Finding Mr. Brightside

“Want to test out the hot tub in a few?” he asks, pointing toward the back of the house, as if the convenience of the location will make it harder to resist.

“Only if we can get tested for staph infections afterward.”

“There’s an urgent-care down the road,” he says, laughing.

I’m serious, just ask Heidi about her leg wound that bubbled open for two months after she took a dip in a hot tub—she’s fascinated by the experience now, having had plenty of time to make peace with the disgustingness of it. (I’m going to need a few more years.) I wish Abram had asked me a question I could’ve said yes to, even though he seems fine with yet another no.

“How do you do that?” I ask.

He points to his chewing mouth, like, Eat an abundance of sandwiches?

I shake my head. “Accept everything, all the time, even when there’s no good reason for it.”

He swallows. “Why fight it?”

“Because otherwise it will never change?”

“It’s more likely to change if I don’t force it,” he says, an understated confidence to his tone. “I could teach you how to go with the flow sometime, if you want.”

“You already have been,” I say, without sarcasm. “Just keep doing what you’re not realizing you’re doing.”

“Will do,” he promises, as I wipe a crumb from the corner of his lip. “Unwittingly, of course.”

My hand freezes by his face for a second.

I stand up and throw away our paper plates—before he can see the goose bumps on my arms—and watch from the corner of my eye as he stretches, pats his stomach, and then yawns, not all that concerned about whatever’s not going to happen next.

“Okay,” I say, “let’s go hot-tubbing.”

That must be the new Juliette talking; she’s a gung-ho ho-bag who’s totally down for mostly naked and highly unsanitary experiences. Meanwhile, the old me is like, Girl, good luck with her. I’ll just be over here thinking about where to hide your pills from the ghosts.

As Abram and I head toward the living room to change, I look back at the kitchen one last time, mentally apologizing to my mother for making up a back-from-the-grave scenario in which I wasn’t happy to see her. Maybe my negativity patterns will stop repeating themselves in the hot tub tonight, or at the beach tomorrow, or neither because I’ll be wearing a swimsuit.

22

ABRAM

I’VE GROWN ACCUSTOMED to my mom asking if I remembered to pack this or that until she just ends up doing it for me, so it’s still not her fault I forgot my swim trunks, but that’s why they’re back home in a pile somewhere. This oversight reminds me to send her a text saying we got here safely and the house is okay, so all isn’t lost. Mom texts back an immediate thank-you, with multiple exclamations, then sends a picture of herself and Aunt Jane smiling next to a slot machine, three diamond symbols glittering up the screen. Seconds later, Aunt Jane texts:

You owe me a souvenir for keeping her entertained, Mr. Romance. (And, yes, I realize we would’ve gone to the casino anyway.)

She thinks of everything, Aunt Jane.

I put on a pair of swimsuit-looking gym shorts while waiting for Juliette to finish changing in the bathroom. She’s been in there awhile, probably being overly critical of her flawless appearance. “Hey, you need more toilet paper?” I call out, trying to stop the critique by implying she’s taking an evening poo.

She flings open the door a second later, wearing a custom death-look that makes it harder to stare at her in that red bikini, but I still find a way.

“I wasn’t … you know.”

“Of course,” I say, like a distinguished gentleman. I hide my snicker behind the towel I’m offering to her. She throws it back at me, grabs her huge purse, and walks toward the door. Perhaps a reluctant dip in the hot tub will help her relax.

As we step outside, the whole backyard scene—the sandy deck underneath our feet, the sound of the ocean crashing predictably against the shore—does seem less to her hating. There’s another shift in mood as we close in on the hot tub and remove the cover, and the motor starts whirring like it’s been waiting for company to come. My right foot is almost touching the swirling, foamy water when she holds out her palm in warning.

“Orville Redenbacher died in a hot tub,” she pronounces.

“The popcorn guy?”

She nods and waves me away from the danger impatiently, until I step down.

“Did he drown in it?” I ask, as we place the cover back on.

“After his massive heart attack, probably … Can we go to the beach?” She grabs my towel and hands it to me. “I need to make an emergency phone call, and so do you.”

“Yes,” I say. “Several of them.”

As we step onto the sandy boardwalk, she tells me about poor Orville, and then another cautionary tale involving Heidi and a hot-tub-related staph infection that makes my foot tingle like it’s been saved from amputation. The wind picks up as we near the water’s edge. We stop just short of the lapping waves, sit down in the sand as she tells me she’s sick of the sound of her own voice and removes Heidi’s cell phone from her folded towel. We take turns making liquid 9-1-1 calls from the ante

“You sure it’s okay for you to be drinking on Adderall?”

“Yes, according to my doctor.” Her poker face is less convincing under the influence, so she turns her head from me and takes her next swig in private.

“Maybe I should give him a quick buzz,” I say.

Juliette hands the flask back to me so I can knock myself out. As I’m fake-dialing, she says, “Want to go ski

I forget about everything and start glancing around, spot a few flashlight beams in the distance—people hunting for crabs, not the police coming to arrest us, as Juliette suggests. They’re a good mile or so away. For all impractical purposes, we’re alone.

I look back at her. “I shouldn’t take that proposition seriously, right?”

“What if I’m serious?”

“Then … I don’t know … let’s be serious about it?”

She stands up as if she’d like to see someone stop her. I am not that guy. Right now, I’m the guy who’s starting to take off his shirt.

23

Juliette

THIS IDEA IS LOSING the little appeal it had now that I’m standing upright, the wind gusting through my skin. I look down, rake the sand with the bottoms of my toes, having just remembered something truly awful about myself … my body! It’s not on-point—just pointy, best viewed in the pitch darkness, or in an asexual one-piece, definitely not in all its bikini-free glory. Abram, possessing no such hang-ups, is already stripping off his salmon-colored T-shirt, the one with the holes and the dangling strings that I’ve been meaning to misplace for him. He gives me an impish look, like he’s about to get in trouble but doesn’t care, before sliding down his gym shorts. His thumbs are inside the band of his underwear when my neck whiplashes back around toward the sea.

Tops or bottoms first? It’s like the worst of both worlds. I reach around and find the clasp, fiddle with it for an anti-erotic eternity. Then I feel Abram beside me. He takes my hand, at first like a father figure because I’m so tense, until I can loosen my fingers enough for him to slide his between them.

“Still counts,” he says quietly, letting me know it’s okay to cheat. “Kept my underwear on.”

I let out the breath I’ve been holding and start walking forward with him, both of us making a point of looking straight ahead, as if there’s no such thing as peripheral vision. How else could I see the curve of his calf muscle, the ridges of his quads, the V-shaped shadows pointing down toward his underwear? What does he see in me when there’s literally nothing to see besides a two-dimensional blond stick with goose bumps?