Finding Mr. Brightside

“C’mon,” I say to Juliette, “let’s go have some fun.”

“Even if it kills us?”

“Nope.” I turn off the car and jiggle my keys. “The alive-only kind.”

Juliette

THE MORGANS’ TWO-STORY beach house might be considered charming by someone with an easily charmed outlook on life. To me, it looks overwhelming. Also, keeping Ian Morgan’s “travel lightly” text to my mother in mind, I definitely overpacked. The veins are popping on Abram’s arm as he carries my suitcase toward the door.

“You should just roll it, yes?” My third time telling him this, but who’s counting?

“Nope, not a problem,” he says, adjusting his grip between breaths. He hoists my problem up the stairs of the wraparound deck and through the front door, which, in my reluctance to go anywhere near the house, I almost forget to hold open for him. He steps inside, and I’m right behind him, in spirit. I hear the suitcase rolling along the floor as I’m shutting myself out. Removing my phone from my purse, I try to think of something to text my dad, but nothing seems appropriate given that this whole situation is somewhat inappropriate. I decide on: Here. Love you. A few tense hair adjustments later, I get his comparably affectionate Thanks—love you, too response. Nice to know he’s still the kind of parent who can be the bigger person.

“Ready for the grand tour?” Abram asks, walking back out a minute later.

“Don’t forget to text your mom,” I say, putting away my phone.

“Next thing on my list.” He smiles because there isn’t any such list as I look down at his long fingers, still outstretched in warm welcome. Not for the first time I notice how veiny and sinewy his hands are.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

“The ocean.”

And strong hands. Back at his basement, between sea-creature documentaries, Abram will go outside but leave the screen door open in case I need anything, and I’ll hear him clipping his nails for a solid twenty minutes, disturbing the locusts for a change. The effort obviously isn’t lost on me, but who knows where the self-control hides when it’s time to fill out college applications. Probably the same hole mine’s crawling into right now.

Without warning, Abram does exactly what I wasn’t prepared to admit to wanting all along. He reaches out and presses his cushiony palm against my bony counterpart, which is eager to escape its cold, low-blood-pressure prison and burrow into his skin as our fingers slide into place together.

“Promise not to run away?” he says.

“Never.”

As in, Never promising that. Abram knows what I meant.

“I’ll let you run beside me if I do,” I add.

He squeezes my hand.

20

ABRAM

THOUGHT IT MIGHT help Juliette get settled if we went upstairs and unpacked immediately, without so much as stopping to turn on the TV. Bad call, the dread seems to be settling in as we stand just inside the entryway of the master bedroom, staring at the intimidating four-poster king. The floorboards creak every time one of us moves, and it wasn’t just her paranoia expressing itself a second ago; I think it is colder in this room versus every other room in the house. The peppermint-scented cleaning products and the pale-blue linen duvet are subtracting a few more degrees, as is my dad’s metallic-gray te

“Maybe we should sleep downstairs,” she suggests, already leaning in that direction. “Where there aren’t any ghosts.”

“There’s a ghost-free couch bed in the living room,” I say.

“Sounds lovely.”

We roll our suitcases back down the hallway, past the other available bedrooms, to the top of the stairs. Juliette tells me just to push hers down and let the suitcase land where it may, but that sounds like a red herring option whereby the girl is temporarily convincing herself she won’t blame the boy for whatever happens. I grab the handle and lift, taking a break every few steps because she keeps recommending it. One of these days, she’ll let me perform a favor for her without calculating what she owes me, which is always going to be nothing. Except maybe a kiss, if our relationship ever reaches the level—pi

Once downstairs, we pull out the couch bed and cover the mattress with as many sheets and pillows as we can find outside of the master bedroom, topping it with her dad’s flame-retardant blanket. She’s already predicting how cold she’s going to be tonight. My theory on that is she’d be less freezing if she’d stop mentioning it out loud, like self-fulfilling body temperature. It’s not very well thought-out, but it still feels like I’m onto something.

“You sure you’re okay with staying down here?” she asks, as if I’d nitpick the conditions in which I get to sleep with her completely awake beside me.

“We can do whatever we want,” I remind her, smiling. “There’s no right or wrong on vacation.”

She frowns, looks like she’s thinking this over until it sounds more wrong in her brain. Then she says, “You’re right.”

“Not necessarily.”

She arches an eyebrow, perhaps impressed I didn’t fall for her trick. Perhaps not, but I leave it at that and turn on the gas fireplace, which makes her happy. By the time we have everything situated in our ad hoc bedroom, the sun is setting. Juliette asks if I’m hungry, and I’m like, “Hell, yeah!” The immediacy of my enthusiasm startles her.

We head into the kitchen and she has a seat at the bar as I gather the makings of several multi-ingredient sandwiches. She answers my “How many?” question with a “Zero.”

“Already ate,” she insists.

I stare inside the fridge for a minute, trying to remember that occurring recently.

“Food?” I ask, shutting the door.

“Pill,” she says, as a load of fresh cubes crashes into the ice maker.

Her choosing Adderall over a sandwich may not be wrong by my lax vacation standards, but it still feels like a sore subject that needs to be addressed while we’re here.

“Speaking of pills, guess what tonight is?” she asks.

“Tonight I’m officially Paxil-free, thanks to you.”

“A monkey could have made that spreadsheet,” she demurs.

“No way. But what about a Piggly Wiggly?”

She groans, swiveling back and forth in her bar stool. “So … are you feeling depressed right now?”

“Yes.” I reach into a nearby cabinet and set an empty plate down in front of her. “But only because you won’t have a sandwich with me.”

21

Juliette

AND THIS IS WHY I rarely bring up the truth about myself—Abram gets all low-key worried about a lost cause. I’m blowing air into my cheeks to make my face appear more well-fed, and it might be my least effective ruse yet; for sure the least attractive. Right now he could easily point out all the reasons I shouldn’t be taking Adderall, including death of appetite, so why isn’t he? He’s opting to say nothing at all, which is … making me hungrier?

“What about half a sandwich?” I hear myself say.

Abram flashes me a relieved smile, wags the butter knife in my direction like I won’t regret this, then begins the multi-ingredient congealment process. Every once in a while, he’ll look toward the door like he’s expecting his dad to walk in at any moment, and my heart attacks me. In defense, I picture my mother walking in on the arm of Ian Morgan, acting like the four of us are on a perfectly deranged couples retreat together, and then heading straight for the wine bottles that line the top of the cabinets as I slip out the back door. She’d have a much easier time lighting up the room without me, I’m sure.

“You ate your whole half,” Abram points out, smiling. I look down at my plate. Empty. Hunger blackout.