Finding Mr. Brightside

“I brought up my mom to Linda. Mistake.”

“What did she say?”

“That they hung out with our parents once, and she felt bad for your mom. I thought I could handle it, but it just … made me feel guilty by association. Which is ridiculous because I barely associated with my mom, especially toward the end; she was like a roommate I drank coffee with occasionally, a shady friend who gave me Adderall and disappeared all day, and I wish I was making sense.”

“You’re making a lot of sense,” I say.

“It’s been over a year, and I still don’t understand how I’m supposed to be dealing with this, and I’m sick of taking Adderall but too tired to figure out how not to, and … I want a Doritos Locos Supreme but I can’t even drive myself to Taco Bell.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

She’s shaking now. I roll her over to face me. Instead of trying to hide the tears in her eyes, she lets them do their thing right in front of me. I resist the urge to kiss them from her skin, because she probably wouldn’t hate anything more. Instead, I graze her cheek with the side of my fingertip and slide them away, nonchalantly, as if only so she won’t have to worry about clogged pores.

“Sorry,” she says, sniffling, “I’m the world’s ugliest crier.”

“Or its reigning prettiest,” I suggest as an alternative, which makes her cry harder for some reason. Time to rely on something other than words—take the action I’ve been meaning to take since CVS. I realize it’s not a solution to anything, but it’s the only thing I know will keep me from shedding a few tears myself, and then we’d really have ourselves a legitimate dude contender for the world’s-ugliest-crier competition. And no one wants that.

29

Juliette

MY CRYING HAS SLOWED, thankfully, but the ugly won’t be evacuating my face anytime soon. What’s with the strange look of determination coming across Abram’s? It’s not going anywhere, either. Haven’t seen an eyebrow furrow of this magnitude since his last beer-pong rematch.

ABRAM

NOT EVEN A WHALE jumping out of the ocean and swallowing the house could stop me from kissing her. Still don’t want to take any chances, though, so now I’m rushing in a little faster than I would if I had a reciprocation guarantee. I slow down as I reach the very edge of her lips, and then finally, after all this time that seems longer than it’s probably been, I close the deal. Our lips are touching, we’re kissing, and I get to feel what she really feels like. So far she seems relaxed, eyes closed, not open and wondering how she landed herself in such a bind. I make every second count, not by overdoing it, by just experiencing her as much as possible—the softness of her lips, the smoothness of her other exposed areas when they brush up against me accidentally—without preconceived notions of how this miracle of all miracles should be unfolding.

Two peas in a couch bed. That’s what we are.

Juliette

HIS LIPS STILL GRAZING MINE, Abram opens his eyes to make sure I’m okay with all this. I pull myself closer to him, careful not to respond with a mixed signal. His mouth presses down against mine more firmly, finding the perfect spot between my lips, our tongues touching briefly, shyly, before retreating to their respective corners. They don’t stay away long. We repeat these movements in a slightly different way that feels entirely new every time. Then, unexpectedly, his face drifts down toward my neck. His lips know where to find the most sensitive part, the best possible area they can linger, and he kisses me there, intense and focused, cha

ABRAM

HELLO THERE, was that a butt touch? Probably an accident. This is lasting about forty times longer than expected, which is great, no need to ever stop on my account. Might be time to mix it up again, keep her engaged. I pull away from her neck just long enough to make her wonder, and then move back in toward her lips, at a different angle, before she can figure me out.

This might be too bold, but I lift myself up and maneuver around until I’m on top of her, still supporting my weight on my elbows. Managing to do this without my lips leaving hers. I hope she doesn’t think I’m expecting to jump immediately from kissing to bootytown; I just really needed to move my hip off the spring from the couch bed that’s been digging into it.

Juliette

ON TOP OF MY BODY is certainly not where I thought he was going with this. The situation still doesn’t seem out of hand, the claustrophobia yet to kick in. He’s not making any pained expressions about my hipbones stabbing into his kidneys, either, so that’s considerate of him. Should I rub his back so he doesn’t suspect I’m a closet butt fetishist? I never know what to do with my hands in these physical-intimacy scenarios, maybe because they never occur, and, yes, Heidi, this includes when I’m alone. Get it! she calls out from a jail cell in my mind. I’ll probably kiss and tell her about this, and when I do, I’ll say Abram’s a great kisser and then I’ll resist answering her animated follow-up questions that will center around length and girth. Or is all of the above not the point of anything?

Eventually, against all odds, I really start to relax, not just fake relax, and there’s a marked shift in the way my lips operate. They’re more confident in their throbbing pursuit of Abram’s. Throbbing is a gross word, but that’s what they’re doing, like they’ve been starving for this all along, and now that they’ve gotten a taste, they can’t get enough. I put my hand on his lightly stubbled face, wondering how I’m going to force myself to stop. Then my body makes the decision for me.

“Can we go to Taco Bell in five minutes?” I ask.

Abram smiles. “I’m so happy your stomach growled that up again.”

An hour later, Abram thinks I should try driving in the Taco Bell parking lot.

“Bad idea,” I say, grimacing like I wish it’d been a good one.

He shakes his head, undeterred. “It’s just like riding a bike.”

“I hate bikers.”

“Ah, that’s right—bad example. Just do a loop around here. You don’t have to go on the main road.” He gestures toward the sea of empty parking spaces. (Behind us, hungry patrons form a desperate horseshoe of cars around the twenty-four-hour drive-thru lane.)

“You should’ve asked me before that happened,” I say, pointing to the bag full of empty Doritos Locos Supreme wrappers.

“Tacos can only help matters. Look at me, I eat a lot of them, and I’m a pretty good driver, no?”

He’s a great driver, actually, but that has nothing to do with me getting out of this. Or here’s a crazy thought: I could just do it, say yes, try something new again. What’s so hard about trading Abram spots, taking the wheel, and parking right next to the space we’re in?

I unlock the door and step out into a small swarm of no-see-ums, which really are worse than mosquitoes, it’s not just some boring thing people say to hear themselves sounding fascinated about nature. Anyway, bad omen. I slam the door and run around toward Abram’s side. I tell him to get back in through his side, and he does, sliding over into the passenger seat as I shut the door behind me. In full teammate mode, Abram makes a fist-bump request with his balled hand outstretched, and for some reason I bump it. It makes me feel dumber, but better.

It’s actually not overwhelming in the driver’s seat, especially in park, in Abram’s tank of an SUV. I like that I’m up high, that if I accidentally accelerated directly into a car like that Hyundai Elantra over there it wouldn’t result in my vehicle losing control and plummeting down a steep ravine. Because, wouldn’t you know, there’s always a steep ravine nearby when I get into hypothetical car accidents.