Finding Mr. Brightside

39

ABRAM

COULDN’T FIND HER walking on the path or along the road back to the house. I burst through the front door, hair wet and matted to my forehead, wiping my feet on the entryway rug. I call out for her again and again, and the scene I’m creating feels too melodramatic in this moment. I hope it looks even more ridiculous in hindsight.

The kitchen is empty, quiet but for the consistent humming of the fridge she too-rarely opens and the squishing of my waterlogged flip-flops on the marble tile. I jog toward the living room, find our couch bed unmade, the way we left it after our wide-awake nap this afternoon. I slide open the door and step out onto the back deck. I look over toward the hot tub, wishing she were here to warn me away from it.

Juliette

FYI,I’LL NEVER BEin the hot tub.

Send.

ABRAM

SHE’S TEXTING! Although she hasn’t responded to my follow-up question about her current location. Maybe because there’s only one other place she could be.

Back in the house, I creak up the stairs wondering what could’ve drawn her to the second floor. An odd, ghostlike noise? No, if I had to guess, I’d say she’s trying to prove something to herself. Or her mom.

Looking down the hallway to the master bedroom, I’m positive I closed the door on our way out a few days ago. In fact, Juliette asked me to both double-check and put a large object in front of it. The ottoman has been pushed to the side. The door is slightly ajar, a tiny stream of light poking through the crack.

Juliette

NO IDEA WHAT I’M TRYING to prove right now. That I’m crazy? That I wasn’t just saying it all along? That I’m brave enough to be in the same room with my mom’s alleged ghost, who probably isn’t even interested, lying on the same bed where she fucked the father of the guy she thought was perfect for me?

You don’t need to prove who you really are. You just are, comes the voice of my Silence Speaks audiobook narrator, a gentle reminder of why I stopped listening after chapter 4. He has a point, of course. This isn’t me. It’s a story I’m creating in my head right now, about a girl named Juliette overreacting to some surprising news about my mother’s never-revealed knack for teen matchmaking, and the fact that her questions to me about Abram weren’t being asked entirely for selfish reasons. The plot has nothing to do with who I am as a crazy person; it just seems that way because it’s at the top of my mind trying to pass itself off as the most disturbing thing of all time.

What-ev-er, I hope Abram doesn’t object to my slipping into something more comfortable. I slipped into something a lot less comfortable first—nothing but my bra and underwear—but then my mind was like, Girl, who are you kidding? You should change. So I listened to it. Always do.

ABRAM

I EASE OPEN THE DOOR and find her on the bed, waiting for me. Either me or a blizzard, because she’s wearing my hoodie with her fleece over it, the hood drawn up over her head, her favorite gray scarf wrapped around her neck. Her legs, in contrast, are completely bare—free of all clothing from her cute little feet up to the tops of her thighs, where the mysterious fabric of her nude-colored panties begins. Pretty sure Juliette hates the word “panties.” Her eyes are open; she’s not moving. She looks so tired, frozen from the waist down, and much farther away from me than she really is.

40

Juliette

A REVELATION HIT ME as I was lying here a few minutes ago, staring down at my wheezing bosom, waiting for Abram to swing through the door (like he is now) and take advantage of me—my body is still unappealing! And cold. So I put a few layers on and compromised. Ta-da, now I’m like an outdoorsy lesbian up top, and a reluctant whore with mother issues on the bottom. Let’s call the whole thing off.

Too late, Abram’s shutting the door behind him. While he’s removing his flip-flops, I bite my lips in a futile attempt to make them look bee-stung (by the same bee who does Angelina Jolie’s). He looks over my way again, feasts his eyes on me and all my phony wanton, the very antithesis of come-hitherishness.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Why do you ask?” I say, like nothing’s out of the ordinary, and motion for him to join me. He walks over and sits down on my side of the bed. He’s damp but not as drenched as I thought. I have a daydream about Terry handing Abram the keys to Barbara A

“Your hair isn’t wet,” Abram says, smoothing a humidity frizzlet back from my forehead.

“Cab.”

He smiles halfway before his face turns serious again. “What happened?”

“Linda told me my mom thought you and I would be perfect together.”

“Okay.” Abram pauses for a moment, thinks about this carefully, runs his fingers through his own hair. “That’s not such a bad thing, is it?”

I look around for a mask to wear so I don’t hurt his feelings.

ABRAM

“FRUSTRATING,” JULIETTE SAYS, from behind a throw pillow. “How could she be so right about something she had no clue about?”

“You think she’s right?” I say, and she can probably hear the smile in my voice, because she throws the pillow at me.

“Don’t change the subject.”

I scan my mind again for something else to make her feel better, end up landing on someone else. My mom.

“This probably isn’t relevant, but want to know what my mom always says about stuff like this?”

“Not really.”

“She says, ‘Abram, moms just know.’”

“Know what?”

“Everything.”

“There’s not more to it than that?” Juliette asks.

I shake my head. “She can’t really explain how she picks up on things. Maybe your mom had that kind of inexplicable intuition, too? Even if she never completely earned it.”

Juliette looks highly skeptical but slightly less miserable. I take both of her hands into mine. “Can I do anything to bring you back from the past?”

“Yes,” she says, “start taking advantage of me right now.”

Juliette

ABRAM HASN’T BEGUN ravaging my supple body yet, so I sit up and start peeling his dual shirts from his stomach. The process is less complicated than I’m making it seem. He has to assist once I’ve rolled them up to his neck. I throw the wad of clothing off to the side, knocking the lamp off the nightstand. Somehow, it doesn’t break. I look down and see his shorts bunching up against his belt buckle, unable to determine if I got the wrong size or if it’s that. Probably not ready to deal with it if I can’t even refer to it by name.

“I don’t have a condom,” Abram says.

“I’m on the pill.”

He seems surprised.

“For psychotic hormone regulation, not because I’m a whore.”

The passion in the air curls up and dies in front of me. I reignite it by reaching toward his belt buckle, working my fingers inside the leather loop, pulling, unhinging, freeing the strap and unbuttoning the top of his shorts. His stomach isn’t nearly as tan in this region, so I guess this is the skin I should’ve been competing against all along. Perfect, my left leg is going numb. On a scale of 1–10, this sex we’re about to embark upon is going to be the dash in between the numbers. Off the charts, all my fault. Abram will try to steal all the blame, the only thing he’s selfish about taking. I really just want to make him feel better in a non-fake, preferably non-verbal way that doesn’t lead to a mess. I want him to feel … nothing. Except me. And my thoughts on all subjects, which are usually the correct ones, except during times like these, when they’re ganging up on me and I need his help.