and generally seems to treat me with barely concealed disdain, and so it seems only fair that I disdain her back.
But truthfully, I disliked her from the second she nodded curtly at me and said: “Jonah, I presume?” She was in the picture six months after Mom. They were married at ten. I’ve heard about rebounds, but this was like one of those little rubber balls that rebounds right into your windpipe. It was just . . . fast. I needed that chair to be empty for a little while longer. Kate is sitting in it now, laughing. And she can never fill it. Not for me.
I realize they are both staring at me and I choke down a walnut. “What?”
“I asked if you’re ready for classes to resume on Monday,” Kate said.
“Yeah. I don’t know. I have to sit on Zoom all day. Do I need to stretch first?”
“He’s moody lately, isn’t he?” Olivia takes a sip of red wine.
Kate nods. “He’s not exercising . . . mind or body. I offered to spar with him today.”
“You basically offered to beat me up. I like my fully functioning orifices.”
“Why not have a daily swim?” Kate suggests.
“For your information, I fell asleep on the inflatable flamingo yesterday afternoon.”
Kate rolls her eyes. “You need to utilize this time to better yourself, Jonah. Olivia is bolstering her résumé with every passing day.”
“She hasn’t showered in a week!” I protest.
Olivia pours herself another glass of wine, swirling it gently. She doesn’t drink much usually—too much wine aggravates her GI tract—but she’s been having a glass or two with Kate over dinner a few nights a week. Like I said . . . they’re besties now. “I have no one to impress. It’s one of the side effects of my constant exceptionalism.”
“Cheers to that,” Kate says, and they clink across the table. “What did you do today, Jonah?”
I think about that. Well, I lay on the grass with Carlos, played some video games, had two naps, texted with Max a little, wallowed in self-pity for an hour . . . I had a bath . . .
“Nothing,” I mutter, feeling my cheeks flushing. “I didn’t do a thing. And that’s fine.”
“Is it?” Kate asks, staring at me above the brim of her glass.
It’s the tone that gets me. The passing of judgment. The implication of weakness. I put my fork down and feel my last little reserve of self-control take a mental health day.
“Yes, actually. It is. The world is literally shut down. Schools are closed. Sports are done. So if I want to sit around and maybe not learn Latin while mastering Krav Maga, then I think that’s okay. You two can work on your résumés. Have fun.”
I’m standing up, and I don’t remember when that happened. Kate is looking at me in surprise. But Olivia . . . she looks angry. She downs her wine and stands up.
“Typical,” she says. “This is always how it goes, Kate.”
“What’s that?” I snap.
“Jonah is the only one allowed to feel sad in this house. He has the exclusive right to it.”
I scowl. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Figure it out. You have plenty of free time, after all. Thank you for dinner, Kate.”
She walks out, and I watch her go, stunned. Olivia never gets angry. I wait for Kate to yell at me. To ground me or tell me to apologize to Olivia or just kick me in the thigh.
But when I turn back to her, Kate is just sitting there, looking down at her wineglass.
“You can take the plate to your room,” she says quietly.
It’s not a punishment and I know it. If anything, it’s an act of kindness. Which is way worse. It just reminds me that I’m a dick. Guilt and duck a l’orange churn in my guts. I meant what I said, but Kate cooked a really nice dinner for everyone and I screwed it up.
“Sorry,” I say, fumbling to grab my plate and go.
“So am I,” she says.
I’ve never heard her apologize before. I don’t know what to say. So I just take my plate, retreat to my room, and decide to stick it out here for the night.
Of course, hopefully not alone.
Jonah: No pressure but I kind of just remembered we have HBO Max and you could borrow my password . . .
Max: Heart be still
Jonah: It’s time for you to see Greed and Glory. Like it’s basically an emergency. Stop everything you’re doing and prepare to meet Winter Robbins in all his tobacco-spitting, hog-tying, terrible special effects glory
Max: . . .
Max: I’m game
Jonah: It’s like a movie date but we don’t even have to stand up. Call you soon.
Max: No cameras. I’m wearing flannel.
Jonah: My pajamas have ducks on them
Max: I have so many questions
Jonah: Call you in 10. But totally with a camera. I want to see my date.
Max: Two “date” references in one convo feels like a lot.
Jonah: 9 minutes. I have one leg in my pajama pants already.
Max: Are there really ducks?
Jonah: Mallards, teals, and drakes
Max: . . .
Max: You may FaceTime me.
I hurry to the closet. I really do have pajamas with ducks on them. I didn’t actually buy them—Olivia and I get each other gag gifts every Christmas. These just turned out to be super comfy. She wears her Bigfoot slippers too, so we kind of nailed it last year.
I get in position with the laptop and FaceTime and make the call. Max pops up, hair hanging down over some plaid flannel pajamas, and I forget about the argument with Olivia and all the great things Kate thinks I shoul
d be doing. I forget about everything but Max.
“Those really are ducks,” she says.
“I never lie about waterfowl.”
“This is a really romantic date so far.”
I cover my mouth and whisper, “Did you just call it a date?”
“It was a slip of the tongue.”
“Freudian?”
“Nietzsche. Sadomasochism.”
“Max?”
“Yes . . .”
“I like your pj’s too.”
She bursts out laughing. “What’s the password?”
“It’s all numbers . . . I’ll text it. I still kind of wish we could actually hang out.”
“Kind of?”
“I was being polite. I would give away my duck pajamas to have you here right now.”
Max nods, squinting a little. “So you want me over there after you’ve given away your duck pajamas, which would leave you . . .”
“Umm . . .” I feel everything reddening. Like, I’ve had flushed cheeks before, and maybe even ears, but I think my nose is red too. Can noses blush? “I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, it does sound nice . . .” Shut up, Jonah. “I mean the hanging out. Not the me naked.”
“What filter are you using right now?” she asks, leaning closer with a wry smile. “The interior of a volcano? Surface of the sun?”
I clear my throat. “What I mean is, I still want to hang out. You know—within six feet of each other. Yes, I know holding hands is illegal now.”
“Not sure that’s a law. P.S. the password worked. Thanks. Talk tomorrow?”
“Max!”
“Joking. I need to take in the glory of your duck pj’s while you still remain fully clothed.”
Hello (From Here) Page 11