Hannah Johnson Know Not Why A Novel

Know Not Why

by Hannah Johnson

For everybody who’s kept this thing alive along the way; I am far luckier than any anguished author lady should be. Love, love, love to you all!

Chapter One

At first it’s just this idea.

This really, really good idea.

This

GREAT

idea.

“That,” Amber tells me, “is a terrible idea.”

Amber has been my best friend since we were in diapers, but sometimes – and I say this with all the respect in the world, and because she could
so kick my ass with her brain alone – she is stupid.

“What’re you talking about? It’s genius.”

“It’s disgusting.”

“It’s disgusting how genius it is.”

“Yeah, um, no. It’s disgusting how disgusting it is.”

“Why can’t you just be happy for me in my hour of glory, huh? Do you think that Alexander Graham Bell’s homies gave him this much trouble when
he invented the phone? No. They probably just went, ‘Hey, Alex, good goin’, man, nice one; here, up top.’ And then there was much high-fiving and
merrymaking and drinking of grog.”

“Grog?”

“Look it up. It’s a thing.”

“How old do you think the telephone

?”

“That,” I say grandly, “is not the point right now. The point is that I’m a genius.”

“Are you sure the point isn’t that you’re a sadsack?”

“I am very sure.”

“Because, I don’t know, something about getting a job at an arts and crafts store because you’ll be able to ‘reap the benefits’ of being the only guy
there – it reeks distinctly of sad. And besides, you know you’d never actually do anything about it.”

“Says who?”

“Uh, says the brilliant human being who’s known you since always. Come on, Howie. Your skeezy-talking skills are matched only by your
inescapable decency. That’s going to get in the way, Don Juan.”

“Bah!”

“You know I’m right. When am I ever not right?”

“There’s a first time for everything! And that first time is now.”

“Okay, okay. Even assuming you do find the inner iniquity to skeeze it up all over the place – who’s to say any of these girls are actually going to
want anything to do with you?”

“Guys who work in craft stores,” I inform her, “are

sensitive

. You ladyfolk love that shit.”

“Sensitive,” Amber agrees – and then, after a super-long pause, innocuously adds, “Or gay.” This is the money shot right here; her eyebrows arch,
fierce and triumphant. “Howie, they’re just going to think you’re gay.”

“Pfft. Are not.”

But there is, maybe, a flicker of worry for a second there.

Even forgetting the gay thing, there are some ways in which getting this job could be less than cool. For example:

1. The guy who started the aforementioned store – I’m pretty sure his son’s taken over it since – was named Arthur Kraft. Ergo, Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N
Crafts.

Yeah.

On one hand, I guess it’d be a bummer to waste a name like that, because what else are you going to do with it?, but on the other …

Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts? Really for real?

I think about answering the phone, all, “Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts, this is Howie, how may I help you?” and it makes me want to barf. Just a little bit.

2. Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts (still sounds lame, so LAME) is right next to the hair-and-nails place where Heather Grimsby works. Running into
Heather Grimsby? It’s not exactly on my To Do List. She was my date to senior prom, and, in the few weeks leading up to it, my – I dunno, sort of
girlfriend.

Heather Grimsby, to be brief, is not somebody I particularly want to run into. Especially after …

Well, whatever.

3. Getting out of this town seems impossible enough as is. But when I’m there, inside the four walls of Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts, wearing the
nametag, wearing the apron, putting on a jaunty smile and offering to help bored housewives find tissue paper (is tissue paper an art? A craft?), it’ll
seem, like, really impossible, you know? Why Don’t You Just Throw In The Towel, Son, ‘Cause It Ain’t Gonna Happen impossible.

4. The apron.

They make you wear an apron.

Even if you’re a dude.

None of this really matters, though, because:

1. Fuck, man, I just— I really really need to get laid.

I do get called for an interview. Let no one say I lack résumé skills.

I show up at Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts (…) twenty minutes early, looking respectable and dapper. I’m not wearing a tie, because I’m not sure I have
one, but I’m wearing the kind of shirt you’re supposed to wear a tie with. For me, that’s momentous. I even combed my hair, as per the insistence of
Mom. As a result, it looks flat and weird and dweeby, but whatever. I am in the habit of making grand sacrifices for Mummy Dearest.
I step inside. There are bells on the door. They jingle encouragingly as I lock eyes on the girl behind the counter.

In a word, score

She’s pretty. Seriously, unusually, spellbindingly pretty. Blonde, big blue eyes, a smile that lights her up as soon as she sees me.

She even makes the apron look cute.

THIS PLAN IS GENIUS.

I make a mental note to shoot a lot of smug looks at Amber later.

“Howie?” asks Mad Amounts of Pretty Girl, bouncing up and down a little. It could be cloying, but it’s not. I buy that guessing whether I’m me brings
her so much joy she has to bounce.

Ohhh, it is

“Yeah, that’s me.” My hand goes up to my head by its own accord and tousles my hair. Self-preservation instinct. Sorry, Mom.

“That’s great! You’re early!” Man, can she rock an exclamation point.

“Yeah, well,” I say, putting my hands in my pockets, going for that whole nonchalantly-professional-and-

awesome

air, “I just thought I’d take some

time to look around. Get used to the place.” I give her an ‘Honestly, I don’t mean to be so good at this’-type grin.

“Really?” she asks, beaming even bigger. “That’s awesome of you, Howie! So thoughtful.”

Thoughtful. Thoughtful’s like a shake away from sensitive. I am

getting a piece of that ass.

Or. Well.

I feel a little guilty as soon as I think it, just because, I dunno, maybe that’s not the sort of thing you’re supposed to think in an arts and crafts store.

Fortunately, Blondie McRadiant doesn’t seem to have mind-reading powers. “Arthur’s going to be so pleased, I think,” she prattles on merrily. “He
hasn’t really been happy with any of the other applicants, and we’re totally short-staffed all of a sudden.”

“You are?” I come close enough to lean an elbow on the counter – just the one, casual, testing the waters. “Why’s that?”

“It’s like there was some sort of quitting epidemic this past month,” Milady Sunshine informs me in a scandalized whisper. She leans forward over
the counter on both elbows.

“A quit-a-demic,” I quip without thinking. And then want to kill myself.

“Right!” She lets out a giddy laugh and reaches over the counter to slap me cutely on the shoulder. I can’t believe that worked. That

worked

? Maybe I

should stop censoring myself all the time. “Oh, gosh, you’re funny, Howie.”

Dangerous ground. This could very well morph into

You’re so much fun to be with, Howie, I love you like a brother, Howie, you’re my girl friend in a

boy suit, Howie, want to braid my hair while we tell each other secrets, Howie?

But for now, I choose to interpret it optimistically. “Thanks.”

“Anyway,” she goes on, “Jessica had to leave to go to college, so it wasn’t really her fault. But Mari always really hated Arthur, and he got on her
case for sneaking cigarettes in the kitchen – which is totally understandable, because, ew, gross, right?” (I throw in a “Yuck!” for solidarity.) “And
finally she just snapped, it was incredible. I mean, really, really scary, and kind of

b-i-t-c-h

y, she actually threw a Do It Yourself Frame-Making Kit at

him. Don’t worry, it didn’t actually hit him. Too hard. Arthur

can

get to be a little bit much sometimes, even for me, and he’s my cousin so I think he

might be nicer to me than everyone else. So you might want to be prepared for that, but mostly it’s okay. But, yeah, she really lost it, and yelled,
‘Maybe I’ll just go work at effing Holly’s then’ – you know, Holly’s Fine Art Supplies, not a person named Holly – but she didn’t say effing, you know,
she actually

said

—”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“—and Arthur gets really touchy about Holly’s, because it’s an actual chain and it’s so nice and they have that commercial where the kids dance up
and down the aisles, so business has suffered a lot since they opened here. But anyway, so yeah, she quit before he could fire her. So now it’s just
Cora and Arthur and me.” She beams. “And probably you!”

Okay, so maybe pickins are gonna be slimmer than I’d anticipated. Doesn’t matter. I’ve got my eye on the prize right here.

Unless Cora’s, you know, really really great. In which case, we’ll see.

“Sorry if I totally just talked your ear off,” I Should Probably Look At Her Nametag Already So I Can Stop With The Lame Nicknames says. She gets
all sheepish and adorable. “Everyone’s always telling me I talk too much.”

“Nah,” I reply, squinting boobward – I can’t help it, that’s where her nametag is – and trying to be subtle about it. K – Karen? Kr – Kristy! Kristy.
Excellent. Always liked the name Kristy. Since two seconds ago. “I’m a voracious listener. So you just … bring it on. I defy you to talk more than I
can listen. To.”

Not exactly smooth moves, but she totally digs it, again! This is my dream woman! Mrs. Howie Jenkins right here!

Or, well. My next roll in the hay.

Do people actually say “roll in the hay” anymore? What hay? Or, well, okay, having just read (and by “read,” I mean “skimmed while watching reruns
of that reality show about lumberjacks”)

The Woodlanders

for my British Lit class over at Ye Olde Community College, I know that it used to

happen. Thomas Hardy was all over that. But now? Where do people even find hay?

—

Why

am I thinking these thoughts? Pretty girl. Great, pretty, cute, potentially-not-hating-me girl. Focus.

“Okay,” she’s saying, giggly. “You’re on.”

Oh, yeah, I’m on. You. Like white on … rice … like …

why

do I keep feeling bad thinking these things? It’s my own friggin’ brain. I dunno, whatever, it

seems rude. Invasive. I just met this person, no matter how lady-shaped and delightful she is.

I say, kinda weakly, “Sounds like a deal.”

“My name is Kristy, by the way!” she says, oblivious to my sudden descent into self-loathing. This girl is aces.

“Yeah, I know, I saw your nametag,” I tell her without really thinking about it – and then I realize what this implies. “Not that I was looking.”

And then it comes back to me. Haunts me, clanks its chains, gets its Jacob Marley on. Amber’s voice echoes through my head.

‘Howie, they’re just

going to think you’re gay.’

“I was looking,” I blurt out. Better perv than sorry. “A little. You know. A tasteful amount. Just thought I’d … glance. It was a glance. Small-sized
glance. Mini-glance. A glancelet, if you will.”

Halle-freakin’-lujah! She laughs. She thinks it’s

funny

– these words, these stupid lame-ass words spewing out of my mouth. She has the kind of

laugh that reminds you of sunny days and sleeping in and the fact that life’s not so bad after all. It’s right about here that I decide, come hell or high
water, so help me God, I am rocking the shit out of this interview.

I went to high school with Arthur Jr., who is currently the reigning Artie. He was a senior when I was a freshman, so I don’t have many memories of
the dude. He was one of those super-involved honor roll students, and he was always in the special advanced music class, the one where the kids
would give dinner-and-a-concert fundraisers and sing, like, English madrigals. Amber had a one-semester foray into the dark and dizzying world of
sixth period chamber ensemble (which is how I even know the word “madrigal”) before she bailed: she couldn’t handle the degradation of being a
second soprano in a world where first sopranos ruled. Apparently, Arthur Kraft Jr. could take the heat. Not that he is, from what I remember, a first
soprano, but who really knows for sure?

It’s weird that he’s running his parents’ dinky craft store instead of playing at Carnegie Hall or curing cancer or whatever. Arthur Kraft Jr. wasn’t the
guy you’d vote Least Likely To Succeed in the yearbook, y’know? It’s pretty sad, to be honest.

“Heyyyy, man!” I exclaim as I step into his office, figuring I can use our history to my advantage. “Haven’t seen you in awhile! How’s it hangin’?”

“Just fine,” Arthur Jr. answers crisply.

“You still doing that … stuff you used to do?”

“I’ll need you to be more specific.”

He stares at me, waiting. For specifics.

“Never mind,” I mumble.

I’m pretty sure he has no idea who I am.

“All right then,” he says, not even making the slightest attempt to turn the moment any less awkward than it is, and it’s here that I remember: this guy
sucks. I’m pretty sure he used to steal lunch money and shove kids into their lockers. Terrorize the hallways, flanked by his first soprano bitch posse.

“Have a seat,” he instructs me. Like I don’t have any other options, just because I’m applying for a stupid job at his stupid little sissy store.

My thoughts drift back downstairs, to Kristy –

Kristy

– and it gives me strength. So I do have a seat, and it begins.

It’s like ten minutes of “it says here on your résumé…” and “what would you say qualifies you to…” and I think I talk my way through it pretty well.
While I do, to power me through, I pick out things that I hate about Arthur Kraft Jr. – nay, Arthur Kraft

the Second

. He is, no doubt, the kind of hoity-

toity prick who would insist upon being a ‘the Second.’ He has, like, woman eyelashes. But not the kind of eyelashes that any woman can actually
attain. They’re mascara commercial eyelashes, the eyelashes you want but can never have. Amber likes to rant about the injustice of that very thing,
that random men get bestowed with perfect eyelashes while she and all other females have to battle lash curlers and mascara and still, still they
never look as good. Arthur Kraft Jr. has those eyelashes. Amber would flippin’ hate this jerk. He is also really tall – well, a few inches taller than me,
which is

tall enough

, like, stop growing, Godzilla – and really skinny. His hair is this sandy blonde color, and it looks newly trimmed. Probably by

Heather Grimsby next door: it only makes sense that these two people who both happen to really freakin’ suck would be united by some higher
power to form a Suck Alliance.

And he’s wearing an apron. It’s supposed to look adorable and hand-crafted, like Grandma made it with love. It’s the most depressing thing I’ve
ever seen. He’s wearing a tie, too. Underneath the apron. Like – give it up, man; are you fifty?

“Finally,” he says, “what prompted you to seek work at Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts, specifically?”

For a second, I imagine telling him the truth. Maybe it’d be this moment of male bonding and solidarity, all, ‘Really, man, I’m just trying to get some
action, you dig?’ (Not that I’d say ‘you dig,’ who even does that?) I imagine him getting all, like, ‘oh snap!’ and demanding a five.

But here’s the reality of the situation: Arthur Kraft the Second would never say ‘oh snap!’. It’s the impossible dream.

Instead, I say, “I really like the atmosphere of the place. It seems like a great work environment, and it’s a nice, timeless business. Like, you’ve got
your iPads, you’ve got your Wiis, but this is the kind of stuff that

endures

.” Whatever, man, I can BS with the best of ‘em. English major power. “And

you’ve got, like, that new Holly’s that just opened, for example. But it’s not the same. I think that this kind of thing – arts, and crafts, and all – it’s
supposed to be from the heart, you know? And you’re just not going to get that with something that large-scale. This, this is intimate. You guys

mean

it when you sell those glue guns, and sequins. And I think that’s great. That’s something I want to be a part of.”

Bshwinggg! As predicted, the Holly’s mention one hundred percent melts his cold dead lame heart. He loves me! He even looks like he’s about to
smile. There is the slightest bit of movement going on in the general left-corner-of-his-mouth area. Do I sense a smile, Boss Man? Yeeeeah, that’s
right, I thought s—

Smirk? What the hell?

Smirk?

“Kristy told you,” he surmises wryly, “how I feel about Holly’s.”

“What? No.” But he’s rocking this keen, discerning gaze, and it’s accentuated by his Glorious Eyelashes, and I don’t know, man, I crumble a little.
“She maybe mentioned something.”

“Hmm,” he says.

Hmm.

Like that’s an answer. That’s not even a word. That’s a frickin’ sound. A dog could say ‘hmm.’

I am so ready to get out of here.

Fortunately, he seems to be thinking along the same lines, because he stands up. “All right then. I think I’ve heard everything I need to.”

“Cool,” I say, standing up too, and I stick my right hand out. Custom dictates.

“No thank you,” Arthur Kraft the Second says, squinting warily down at it. “I don’t think that will be necessary. Or appropriate.”

“What?” I ask blankly.

“The –” He pauses. A frown creases his forehead – he’s got a weird forehead, too, what a weirdo, how does he even get up in the morning? – and
he curls his fingers awkwardly into a fist. Then he halfheartedly punches the air. It takes me a minute to even figure out what he’s doing – like, what,
did he think I was going to

punch

him?

And then I get it.

“I wasn’t going to

fist bump

you,” I say, offended at the realization. “I’ve been to job interviews before. I know how to shake hands.”

“Ah.” He actually looks a little chagrined. Haha! Yeah, that’s right, prepare to get put in your

place

, bitch! This ain’t your momma’s arts and crafts

store no more. (I don’t know. I think he’s giving me mad cow disease or porphyria or something, just with his general presence.)

“I can shake your hand, dude – sir.” Jesus, is this my life? Calling Arthur Kraft the Second ‘sir’?

He stares down at my hand for a minute. Or, well, a couple seconds. ‘A minute’ is exaggerating.

At first.

Seriously, he just keeps

staring

, like, what, is he trying to sever it with the power of his mind? There’s no way around it, this guy is weird.

“Unnecessary,” he determines. After eight years. “I’ll contact you in a few days.”

“’kay,” I say uncomfortably. “Thanks.”

“Mmmhmm.” There he goes again. Jeez.

Words

, Encino Man. Words are the future.

Still, as I step out of the office, I’m feeling good about this. By the time I head down the stairs, through the supply closet, and back out into the store, I
may have even upgraded to great. Kristy beams at me from where she’s standing with a customer, some kindly old lady who smiles too. See? This

is a positive environment. This is a badass place to be.
Besides, Kristy sees me being nice to old ladies? Huge turn-on, right? Girls really like that kind of thing. Except Amber, who won’t look at a guy
twice unless he’s got a British accent and a crazy-ass wife locked in the attic, or whatever, but she is clearly abnormal.

“How’d it go?” Kristy asks, bouncing on over to me.

“Good, I think.” I wisely decide to leave out the Fist Bump That Wasn’t anecdote. It’s time to start burying that memory.

“I really hope you get it,” she says, putting a hand on my arm. Her fingernails are painted bright pink, and physical contact? So not gonna complain.

“Thanks,” I say. “We’ll see what happens.”

What I really mean is ‘I’m gonna ride you more times than the Matterhorn at Disneyland,’ because IT IS ON, but, wow, in a

craft store

with an

old

lady

like fifteen feet away? Just – not the thing to be thinking. That, that’s in bad taste.

Chapter Two

I get the job.

Not the accomplishment of a lifetime, but it does the trick. The people around me are sent into a frenzy of ecstasy. My mom makes a cake. A

cake

My mom never bakes when there’s not a birthday involved. Apparently my ability to get a just-over-minimum-wage job that requires (basically) no
skills is about as miraculous as the occasion of my birth

Really, it gets me feeling pretty crappy about myself. Do these people think I’m totally

useless?

I’m not, for the record. I’m useful all over the place. I can figure out remote controls, no matter how many buttons are on them, and most of the time
I’m an excellent jar opener. I’m a badass speller. I know how to use a semicolon. I’ve got skills.

Anyway, I roll with it, because it seems to make my mom happy. Ever since we lost my dad a couple years back, happy hasn’t been her specialty.
Besides, I’m not going to pitch a fit about an opportunity to eat cake. That’d just be tacky.

So she makes me drag Amber and Mitch over for dinner, and afterwards she busts out a bottle of champagne and the cake and we all sit around
and try to figure out what goes on at an arts and crafts store. The cake isn’t really that impressive: it’s just an out-of-the-box deal, but she writes
‘CONGRATS, HOWIE’ on it in green icing, and that’s really cool of her, like, infinitely cooler than necessary.

“You’re going to be forced to become a yarn expert,” Amber predicts, obviously getting some sick pleasure out of the idea.

“Captain Yarn,” Mitch contributes, snickering.

“That’s brilliant, Mitchell,” Amber says, rolling her eyes.

Mitch replies by dragging his finger along her slice of cake and licking the frosting away with flourish. She makes this disgusted noise, but keeps
eating anyway. It’s fairly standard Amber and Mitch interaction. When Mitch and I first got to be buds a couple years ago, Amber couldn’t stand him.
Maybe because Mitch’s way of saying ‘hi, nice to meet you’ was to merrily throw gummy worms at her. (Mitch is very good at junk food.) But she
warmed up to him after awhile, once she discovered that she could lecture him and scowl disapprovingly and chastise him with his full name all she
wanted and he’d never really mind. This way, she has an outlet for her inner bitch-snob, he has somebody to tease with sugary snacks, and I don’t
have to put up with having two best friends who hate each other. All in all, it’s a pretty nice deal.

“I think that it’s very sweet, this job,” Mom says, tousling my hair affectionately-slash-mockingly. “My little boy, getting in touch with his artistic side.”

“Yeah,” I say, “Just watch. Soon, I’ll be able to scrapbook with the best of ‘em.”

“Captain Scrapbook,” Mitch says admiringly.

“Seriously?” Amber says to him.

My mom reaches over and squeezes my hand while Amber and Mitch keep on squabbling. “I’m glad you’re doing something new, hon. It’ll be nice
to have something else going on besides classes, hmm?”

She worries a lot about that. Like I’m not living life enough, or whatever, because all I do is go to class two nights a week, and the rest of my time is
pretty much devoted to watching reruns of whatever’s on TV. Because the thing is, it’s not like I’m hurting for money. My mom doesn’t have any
financial trouble, between the life insurance after Dad and teaching at the college and – I kid you not – writing romance novels under a pseudonym
(which I’m not gonna tell you, because you’ll find her books on the shelf of any grocery store, and the fewer people that know what manner of
bosom-heaving freakytimes she’s capable of, the better). I know it’s lame – something beyond lame, lame to the highest power, lametacular to the
max – to have my

mommy

pay my living expenses when I’m twenty-frickin’-two, but I look at where my life is right now, and I figure, what the hell.

Besides, she never complains about it, or even brings it up to me. And at least I do my own laundry. Most of the time.

“Yeah,” I say to her, “it should be okay.”

I feel a little guilty as she grabs my plate and puts another slice of cake onto it without me even having to ask. What would my

mom

think if she knew

the whole reason I was doing this wasn’t to get a life, to take on some responsibility, to go ‘Fine, this is what I’ve got, I’m gonna make the best of it’?
That I wasn’t exactly thinking with my head when I made this decision? And the worst part is that I don’t think she’d be horrified, or anything: she
does write those books. She gets it. Stuff’s gotta throb and heave and pulsate sometimes, it’s just the way humans work. No, it’s worse than that:
I’m pretty sure she’d just feel guilty, like, terrible, like, ‘oh, if he’d gone to a

real

college he’d have a girlfriend like a normal boy his age, I’m ruining

his life, he’s going to die a withered old pervert because I yanked him out of the real world and he never got to develop any social skills.’ I know she

goes off on those guilt trips sometimes, so I try to seem content here. I don’t know if I really succeed, but I do try.

I even sort of lie for her benefit. She likes to think that I’ve got some secret buried

thing

for Amber, this true latent love that I’ll realize sooner or later,

and I don’t contradict her because I think it makes her feel better to believe it.

Honestly, I have wondered about it once or twice. Just because, how convenient would that be? But I’ve tried to look at Amber that way, and …
nothing happens. She’s beautiful and she’s brilliant, but whatever’s supposed to be there isn’t. Plus, there’s her whole everlasting thing for my
brother Dennis. If I did like her, odds are it’d be pointless.

But whatever, it’s cool, I’ve got Kristy now. Not that that’s going to be true love, but hey, close enough. Maybe I’ll bring her over to meet my mom
sometime. Not in a big This Means Something way, but, ya know, casually. Just so Mom’ll feel better about me and my prior lack of ladies.

See? I, too, can function as a normal human being. And I can sell you some yarn like a motherfucking badass. Pretty soon, I’m gonna be doing just
fine.

Heartened by the thought, I gather everyone’s attention – Mitch has shoved a whole piece of cake into his mouth at once; Amber’s about to roll her
eyes out of her head – and, in the spirit of the evening, relate the tale of getting interviewed by Artie Kraft II, Fist Bump That Wasn’t and all.
Everyone gets a real kick out of that. Mitch, who’s like the human embodiment of Easily Amused, almost busts a gut laughing. Amber starts trying to
remember stuff about Arthur from her high school music adventures, and it’s pretty heartwarming to see everyone pounce on the idea of this stupid
guy like vultures on a carcass. Pouncy vultures.

I sit there, and take a third piece of cake, and bask. One last

Ha ha to you, fucker

feels pretty damn good.

I get there twenty minutes early on my first day, because it worked out so well the last time.

It doesn’t this time: the store’s dark and locked up. Nobody’s even here yet. Shouldn’t my good buddy The Second be here by now? What kind of a
boss is he, anyway?

I get back into my car and turn it on, even though it seems pretty indulgent to waste gas just sitting in the parking lot. I don’t really like the quiet,
though, and I’ve got the Violent Femmes in the stereo. There’s no resisting m’Femmes.

I’m drumming my fingers against the wheel, singing along low to

Gone Daddy Gone

, when a car pulls up in the spot next to mine. It pisses me off a

little, to be honest. The car’s just getting warm again, and I don’t really want to step back out into the early-November misery. This weather’s a bitch.

And speaking of bitches! Arthur gets out of the passenger’s side. He slams the door shut, which catches my interest. Arthur Kraft the Second is

not

a door-slammer, like, you can tell by looking at the guy. He closes doors carefully and considerately, and then probably takes the time to ask them,
‘Was that all right? I

hope it wasn’t too startling for you’ afterwards. So the fact that he’s slammin’ car doors like some crazy-ass motherfucker:

interesting.

The car zooms out of the parking lot.

I bop my head along to one last Gano warble, then turn the car off and climb out. Arthur’s at the front door, unlocking it. He drops the keys and
mumbles something that is in all likelihood swear word-y, then bends down to scour the ground for them. He keeps muttering angrily to himself.
What now? This is awesome.

“Good morning,” I say amiably. All of a sudden, I feel pretty on top of the world.

got here on time. I’m not dropping stuff and (more or less)

screaming out swearwords, being a general nuisance to humanity. My pal Arthur Kraft the Second, on the other hand …

“Oh,” Arthur says, looking up from where he’s hands-and-knees-ing it on the pavement, “hello, Howard.”

Howard.

Howard.

Seriously? Nobody gets to call me Howard anymore. I don’t even let my grandma call me Howard.

“It’s Howie, actually,” I tell him. “Always Howie. Never Howard.”

“Yes, certainly, okay,” Arthur says distractedly. He’s

still

looking around for the keys, like, how far could they have possibly fallen? I take a few more

steps, getting a better look at him. Upon closer examination, I realize that his hair is wet. It’s already starting to freeze, all glinty with ice. Arthur Kraft
the Second’s hair is freezing. Scratch any prior anguish on my part. This is shaping up to be the best day ever.

“Having trouble there, Arthur?” I ask him oh-so-courteously.

“I can’t seem to find the keys.” Duh. Thanks for the recap, sport. “I had a chaotic morning. I didn’t have a chance to put my contact lenses in, and my
glasses are upstairs in my office.”

Overwhelmed by a charitable sense of mercy, I spot the keys lying on the pavement right in front of the door and snatch them up. Arthur watches me
blearily; when he realizes what I’m doing, he stands up.

“Here ya go,” I say, giving him a great big grin. Employee of the

Year

, bitches. I hand him the keys. His hands are like ice; I can feel how cold they

are even through my gloves. Poor sorry bastard. It really isn’t his day.

Heeheehee.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

“No problem, boss.”

He goes back to the front door. I follow him, my step decidedly springy. He takes another stab at unlocking it, but he’s shivering like crazy and he
winds up dropping the keys again. Who knew? Winter’s this total badass that can cripple even unendurable douches in two seconds flat. Maybe I’m
down with a cruel climate after all.

Artie lets out a long, weary sigh. It warms me heart and soul. “Would you mind …?”

“’Course.” I bend down, all dexterous and unfrozen (although, honestly, if we stay out here much longer, that might change), pick the keys up, and
unlock the door, easy as pie. Dare I even say:

easy-peasy

I hold the door open for Arthur, and he slips past with another mumbled thank you. He manages, in his crippling blindness, to find the light switch
and hit it. And then there is light, illuminating the place where I will be spending my thirty-plus hours a week for the foreseeable future.

Honestly, I didn’t look at it much when I was here the first time. I was a little too busy looking at other stuff, namely Kristy.

I didn’t miss a whole lot.

The whole place somehow exudes the air of an old armchair. You know: comfy, nice, but inescapably shabby. The aisles are labeled with signs no
doubt crafted by a feminine hand (or maybe an Artie hand; get all tingly.

zing!

): ‘YARN!’; ‘FAKE FLOWERS!’; ‘PUFF PAINT!’ Ooh, puff paint. It’s

enough to make anybody

“Aprons are hanging up in the kitchen,” Arthur tells me, and my soul wilts and dies. “You can pick out whichever one you like. We don’t have a
nametag for you yet, but Kristy should be able to whip one up today. Mondays tend to be a little slow.”

“Great,” I say, finding it suddenly harder to be Golly Gee, The Greatest And Chipperest Employee Ever.

“I’m just going to head upstairs, and—” Arthur pauses at the storage room door. I take a better look at him, now that we’re in the light, and for the
tiniest flicker of a moment, I feel nothing besides bad for him. In addition to having messy, frozen hair, he’s got big circles under his eyes, and he’s
rocking some too-anguished-to-shave stubble. Arthur Kraft the Second with stubble seems wrong, inherently wrong. It’s all topped off by the fact that
I can tell he’s just sort of staring in my general direction, and, to him, I’m this vague pinkish blob with no recognizable facial features.

Then I realize that I’m feeling bad for him, and it flares up into this big raging feeling: hatehatehatehate

hate

, motherfucker.

“Would you be so kind,” he says, crisp and composed, “as to lead me upstairs?”

What? “What?”

“The stairs are narrow, and there’s no light switch,” Arthur explains. He doesn’t even have the decency to sound ashamed of himself for asking
something so, I don’t know, invasive and

weird

and maybe a little bit faggy. “Considering the morning I’ve had, I wouldn’t be terribly surprised if I fell

and broke my neck.”

What, like that’s something I would want to prevent?

But the sick sad truth is that he’s my boss, and I can’t exactly say no. I’m his bitch now. Professionally. His apron-wearing, puff paint-selling bitch.

“Yeah, sure,” I say miserably.

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Sure, whatever.” I’m pretty sure ‘whatever’’s not a word you’re supposed to let slip in front of your boss, unless you’re saying it enthusiastically and
following it with ‘you want,’ but I haven’t been up this early in months, and he’s making me wear an apron. I can suck at this a little.

God, I wish Kristy would get here already.

I follow him through the storage room, which is full of precariously stacked boxes.

“I’m afraid I’ve been a little distracted lately,” Arthur says, like he’s reading my mind. “Kristy and Cora aren’t exactly pinnacles of neatness.”
(Pinnacle? Who says pinnacle?) “In fact, that might be a good way for you to start off the day. Get things organized in here.”

Organizing? By myself? Hours and hours in this dank little

cupboard

? Gee, thanks, Aunt Petunia.

“Yeah, okay,” I say. Somewhere in my soul, it starts raining.

The raining turns to pouring, because we’re through the storage closet and at the foot of the stairs. Sure enough, it’s pretty damn dark; the dim light
from the closet only casts its glow to about stair number four, and then it’s darkness, darkness, darkness. Lie back and think of paychecks.

I offer my arm, feeling so far beyond ridiculous, and Artie latches onto it. His hands are still freezing. I try not to shudder.

We tackle the first step. Thennnn the second. Thennnn the third. It’s a narrow, rickety staircase, one that clearly wasn’t designed with this idea in
mind. God, this is fucking weird.

“So,” I say, because I can’t take the

creeeeeak!

, silence,

creeeeak!

anymore, and his fingers are so cold that I can feel each one individually against

my arm through my clothes, “bad morning?”

“Obviously.”

“What happened?” I’ll admit it, I’m curious.

“It’s a personal matter. I prefer not to discuss personal matters at work. I’d recommend that you try to do the same, although I suppose I can’t insist
upon it.”

Damn right you can’t, Sir Sucks-A-Lot.

“Okay,” I say. Maybe I drag it out in that ‘you’re crazy’ way, so it’s a little less ‘Okay’ and a little more ‘Ooookay.’ Oh, sweet small rebellion.

I’m too busy being pissed off to look where I’m going, and all of a sudden, there’s nothing under my foot where the stair’s supposed to be. Oh, shit.
Thanks to some fancy footwork, I regain my balance and don’t go tumbling down to my death, but I do have to sort of throw myself into my stair-
climbing companion. I let out a stupid little “oof!” noise as my shoulder collides with his.

“You all right there?” Arthur asks.

“Just peachy, thanks,” I snarl. I know right away that that’s not gonna fly, so I throw in a much pleasanter, “Didn’t mean to stumble on you there,
sorry!” and hope it does the trick.

Arthur seems pretty jaunty the rest of the way up. For someone unshaven and blind.

We’re just hitting step number nine when I hear: “Morninggg!”

We turn, and there’s Kristy standing at the foot of the steps, bathed in residual storage room light. She’s like an angel. An angel of

hot

I’m not very religious or anything, but I immediately feel a little bad for thinking that one.

“What’s goin’ on, you two?” she asks brightly as I hurry to disentangle my arm from Arthur’s.

“Arthur’s blind,” I report before he can open his mouth. Who the hell knows how

he’d

tell the story? “I just offered to help him up the stairs.”

“Aw, Howie, that was so nice of you!” beams Kristy. “See, Arthur, you

totally

made the right choice hiring him.”

What?? Like there was actual deliberation on the matter? I whip my head around to look at Arthur, but it’s so dark that I can’t tell if he’s making a
Face of Shame. He better be, the sonuvabitch.

“You’d better get the register set up, Kristy. Show Howard how to do it while you’re at it.”

Seriously,

WHAT IS THIS DUDE’S PROBLEM.

“I can work a cash register,” I let him know with a little more edge than necessary.

“All right,” says Arthur. “Good.” He starts off toward the door of his office. “Thank you for the help.” After he says it, he reaches over and absently
pats me on the shoulder. It’s not even notable in any way, just your average ‘thanks, man’ gesture, but, I don’t know, something about it makes me
feel all hyperaware and squirmy. I didn’t get this job so I could engage in excessive touching with

Arthur

. Besides, Kristy’s watching.

I blame Amber. I’m still stressing over that stupid gay thing she said. I like to think that it’s obvious that I’m not, but getting caught all cozy in the dark
with another dude doesn’t do the best job backing that up.

Of course, if Kristy needs any assurance where my Not Gayness is concerned, well – she won’t for long. That’s all I’m sayin’.

“Seriously, that was really nice of you to help out Arthur like that,” she tells me, looping her arm through mine as we walk back out. Really? Arm-in-
arm action already? We’re on like 1/4

Base and my first day hasn’t even technically started.

Who’s gay now, Amber?

“He’s been going through a

terrible time lately.”

“Really? What’s up?”

“Relationship on the rocks. I think he’s been trying to salvage things, but they are so totally headed for Splitsville.”

“That’s a bummer,” I say, but what I’m really thinking is,

Lucky her.

“Yup,” Kristy agrees. “Hey!” She gives my arm a light, enthusiastic slap. “Go pick your apron out, and then I’ll show you how to get the register ready!
Isn’t touching money gross? Like, when you stop and think about it? But whatever, I’m used to it now, this job has me so totally jaded. Go hurry and
pick one and come back!”

Ah, yes. My nemesis awaits.

The whole apron thing isn’t as bad as I’d anticipated. Well, no, the apron itself is as bad as bad can be. It’s like every patchwork square defies my
manliness in its own special, wicked, cutesy way. But Kristy ties it for me when I ask her to (suave or what?), and the brush of her fingers against my
back reminds me that my cause is a noble one.

We open at nine, but people aren’t lining up to come in. This just leaves Kristy and little ol’ me, since Arthur seems to have assigned himself to a
lifetime of upstairsiness. Good riddance, bro. She gives me the basic 411 about all things Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts. I find I’m starting to build up a
tolerance, too, where every time the name gets said, I don’t immediately want to stab myself in the brain. Definitely a good sign. This, this is gonna
work.

But then at around ten Kristy pops out to go to the bathroom, and while she’s gone, the bells jingle. I feel this sudden, stupid rush of panic –
because, to be perfectly honest, I still know exactly nothing about arts, crafts, or any combination thereof. I can barely figure out the difference
between yarn and thread.

I feel reassured when I see the person who steps inside, though: it’s a pleasant-looking woman who’s maybe in her early thirties. She’s holding the
hand of an itty bitty little girl. I suck at kids in general, but I’d guess she was maybe four or five. Or three. Or seven.

I put on a smile. “Good morning. Can I help you?”

As soon as I ask it, I realize that was pretty dumb, because it’s not like I

can

help with anything. Oh well. Too late to take it back now. Keep on

smilin’.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, you can,” the woman replies. She smiles back at me, and I discover that she doesn’t have a very good smile. It looks
stilted, and … weird. She strides forward to the counter, the little girl trotting dutifully alongside her, and I’m suddenly scared. She reaches into her
purse with her free hand and pulls something out, her motions jerky.

Oh, shit, what if it’s a gun?

I think. I don’t know what to do with

gun-wielding

lunatics

, what am I supposed to—

“I have a problem,” she says, slamming the item down onto the counter, “with this

fucking

glitter glue.”

And sure enough, it’s glitter glue. Purple glitter glue, to be precise.

“You do?” is all I can think of to say.

“

Yes

, I

,” Crazy Lady snarls. She’s looking at me like I just uttered something horribly profane in front of her child. Oh, wait,

she

did that. “I need to

make a poster for my son’s bake sale, and I have to bring it into his class

today

. I tried to use

this

to accentuate the

words

. It’s

terrible

. It’s runny and

clumpy and it

completely

ruined the whole

fucking

poster. Now ‘yummy’ looks like ‘gummg’. NO ONE IS GOING TO WANT TO BUY GUMMG

TREATS, AND I WANT A REFUND FOR THIS SHITTY BULLSHIT GLITTER GLUE.”

Okay, crap. I so do not know what to do with this lunacy.

“If I saw something advertising gummg treats,” I say squeakily, “I would definitely be intrigued. I would check out that bake sale. And I’m not a big
bake-sale-goer by nature, so …”

“Don’t be cute,

shopboy

,” the woman spits.

“I’m not being cute,” I protest desperately. “I’m just telling you … how I would … feel about this sign, if I saw it. I really—”

“Give me my fucking refund

now

. I have things to do today; I don’t have time for this.”

I stare down at the little girl. She’s twirling her hair around one finger and glancing idly around the store, like she’s not even interested in what’s
going on. I wonder if she’ll be nice enough to scream when her mother rips my still-beating heart out of my chest.

“Should you be saying words like that?” I ask, feeling some vicarious guilt even looking at the kid.

“Oh, so you’re telling me how to behave around

child now?”

“No,” I say quickly, “I was not doing that.”

“It sounded a whole lot like you were.”

“It looks like nice glitter glue,” I say, because a change of subject is necessary, it’s

so necessary

, man.

“Oh really? Why don’t you fucking try it then?”

She is going to kill me.

“I would,” I yelp, “but there’s not really anything I need to glue or glitter at the moment.”

She lets out a disgusted laugh. “This is unbelievable.”

You’re telling me, lady.

“Let me talk to your manager,” she demands.

“I would,” I say, trying not to writhe in pain under her gaze, “but, um, he’s having sort of a shi—crap—” But even ‘crap’ seems pretty explicit in front of
a kid that little, right? “—poopy day—” And yep, there’s me, twenty-two years old, possessor of a pretty damn decent vocabulary, driven to say

poopy

. “—and if I bothered him with this, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be so happy—”

“Well, guess what? I don’t give a

shit

about what kind of a day he’s having, because I—”

And then Kristy comes back from the bathroom. I want to throw myself on her in a way that doesn’t involve sex at all; just sheer, blissful gratitude.

She, incredibly and miraculously, sorts it out. It’s like watching a fairy princess at work. The woman gets her money back, and she leaves. No blood
is spilt. The kid doesn’t ever even bother to stop twirling her hair.

“That,” I say, slumped against the counter, “was fu—…ricking

insanity.

”

I look over at her, expecting some ‘I know, my gosh, we’ve never had anything like that happen before!’ speech. What I get instead is, “Not really.”

My blood runs cold. “What?”

“People can get really touchy about this kind of thing,” Kristy says. She shrugs. “You get used to it after awhile.”

I stare down at the offending tube of purple glitter glue. That something so small could spark an ugliness so vast …

“Okay,” is what I say. And what I think is,

What have I done??

Chapter Three

I’m supposed to meet Cora on my fourth day of work. Kristy’s not working, and Arthur’s gone back to shaving and having functional vision, so I’m in
a crappy mood to begin with. I didn’t take this job to spend my time selling people buttons shaped like flamingos, you know? And I never really
wanted to know what a bead roller was. Now the mystery’s gone; overall, I’m feeling pretty disillusioned.

And then I come out from the kitchen, forced to tie my apron all by myself, to find that the store has been invaded by crazy. Again.

There’s a girl dancing on the counter. And not, like, a dainty twirl or two. Hell, no. Just watching this dancing is like having your eyes sexually
assaulted. It’s all boppy and writhey and – ugh, thrusty, officially thrusty. And while I’m not in any way opposed to this kind of thing when it involves,
say, a smoky dimly lit establishment and a pole, it just seems wrong at nine in the morning on the counter of a store that sells all the supplies you
need to make a reindeer head out of a clothespin.

Besides, this girl isn’t exactly Patricia the Stripper. Atop her head is an explosion of curly, fake-purply-red hair. She’s wearing what looks like a
ratty, violently bright green bathrobe, except it’s got shaggy white fur around the collar and the sleeves. It’s a coat, I guess, but I have no idea who
the hell had the grand idea to make it. I kind of wish I knew so I could find and punish them. It’s like whatever crackpot designer is responsible for

that

little gem went, “I’m seeing a glorious fusion of limes and yaks! Limes!

Yaks

!” I’ve never really had a serious opinion on an item of clothing,

besides maybe the apron, but this has officially earned my lifelong disrespect and revulsion.

She’s also wearing combat boots, which leads me to the swift, scary realization that this is maybe someone I don’t want to fuck with. In any sense.

And the dancing? It’s not

any music. The stereo’s off. She keeps mumbling stuff like “and one and two and three and

step

and one and two and

pelvic thruuuust

and one and two and

insaaaaane

”–

Recognition stirs in my decaffeinated, grumpy brain. I’m not a creepy cult classic musical aficionado, but I can recognize some Rocky Horror when I
need to. Amber went through a few months in ninth grade where she pretty much lived and breathed all things Sweet Transvestitetastic.

I still have no idea what to think. This is what I get for turning the sign from ‘closed’ to ‘open’ a few minutes early and then going into the kitchen.
Homeless nutcases invade

She’s so into her countertop dance routine that she doesn’t even notice me. For a few seconds I contemplate going over, giving her some sort of
stern “I’m sorry ma’am, but customers aren’t allowed to perform lewd acts on the counter without buying something first” talking-to. But then I look at
her –

really

look at her – and she’s got her eyes closed and she’s swinging her crazy hair and her hips around, and she squeals out more lyrics,

and it’s just, it’s frightening, I’m scared, I don’t want to deal with this. And last I saw, Arthur was still in the kitchen.

Righto, Bossie McPhee. Time to put your man boots on.

Sure enough, he’s there, taking a cup of tea out of the microwave. He doesn’t look like a broken shell of a man anymore. In fact, he’s more like the
Arthur Kraft the Second version of ebullient: well-rested and clean shaven, with nary an under-eye shadow in sight. I wince an inward wince of
sympathy for The Mysterious Almost-Ex. So close to freedom.

“Hey, uh, Arthur?”

“Is there a problem?” He turns around. He’s even bobbing his teabag in his cup in a way that’s cheery.

Get ready to get real glum real fast, sucker. “Um, yeah. There’s a crazy chick on the counter.”

But all that he says is, “Again?”

It robs the proclamation of some serious weight.

“Again?” I repeat, disappointed. And worried. “What, is this like a regular thing?”

“Sadly, we’ve all been forced to get used to it,” Arthur replies with a slight, wistful sigh. He takes a sip of his tea, then cringes. “Oh, damn, still hot.”
Conversationally, he asks me, “Do you like chamomile?”

“What?” Is this

Arthur

not caring?

Arthur

? “Um, did you hear me? About the girl? On the counter? Dancing?” And then, because I feel like I ought to

really convey the gravity of the situation: “

Thrusting

?”

“Just tell her that I would appreciate it if she didn’t,” Arthur replies, without batting a (freakishly exquisite) lash. “I don’t know that there’s any point in
bringing it up again, but it’s worth a try.”

“Worth a try?” I repeat disbelievingly.

“Mmhmm.” He blows on his tea.

Ohhhh,

come on

“Well, I think you should talk to her,” I say, trying to choke back my heightening levels of pissedoffstity. “You’re the boss. She’d probably listen to you
if you asked her to leave—”

“Hmm,” Arthur says after a few seconds of deliberation. He is utterly unbothered. “I think you should be able to take care of it.”

“I don’t know if I’ve been here long enough that I’m ready to deal with that,” I reply, trying to sound cool, like this isn’t something I’ll fight to the death.
Which I will. It is

, Artie II. It is on like an on thing. “And if she’s a regular … customer?”

“Oh, she doesn’t buy anything,” he tells me airily.

“Right, well,

menace,

then,” I say impatiently. “I think you’re really the one who should—”

“I’ve got to make a few phone calls upstairs,” Arthur interrupts. “They’re somewhat important, but if you really need help getting this situation under
control, I suppose you can come up and ask me later.”

“Or you could just take care of it right now.”

Arthur makes a little face, this expression of fake jokey contemplation. Who does this guy think he is today? “Why don’t you take a swing at it on
your own first?”

Oh, I’ll tell you what I wanna take a swing at.

“I don’t know if—”

“Good luck out there,” Arthur finishes, and then he takes his tea and his stupid good mood and abandons me.

“Chamomile sucks!” I shout after him. It’s the only revenge I can come up with.

“To each his own,” Arthur calls back.

I cannot believe this guy. I think I might even be feeling betrayed, for Christ’s sake. It’s just – this can’t really be happening, right? Arthur Kraft the
Second refuses to

fist bump

on principle. There’s no way, no realistic way he can possibly be down with letting random people come in and gyrate

on the counter. He wears ties! He doesn’t discuss personal matters at work! He’s the epitome of a stodgy-ass drag of a boss, and he’s letting

this

slide?

Fuck him. Fuck him times infinity.

My brain strikes up the saddest song it knows (

Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want

by The Smiths) and I head back out, each slow

step bringing me a little bit closer to – hell, who knows?

But then my gallows-walk is cut short, because all of a sudden Lady Lunatic herself is heading right for me, tromping across the floor in all her lime-
and-yak glory.

I muster all my bravery and say, “Hey, miss, you really can’t be back here.”

She stops like a foot away from me and crosses her arms. She’s pretty tiny, maybe just over five feet. It doesn’t stop her from being scary as hell.
And, wow, here she is all close up. I think she might have a nice face, but it’s really hard to tell underneath all the piercings.

“What are you talking about?” she demands. Her voice is low and throaty, sort of sexy-growly.

“This area’s for employees only,” I inform her. My own voice, for the record, is at the moment quivery and effeminate.

“Well, then it’s a good thing I’m an employee,

dumbass

.” She gives me a saccharine smile that morphs with truly freaky speed into a scowl, then

brushes past me.

I stand there like a … well, ‘dumbass’ is accurate.

Wait. Employee? Then this must be—

“Cora?” I ask.

“Enchanté, darling!” she yells back sarcastically.

Well.

I guess it makes sense. Employees feeling entitled to bust a move on the counter? Less shocking. Although I, for one, would never bust a move on
the counter. Especially never

like that

. The only dance I do, when wrangled into situations where there is dancing, is an unenthused head bop. And

that’s ironic. I never dance unironically.

But that is neither here or there. You know what’s here

and

there, though?

Arthur clearly knew who this chick was, and what was going on. And Arthur didn’t tell me. Arthur played me.

Arthur

played me?

…

Arthur

Cora’s not so bad after the initial shock wears off. She’s like the anti-Kristy. I mean, I’m pro-Kristy all the way, but it’s refreshing to hear so many
sentences that don’t have the word ‘totally’ in them. Plus, I find out that she’s playing Magenta in a production of the Rocky Horror Show, which
makes her countertop actions seem, if not sane, then at least justifiable. Plus, we have a jolly good time hating on all the stupid crap we sell. Oh, it’s
blissful, especially after spending four days marveling at all this nonsense in silence. Like, I’m sure someone somewhere once upon a time thought
a Paw Pals Furry Friendship Bracelet-Making Kit For Your Dog Or Cat was a swell idea. And that does nothing besides make me sad for them.

“But,” I say, after I eloquently describe the concept of beaded jewelry for your canine companion as ‘on crack, yo,’ “don’t tell Kristy I said that, ‘kay?
Because she seemed to be under the misguided but adorable impression that that thing was awesome.”

“Sure,” Cora says easily. “You’re not into her, are you?”

I don’t say anything. Silence has a certain manly stoicism that, say, stammering and blushing bright red tends to lack.

“Yeah, figures.” Cora snorts. “The cute blonde with great tits. How original of you!”

“Can’t hate on a classic,” I reply, shrugging.

“Right.” Cora rolls her eyes. “Well, don’t get your hopes up, babe. She’s—”

Luckily, I’m spared the ‘way out of your league’ speech – a thing I know well – because Arthur comes downstairs to make sure we’re closing in a
timely manner. We’re not.

Cora grabs all her stuff and gets out in like two seconds; as a result, it’s just me and my favorite chamomile-imbibing nemesis on our way out the
door. The cold is even nastier today. It bites down on you as soon as you step outside. I linger a little, watching my breath come out in clouds while
Arthur locks up.

“Hey,” I say, almost by accident. It’s just – I dunno, I can’t

not

say it, I’m still weirdly stupidly mad about this morning. Whatever, it’s his fault for a)

being a sly bastard and b) threatening to develop a personality. “Earlier.”

“Mmhmm?”

“You were messing with me.”

He doesn’t even turn to look at me. I watch as his mouth quirks up in a smile. “Maybe a little.”

Maybe a little? That’s it? No denials? No stuttered apologies filled with shame?

I can’t really think of anything to say – well, anything

nice

– so I abide by a timeless classic and don’t say anything at all.

Well, until I’m a few feet away. Then I mutter a hearty “Fucker” under my breath.

“’Night, Howard.” He heard me.

“’Night,

Artie

,” I retaliate, because it’s cold and I’m irritated and so, yeah, I went there.

“Hey, hon,” my mom greets me when I come in. She’s lounging on the couch, a composition notebook open in her lap. “How was work?”

“Okay,” I reply. I don’t really feel like going into it. I go into the kitchen and start rummaging through the fridge. Doesn’t look like there’s anything on
the agenda in terms of dinner. My dad was the one with the cooking skills in this family, and my mom hasn’t exactly striven to pick any up since he
died. Whatever. Could be worse. If she

did

start doing the fifties housewife thing at this point, half of the restaurants in town would go out of

business. We are connoisseurs of takeout. But apparently even that would’ve been asking for too much tonight. I wish I’d stopped for burgers.

“Dennis called earlier,” Mom reports as I come into the living room, toting a Coke and a cup of tapioca pudding from the back of the fridge. Meals
are for the weak. “He’s thinking about bringing this Emily girl home with him for Christmas.”

“Great,” I say, maybe not so enthusiastically. I love my brother and all, but there’s something depressing about being around someone who looks
just like me but happens to excel at life. Not to mention that Dennis bringing This Emily Girl home won’t exactly equal happy holidays for Amber.

“It sounds like he’s doing well,” Mom continues. She’s starting to get but-maybe-I-shouldn’t-be-talking-about-your-brother-lest-it-scar-your-delicate-
soul face. My favorite.

“Great,” I say.

“He was glad to hear about your job.”

“Swell. I bet he was real jealous, too.”

“Howie,” Mom begins, her eyes threatening to turn concerned.

“Not bitter, though,” I’m quick to add. “Just acerbically witty.”

Mom gives me her time-honored Don’t Bullshit Me look.

“Seriously, I’m good,” I insist, because it’s not like I’m ever gonna tell her anything else. “I work with a girl who has a tongue ring. And a nose ring.
And a coat that’s probably made at least partially from yak. Really, Mom, I’m living the dream.”

“Sounds like,” she says wryly.

We sink into silence. I start wondering about the chances of Kristy wanting to tag along for Christmas dinner. Just gotta play this right. For once.

My mom is pretending to watch the news, in a way where she keeps sneaking worried glances at me. I take this as a sign that it’s time to brighten
up this evening. I point at her notebook. “Dare I ask?”

“Gwendolyn and the Pirate King,” she informs me with a wicked smile. “Hot love on the high seas.”

I make a face. “You’re lucky I keep you around.”

“Shut it, you.”

Kristy works the next day. The sun shines, birds sing, flowers blossom and renewed dreams of her plus me minus clothes fill my head.

But then I get a look at her close up, and I realize that she’s not draped provocatively across the counter to come-hither me over there, as I first
suspected. It’s more like she’s splayed across it because the effort to keep on standing is too much to ask of her. Like she’s being steadily
pressed down by the universe. And – wow, she does not look like the Kristy I know. Her ponytail’s kind of droopy, with strands flying out of it here,
there, and everywhere. She looks majorly sleep deprived. Also majorly makeup deprived. And it’s not like she looks appalling without it or anything,
but … wow. Maybelline really gets it done.

She heaves a great big sigh at the sight of me. My stomach does a discouraged flop.

“Oh,” she says, morose, “hi, Howie.”

“Hey,” I say, lowering my voice a little. It seems appropriate. “What’s the matter?”

Wow. That sounded …

sensitive

. Maybe this is a good thing. Maybe this day of downtrodden not-so-hotitude will just help to bring us closer

together. And it’s not like she’ll never wear makeup again. I bet the prospect of hooking up with me will make her so happy she’ll bust out that
mascara and … lipstick and … I dunno, bronzer or whatever it is girls use. Enthusiastically.

“Oh, nothing,” she says, blinking rapidly. “I’m okay.” This declaration is followed by a squeak of woe that totally contradicts it.

Okay. Don’t push it. Just … let her know that you’re there for her.

“Well, I’m here for you,” I say, resting my elbows on the counter and meeting her eyes. Sensitively, I like to think. “If you need to talk.”

“Thanks,” she sniffles, and then – get this! – she reaches over and takes my hand.

Score.

Her fingernails are chipping, I can’t help but notice as I look down at our hands. Man, did her kitten die or something? (Kristy strikes me as the type
to own lots of kittens. Just, all the time, all over the place.)

I squeeze her hand, feeling pretty daring. But, hey. It’s not like I’m the one who initiated this little palm-to-palm shindig.

“It’s just,” she begins, and I look back up to find her staring at me really intensely. Even without makeup and her eyelashes all pale, she does have
great eyes. I wait as she pauses, imagining ways she might finish this little proclamation. Right away, my favorite candidate becomes, ‘Oh, I just
want to remember how to

feel

again. Howie, take me now! In the supply closet!’

But then what she says is: “Aren’t boys the

worst

?”

Disappointing.

Really, I’m not sure how to answer that one.Then I realize, looking at her, that I

know

this look. I’ve seen Amber like this. Kristy, like Amber, must like

some ass who doesn’t give a damn about her. She’s probably feeling pretty down about herself. Pretty pathetic and lousy. It’s always hard to see
Amber this way. It always makes me want to beat the crap out of Dennis, if only for a couple seconds.

And so I let Kristy win this round. “Yeah,” I say, nodding compassionately. “Yeah, boys can be bastards.”

“Right?

Thank you.

” She squeezes my hand tight. Really tight. Jeez. How can someone so tiny be so – ow, ow, fingernail in the flesh, fingernail in

the flesh. But there,

finally

, she smiles at me, and that makes the new and surprising pain worth it. “I knew you’d understand.”

“Of course,” I say chivalrously. She’s still looking at me with those eyes of hers, and all of a sudden the moment has this now-or-never quality to it.
“Listen, seriously, if you ever want to, like, talk, or get together to talk … maybe even outside of work, then—”

Suddenly, her eyes turn huge and furious, Jekyll-to-Hyde,

bam

. It’s all I can do not to jump away from her.

“NO.”

Whoa. Wait. What?

Shit

. What did I do?

“Um,” I say, failure oozing out of my every pore, “okay, I, uh, didn’t mean—”

“Oh,

.” She yanks her hand out of mine, stands up, and glares out of the display window with that same bright fury. I have the genius idea to follow

her line of vision. There, about to step into the front door, is a black guy my age with a bouquet of flowers, a contrite expression, and way more
handsomeness than one individual should ever be endowed with.

“Don’t you come in here!” Kristy cries, just as the bells threaten his entrance with one faint little ringy noise. The guy freezes. “Don’t let him in, okay,
Howie? Seriously. Don’t let him in, don’t even, he is

not

coming in here.”

I’m majorly confused, and all I can really figure out is that there’s something about this guy that gives me a bad, bad feeling.

“Who is that?” I ask dumbly. “Your brother?”

“It’s my stupid boyfriend,” Kristy replies, glaring at the door. And it’s just like – it’s like getting sucker-punched and drenched with icy water and
being forced to listen to Joanna Newsom all at the same time, because I don’t care how bad Amber wants to convert me, it’s

always

going to be

like getting stabbed in the ears hearing that chick. This, this is like getting stabbed in the everywhere. “But, whatever, it’s not like he cares about
me. He wouldn’t even—”

“Boyfriend,” I repeat, dazed and useless.

“Yeah,” Kristy replies. She’s still frowning at the door, and I find myself pissed off that this isn’t doing to her what it is to me. She

must

have noticed,

right?

She

was the one all, ‘come and get me, big boy, don’t mind me while I hold your arm,’ like, seriously, what the

fuck

? “Although apparently

he’s comfortable with just throwing away

everything

two weeks before our one-year anniversary!” She shouts the last part toward the door.

“Sweetie,” Kristy’s boyfriend, Kristy’s

boyfriend

says. “Just let me in, okay, and we can talk about it.”

“No! You

promised

you’d go with me! Everyone’s expecting you to be there! And now you

won’t

be, and I’ll be there all by myself, just because you

have to go to stupid

work

when those jerks said they’d give you the time off already, I

told

you that you should quit, they’re so mean to you, they can’t

just control your life like that and I hate having to watch you so miserable all the time—”

“I know,” The Boyfriend says. He’s starting to shiver. Good, I say. Let the bastard freeze, I say. “Stuff’s gotten really hectic over there, that’s all.
Maybe I can get the weekend off, but—”

“You better,” Kristy pouts. It’s like she’s forgotten I even exist. “Or I will never, never,

never

forgive you. You

know

you’ll regret it afterwards if you

don’t go, Reddy, you

know

you will, you can’t keep sacrificing everything for that awful—”

“Kris, I’ll do the best that I can. I promise, okay? Just don’t be mad.”

“I

mad,” Kristy insists, arms folded adorably.

“I got you roses.”

“I’m

mad

.”

“Kristybee, it’s freezing out here.”

“I don’t care.”

“Oh, come on. Let me in.”

“No.”

It’s like watching a fight between a sitcom couple, to the point where I can almost hear the jolly roar of the laugh track, ha ha ha, domestic
squabbling, isn’t it cute. Kristy’s starting to smile a little bit as Boyfriend keeps on begging to be let in, and, ugh, you know what, I don’t want to be
here, here is a place that I don’t want to be, like, ever again, actually.

Boyfriend. Boyfriend? Boyfriend.

Boyfriend.

Of fucking course.

Chapter Four

“Why haven’t you said it yet?” I ask at last, ‘cause I can’t take it anymore.

Amber looks at me. The swing creaks as she digs her feet into the snowy ground, stilling herself. It’s already pitch-black out, and cold as hell, but
we’re at the park down the street from our houses. It used to be our hip hangout when we were kids, our place to run to when homework or, like,
having to eat our vegetables got to be too much stress. Sometimes, on special super-sucky occasions, we still like to come down here, sit on the
swings, and mope. You know, tradition. She sat here with me for awhile after my dad died, and it’s not like this can really compare to that.

But damned if I don’t still feel like shit.

“Huh?” I prompt, because she hasn’t said anything yet.

“You look so sad,” she replies, giving me a half-smile that’s equal parts pitying and amused. “I didn’t really have the heart.”

“Come on, woman,” I order, wrapping my gloved hand around the chain of her swing, shaking it a little. “I can take it.”

“If you’re sure,” she says, raising her eyebrows.

“Oh, I’m sure.”

“Okay then,” she says, all it’s-your-funeral. She takes a dramatic pause, then declares, “Told you so.”

“Here we go,” I mutter.

“Hey, you don’t get to get pissy about it,” she orders, swinging into me. “You forced me to.”

“It was a test. You failed.”

“Howwwie.”

“Now I don’t have to get you a Christmas present.”

“Howie, come on.” She latches onto my swing this time. “This was a dumb idea. Admit it. Somewhere in your sex-starved brain—”

“Yeah, it’s not really my brain that’s the issue here—”

“—you know it to be true.”

And, well, no matter how You Know I’m Rightly she looks at me, I’m not going to admit that. It could’ve worked, damn it. It had

potential.

“You know what a lot of people probably thought was a dumb idea?” I ask.

“Don’t say the telephone.”

“The

telephone.

”

“Freak.” Amber laughs, the sound dwindling off into the quiet.

“I work at an arts and crafts store,” I say after a long silence. Just to get used to the reality, the sparse ugly truth of it, minus the Kristy-induced haze
that camouflaged the many levels of bad.

“Yeah, you do,” Amber agrees bluntly. Blunt’s kind of her thing.

“Shit,” I groan.

“I’m so proud to be your friend,” Amber tells me, cracking up. “I’m gonna come in every day, just to watch you in action. I’m gonna take up artsing.

And

craftsing. Like a proper female.”

Oh, wow, that’s really encouraging.

“Captain Scrapbook!” she intones, in her best Mitch voice.

I point a stern finger at her. “Uncool.”

“Sorry,” she says, sounding very far away from sorry.

“Maybe I should quit,” I muse. I really dig the idea of marching on in there and telling Arthur thanks but no thanks, sorry, it ain’t for me, maybe I’ll try
Holly’s instead. And then Kristy will watch as I walk out, never turning my back, never stopping to reconsider for a second, and she’ll let out a single
wistful, delicate sigh, realizing in one grand sorry-too-late-baby epiphany exactly what she’s missing out on …

“Maybe you should,” Amber says, and it effectively shoots my awesome reverie to hell. “Do you want to?”

“Yeah,” I say. No point in lying to Amber. That’s what my mom’s for. “But, I dunno. Might as well stick with it, right? Since … it’s something.”

Because it’s true. Even though I like – nay,

love

– the idea of making Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts naught but a distant memory, there’s something in

me, some heavy feeling, that just can’t let me do it. I’m so sick of walking away from stuff. And besides, at this point, if I did quit, I don’t think anyone
would be surprised. Didn’t go to school in California even after getting in, getting the financial aid, that whole deal. Didn’t let go of that whole no-
college thing and actually attempt to do something with his life anyway. Hell, if I stick around the store for a month, my mom will probably bake
another cake. Even if it’s selling freakin’

ribbons

to people from nine to five every day while wearing an

apron

, I just want to stick with something for

a little while. Try that out.

“You should stick with it, then,” Amber says. I’m struck by the overwhelming urge to hug her or something, just for being able to … to do that thing
she does, where she can be

right there

, know exactly what to say or do, and yet it always seems so effortless.

I do okay in some departments.

“Dennis might bring his girlfriend home for Christmas,” I say, because I figure she deserves time to prepare. I don’t really get how she deals with the
Dennis thing, and, for all our BFF-ery, she’s never really set out to tell me. I think she gets that the whole he’s-my-brother-you’re-my-best-friend
situation is kind of weird.

“Ah,” is all she says.

“Just a forewarning.”

“Right.”

And so we sit there, two tragic specimens of humanity, swinging slightly back and forth.

It warms up outside just enough to rain. Our winter wonderland turns into an icy death trap. The ten minute drive to work is enough to give me like six
damn heart attacks. I’m an okay driver; apparently everyone else on the road is a psychopath.

Everybody’s working today. I’m not looking forward to seeing Kristy, like, at all. Or Cora, considering she could have made more of an effort to

tell

me about the whole Kristy-not-being-single deal. I don’t want to see Arthur either, but at this point, that’s like saying, ‘I breathe on a regular basis.’
Intrinsic to existence. Too obvious to mention.

Kristy’s back to looking perfect, and she’s as bouncy and happy as ever. She greets me cheerfully, and that really gets under my skin. I guess I liked
the idea that we would have some shared anguish and shame The Day After. But apparently even that’s too much to ask. She’s all pleasant, all,
‘Morning, Howieee!’, and I realize that seeing me isn’t making her want to curl up in a ball and die because she

did

have no idea. She seriously

thought I just wanted to be good buddies. How naïve, how adorable. It really pisses me off. Didn’t her dad ever give her the Boys Only Want One
Thing speech?

“Are you okay?” she asks. “You seem sad.”

“No,” I reply, but I don’t put much effort into it. “I’m great.”

“Oh, good,” she says, resting her hand on my arm. Platonically. “For a minute there I thought you were mad at me or something!”

“That’s ridiculous,” I say, trying to scoff and instead just making this pitiful, wheezing sound, because this is what she’s reduced me to. “Why would I
be mad at you?”

Cora sends a knowing smirk my way.

“Anyway, it’s a good thing you’re in a good mood,” Kristy continues, lowering her voice, “because Arthur isn’t.”

“He isn’t?” I’m interested, sure, but I don’t get that happy soaring feeling in my soul.

“He moved out of his apartment last night,” Kristy explains, blue eyes wide. “He had to come stay with me and my roommate Nikki, you could tell he
was

embarrassed. Oh my gosh, I felt so bad for him. He looked so sad, and even though we made a bed up for him on the couch and everything,

I don’t know if he slept—”

Captain Tragedy himself comes in, and Kristy’s quick to go silent. He looks sick, and sick of it all. Underneath his apron, he’s not wearing a tie, and

his shirt is rumpled. This makes me sad; this makes me question my faith in the world. Maybe a couple of days ago, Arthur Kraft The Second being
so beaten down he couldn’t even work up the motivation to put on a tie would have been fandamntastic. Now, though, it just seems like a universal
epidemic, what with the deadened look in his eyes and the way I feel like a fucking moron every time I look at Kristy and the rain pounding down
hard and steady outside.

“Hi, Arthur,” Kristy coos, like you would to somebody whose best friend just died.

“I thought you were going to mop the floor before we open,” Arthur replies, brisk and toneless.

“Yeah, I was just about to—”

“I’ll do it,” I find myself saying. I don’t really know why. Maybe it’s completely delusional. Maybe it’s just this residual instinct, this need to convince
Little Miss Taken that I’m worth it, I’m such a nice guy, you’d have to be crazy to pass up on this one over here. I don’t know; all of a sudden I just
want to mop the goddamn floor more than anything and good luck to the motherfucker who tries to stop me.

Arthur looks at me. Something stirs on his face, behind his eyes, and I can tell that he’s pissed. “I asked Kristy to do it.”

“Yeah,” I say, “but I don’t mind doing it.”

“Neither does she, I’m sure,” he says – lightly, but firmly. Well, tough, pal.

“I don’t mind,” Kristy agrees. She bops up and down, enthusiastic. I can tell it’s because she’s uncomfortable. “I like mopping. Pretty much anything
with warm water and bubbles—”

“Don’t bother,” I interrupt. “I’ll do it.”

“Kristy’s mopping the floor, Howard,” Arthur says, all and-that’s-final, like I’m going to listen to him.

“What, you want her to do the dishes and make dinner next?” I snap. “And I

told

you, it’s

Howie

—”

“It’s part of her job to help keep this place clean.” Arthur’s starting to raise his voice now. “And it’s not your place to comment on—”

“Yeah, well, guess what, I’m

commenting

, I’ll do it—”

“I didn’t

ask

you to do it—”

“Too bad, I’m doing it—”

“No, you’re not—”

“ENOUGH, crazy-asses,” Cora interrupts, looking at both of us like we just started flinging shit at each other. “I’ll do it.”

And she does.

Stuff dies down after that – Arthur and I don’t get into any more shouting matches – but there’s still something simmering in the air, like it wouldn’t
take much to set it all off again. I’m in this weird mood, where on one hand I just want to kick back, close my eyes, never think about anything or do
anything again, like I’ve been awake for a thousand years and could really use a nap. And then, at the same time, there’s this weird jolt, this angry
unceasing feeling like bugs scuttling around underneath my skin trying to force their way out. It leaves me a little on edge, needless to say. I wouldn’t
hate punching somebody in the face right now, needless to say.

At around noon, the bells jingle and a group of high school kids comes in. They’re loud and laughing; one of the guys is toting a video camera. Cora
and Kristy are both taking their lunch break, so I guess this one’s on me. The kids ignore me and stomp on by, trailing footprints across the clean
floor. I watch them as they head to the fake flower aisle, overhearing snatches of conversation like “Do you remember what kind we’re supposed to
get?” and a lot of “I don’t know”s. I hear a few things about “crazy,” and I pick up on the fact that they’re talking about Ophelia, that it has to be
something to do with Hamlet.

Now, I’ve had to read Hamlet for like every English class I’ve taken since high school, and I know my motherfucking (or motherwantingto – if you
subscribe to that interpretation) Hamlet. And so I head over there, and there’s a weird feeling in me as I do it. After a few steps I realize, well, by
golly, this just might be what it’s like to feel

qualified

“Hey,” I say, “you guys need any help?”

“We need some flowers for a school project,” one of the girls says.

“Hamlet?” I ask nonchalantly.

“Yeah,” the girl replies. “We have to make a movie of act four, scene five for our English class.”

“That’s cool.”

“Not really,” one of the guys says. “It’s due sixth period.”

Ah. Ergo video camera.

“We need some flowers,” another girl says, “for when Ophelia goes nuts.”

“Rosemary,” I say knowingly. “Pansies. Rue. No violets.”

And I don’t expect anybody to, like, faint with awe, but I get

nothing

. Or, well, not quite. I get:

“Yeah, sure. So, which ones are those?”

… fuck, I have no idea. I’m not a flower expert

“How ‘bout you guys just pick out whatever looks good,” I suggest. My inescapable lameassery strikes again. “And then I’ll ring you up.”

I go back to hang out behind the counter. I hope they fail. Who leaves a

movie

until the lunch period before it’s due? It’s not like I was ever

spectacularly brilliant in school or anything, but that just seems ridiculous.

After a couple of minutes, Arthur comes in. His eyes immediately fly to the kids, suspicious. Artie probably doesn’t approve of people under the age

of eighteen even existing. Hoodlums, hoodlums all.

“What are they doing?” he asks me.

“Getting stuff for a school project,” I reply, shrugging. Suddenly, the kids don’t seem so annoying. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m Team Them, all the way.
What sick bastard doesn’t support young minds being enriched by the Bard?

“Hmm,” Arthur says. He keeps an eye trained on the youngins.

Ye Olde Noble Hamlet Filmmakers come up to pay five minutes later, all of them toting big bunches of flowers. I wait to see if Arthur wants to ring
them up, but he just stands there, hovery and annoying and useless. Maybe I should take some pity on the guy, considering his girlfriend tossed him
out on his ass, but it’d be a whole lot easier if he didn’t suck so bad.

I ring the flowers up. “That’ll be $48.22.”

Their jaws drop in unison. “Fifty bucks?”

“$48.22,” I correct, because, hey, that extra $1.78’s gotta ease the blow a little.

“You’re kidding.”

“Yep,” I deadpan. “They’re really free.”

“Seriously?”

“No,” I say. “I was kidding. It’s $48.22.”

“This is retarded,” one of the guys declares. How are you going to argue with

that

eloquence?

“Well, just hurry up, lunch is over in like twenty minutes,” one of the girls urges.

“No way I’m paying for these,” the guy shoots back.

This leads to a big festival of “Well, me either!”, “Well, I’m not gonna!”, “I only have a five,” “How are we gonna get lunch, then?”, and so on, and so
on. I stand there, feeling so awkward that I start to wish I could just give them the damn flowers. Privately, in fact, I can’t help but agree. Fifty bucks
for fake flowers? Really?

But it’s not like I

can

give them away. Especially with Mister Doom ‘N Gloom hovering around.

“Maybe,” I suggest at last, because this is getting too stupid for even me to handle, “you could just get a few—”

And then I stop talking because, all of a sudden, one of the guys bolts.

I kid you not:

bolts

. Sprints out the front door, flowers in hand, cackling his head off. The door slams shut behind him. The bells go into a mad jingling

frenzy.

“Oh, shit!” another guy yells gleefully, and immediately follows suit.

“Oh, God, you

guys

!!!” a girl cries. “Stop it!”

I stare. Because, like, what else are you going to do? It’s just – I – shoplifting

fake flowers

? They’re not even real flowers!

And, okay, not like that’s the issue at hand, but still

One of the girls goes, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” but they’re all giggling like crazy. They drop the flowers they’re holding and rush out after those …
well, okay, ‘hoodlums’ might actually be an apt description.

“Jesus!” I say, turning to Arthur. I’m willing to make (temporary) amends. “Can you believe—”

But I don’t even get to finish my sentence, because he’s got this look on his face – this look that’s kinda scary, this look that means business. He
starts, with freakish efficiency, to take his apron off. There’s this fraction of a second in time where I realize what he’s going to do, where I can’t
quite bring myself to believe that he’s going to do it.

Surely,

I think,

Surely he’s not…

And then he does.

Arthur Kraft the Second – tieless, homeless, a man with nothing to lose – throws his apron down onto the counter and sprints, without a word, out
the door after them.

“Are you

serious

, man??” I shout after him.

Apparently, he is.

I have no idea what to do. Do I

help

him?

Okay, wow, I have no trouble figuring that one out, actually: no. No I don’t. Fake flowers might mean enough to Arthur that he’s willing to run out into
the icy rainy elements to regain them, but guess what? That same flame of devotion doesn’t burn bright in my heart.

So instead, I survey the mess left behind, the flowers that didn’t get brutally shoplifted. After spending a little time just staring at them, I start
gathering them. Might as well have things straightened up so Artie can’t pitch a hissy fit when he comes back. If he comes back.

Oh, Christ, if he breaks his tailbone or something, I am so not dragging him to the hospital. Dude can just deal.

I head over to the fake flower aisle. There’s mud tracked onto the floor, and a bunch of the stuff got knocked out of the racks. I’m struck by this
disgruntled sense of

You young people today

that scares me a little. You’re not supposed to be feeling that at twenty-two, are you? I mean,

technically I still

a young person. I like to think.

Whatever. I start picking the flowers up, straightening things out, putting stuff back where it belongs. (Or, well, where I think it looks okay. I don’t quite
have specific places for things memorized yet.) To be totally honest – no-shame honest – I like the fake flower aisle. It’s nice to be surrounded by

color and, I dunno, some facsimile of stuff that blooms, stuff that’s alive.

I take my time putting the flowers back. It’s nice, mind-numbing work. I’m sick of thinking, and so I don’t. Every time a thought threatens to traipse
into my brain, I stop it in its little thought-tracks and put more effort into staring in front of me. Put one yellow flower next to another yellow flower.
Kristy who? Futile existence what? These things have no presence in my world. This one’s kinda shaped like this one; put them together? Sure.

I’m almost done when I hear the door open, the momentary roar of the rain. Then it shuts again, and there are slow footsteps. God, I’m so not in the
mood to put up with glitter glue-wielding lunatics.

Luckily enough, I don’t have to. It’s just Arthur. I look over and there he is, standing at the start of the aisle. He’s breathing hard, soaked to the bone.
His hair is dark with rain, plastered close against his head. He’s shivering. Of course he is, crazy bastard.

“No luck?” I say.

“No.”

“Too bad.”

Then it gets quiet. I watch a raindrop slide down his face; it makes it all the way to the floor. Pretty impressive, for a raindrop.

“None of those are in the right place,” Arthur says, looking at the flowers. He comes to stand next to me, staring at my crappy handiwork.

“Yeah, well,” I say, “how was I supposed to know?”

I expect him to get snippy at that. He doesn’t. He looks like he wants to for a second, but then it’s like he gives up, like he realizes how totally
pointless it would be to even try to bother with me. Yeah, baby, that’s how I roll; that’s just the effect I like to have on my fellow humans.

“Give me those,” he says, nodding down toward the few flowers I haven’t put back yet. There’s a part of me that wants to fight it, but I’m pretty sure
that’s also the part of me that’s stupid. Like, fine, it’s not like I exactly dream of being a fake flower arranger. Let old Artie here take care of it. It

his life’s calling and all.

So I hold the flowers out to him, and I do feel sort of, like, lamely weird about it, like, is there ever a scenario where one guy hands another guy
flowers and it’s not a little questionable? But maybe I should get used to this feeling, this daily sense of emasculation, because I’m pretty sure it
comes with the territory.

Arthur reaches over to take them. As he does, his thumb brushes my thumb, and it’s so cold, this sudden shock of cold. The flowers get dropped.
They make a slight, swishy sound as they hit the floor.

“Shit,” I say, my voice sounding really loud in my ears.

And then he kisses me.

It’s—

I don’t know.

I don’t know, I don’t know.

It’s my brain turning off, it’s nothing. It’s a feeling. It’s a mouth on mine, and fuck it. Fuck my whole goddamn life, man. Just fuck it. I don’t move away
like I should, but neither does he. He puts one of his hands on my face.

Then the bells on the front door ring. We break apart and I open my eyes.

And there’s Arthur looking back at me.

We stare at each other. My mind turns back on gradually, clunkily, the way lights go on in a warehouse, row after row,

click-buzzzzz – click-buzzzzz

– click-buzzzzz.

“Excuse me!” comes a little old lady voice from out front. “Excuse me! I’d like to return this, if you don’t mind.”

“Absolutely,” Arthur says loud. He’s breathless, but he regains his poise so fast it’s scary. Scary and awful, infuriating, something about it makes me
sick. He casts one last look at me. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Then he turns, easy as that, and goes to help our shiny new dissatisfied customer.
Like it’s that simple. “I’ll be right with you.”

And so I’m left standing by myself, shaking like I’m about to bust apart into atoms, fake flowers on the floor at my feet where I dropped them. We
dropped them.

Chapter Five

“He’s in love with him,” the girl next to me declares fervently that night at my Shakespeare class. “It makes such perfect sense. It enriches the story
as a whole so much.”

I work really hard on not stabbing myself in the brain with my pencil.

“And how’s that?” asks Professor Herrick.

“Well, in a way, it turns Shylock and Antonio into equals, even though they’re pitted against each other the whole time. If Shylock’s a Jew and
Antonio’s a homosexual, that leaves both of them on the outskirts of society, right? Shunned or whatever.”

“Marginalized,” Herrick suggests.

“Marginalized. Which has this great irony – like, Antonio’s all disparaging to Shylock, but then it’s like he’s in the same boat. Not to mention that it
really heightens the – like, the parallel tragedy between them, where they lose the thing they love most, because Shylock loses Jessica when she
marries Lorenzo and Antonio loses Bassanio when Bassanio marries Portia.”

“Interesting.”

I’m really starting to wish I hadn’t come. There was a minute or two where I thought about it. But staying home would make today different, like it’s
not just any other Friday, and that, that’s something I’m not down with. Sure, weird shit happens sometimes – weird, weird, crazy-ass shit, the kind
of shit that will melt your brain if you think about it – but you just gotta ignore it, you know? You just gotta … keep on keepin’ on. Like, whatever, man.

Keep on keepin’ on.

“Yes? Erin?” Herrick says, nodding at a girl with her hand up in the second row.

“It also really plays into the whole theme of love versus money, doesn’t it? Like, if you stop to think about it, the message seems to be that you can’t
have both. But then Bassanio marries Portia, who’s rich, and who he apparently loves. But in the end, when he’s forced to choose between Portia
and Antonio with the whole ring thing, he sides with Antonio. So maybe that’s like … something there, too.”

Yeah, Erin, or maybe it’s

nothing

. Bros before hos. It’s not like that’s a new thing. It’s not like Shakespeare missed the memo on that one.

Shakespeare had bros up the wazoo.

Or, well, not, you know, literally, I just – shit, whatever, whatever, seriously,

whatever.

“Yes,” Professor Herrick says. “Well, the argument that homoerotic subtext exists between Antonio and Bassanio is by no means an unpopular one.
In fact, W.H. Auden wrote in his essay ‘Brothers and Others’ that—”

“Or maybe,” cuts in a voice that’s – oh, hey, look at that,

mine

, “you’re reading too much into it.”

Herrick looks taken aback for a second; then he says, “That’s a valid opinion as well, Howie.”

“I don’t think you can necessarily argue against it,” the girl sitting next to me says, turning her gaze on me. “Like, it’s ambiguous. You can see it if
you want to see it, and if it weirds you out or whatever, then, fine, don’t.”

Herrick tries to take the reins from here. “The ambiguity of Shakespeare is certainly—”

“But who’s to say it’s gay.” It’s like I’m fucking possessed. “What is up with this, like, desperate need to make all guys gay just because they dare to
interact with each other for more than five minutes? Like, here’s a really crazy theory: Frodo and Sam were

just buddies.

”

“How about Antonio being all depressed at the beginning of the play?” the girl argues.

“He doesn’t know

why

he’s depressed! ‘In sooth, I know not why I am so sad’ – it’s only the first friggin’ line of the entire play—”

“That’s what he

says

. We never get an explanation why – it’s not like it’s a stretch to interpret that it’s because—”

“He

says

it’s not because he’s in love,” I remind her, pretty pissed off, like, what, did she even bother to read the damn thing? Fie, fie, bitch.

“Because if he’s in love with a man in Elizabethan England, oh, he’s absolutely gonna scream it from the rooftops! Maybe the reason he’s saying
it’s not love is because he knows that it will completely ruin him if that knowledge gets out.”

“And

maybe

it’s because he’s

not

. They could be friends, you know, that’s not exactly inconceivable. So they care about each other, so what?

Since when does that mean they secretly want to screw each other’s brains out? It’s ridiculous and unnecessary. It’s gross.”

“Oh, that is such typical macho homophobic bull,” snarls the girl. I wouldn’t be surprised if she leapt out of her desk and started beating me over the
head with the textbook. And, like, on any other day, I’d say something back, I’d hurry to assure her that everyone can do their own thing and I’m
totally cool with it. But today? Today? I don’t know, man, I just want to laugh. Or maybe just get up, storm right out of the room and never come back.

I don’t. I ignore the fact that she’s trying to blow up my head with the power of her stare. I ignore the jumpy, unsettled, sick feeling that’s burrowing
down into my bones. I just look away from her, back down at my notes. So far, they consist of the date.

Keep on keepin’ on.

“Okay, let’s move on,” Professor Herrick says. He glances over at the two of us like he’s afraid we’re going to start dueling.

“It’s not like you can catch it, you know. Especially not from reading a five hundred year old play,” she hisses in my ear as Herrick strikes up a
Shylock discussion

“Grow up. It’s assholes like you who make this world the way it is.”

And it’s not like I’m even going to bother replying to that, because what do I say? ‘Actually, for your information, I just kissed a guy this afternoon, so.’
Yeah fucking right.

I pretend to pay attention instead. Write my name a couple of times on the empty page in front of me. Scribble it out, hard.

Kissing’s pretty much kissing, right? A mouth’s a mouth. It doesn’t really matter who it’s attached to. It’s a universal body part. It’s like an elbow.

It’s like my elbow bumped into his elbow.

It’s not like that’s even a deal, right?

Who even pays attention to that?

It’s just elbows, man. Chillax.

It’s like that.

And if it didn’t completely gross me out … well, it’s not like that’s a big deal. It’s human instinct at work. When your eyes are shut, you can’t get
freaked out by eyelashes or wiry-but-inarguable masculinity.

I’m not saying I

liked

it. I’m just saying I’ve had worse.

I wouldn’t put it past Artie to wear girly chapstick. Maybe that’s why I didn’t react as fast as I should have, didn’t ninja-leap right the fuck outta there. I
mean, it’s not like I’m gonna judge a guy for chapstick use in general. But maybe Artie goes for the strawberry flavor. Hell, maybe he even splurges
on that Burt’s Bees stuff – maybe he’s got

girl

lips, soft vanilla honey flavor lips, and what’s a guy gonna do with that? If he’s caught off-guard, if he’s

got his eyes shut and all of a sudden he’s being kissed by this

girl mouth

… reflexes are bound to slow down a little, you know?

Exactly. Exactly.

So. Problem solved. For me, anyway. If Arthur’s stressing about this right now, if he’s really beating himself up over it, well, then,

good

. He should

be. It was his whole thing. He’s the one who wears girl chapstick. Probably.

Me? I’m just an innocent bystander.

My mom asks me to do some grocery shopping, so I do. Normal weekend, normal stuff. Amber and Mitch come along. It’s just the three of us, a
shopping list, and aisle upon aisle of purchasable perishables. Good times. Good, boring, normal weekend times for my good, boring, normal
weekend.

“Jesus, how old are you, five?” Amber demands of Mitch, who’s gleefully pushing the shopping cart forward and then leaping up onto it, rolling down
the aisles.

Mitch puts his feet down early, bringing the cart to a screeching stop. He looks back at us, not the slightest bit shamed. Mitch doesn’t really do
shame. “You wanna try?”

Amber rolls her eyes. “No.”

“You could get inside and I could push you,” Mitch persists.

Amber stares at him for a really long time. His enthusiasm doesn’t even flicker.

“Maybe you’re four,” she concludes with a sigh.

“You’re no fun,” Mitch says good-naturedly.

“Weirdo,” Amber dubs him, then turns her attention to me. “Did she say what kind of spaghetti sauce?”

“Nope,” I report.

“Huh.” We contemplate the shelf in front of us. So many jars. So much red. Choosing seems hard. Unnaturally hard. And me, I want to do this right. I
want to put everything I’ve got into this damn shopping trip. I want quality food at a reasonable price; I want to be a savvy saver. If anything tries to
make this shopping trip less than motherflipping ideal, I will

eff it up

. You wanna test me on that one? Really? Really, friend?

I notice that I’m drumming my fingers against the shopping list in a spastic beat, and I force myself to stop. Good, boring, normal weekend.

“Go Ragu,” Mitch says with a decisive nod. “Definitely. Ragu’s

boss

.”

Amber defiantly grabs a jar of Prego. Mitch is dismayed.

“Ambie, you’re missing out. Seriously.”

“Mitchell Ballard, you do not get to call me Ambie,” Amber snaps. “That’s not going to become a legitimate thing, not

ever

, okay?”

“Okay,” Mitch agrees easily. He waits like two seconds, then throws in a mumbled, “Ambie.”

We sneak a discreet fist bump. Amber scoffs in disgust, then takes over shopping cart duty.

“Am

berrrr.

”

“Your privileges are officially revoked, Mitchy Mitch.” She turns to me. “What next?”

I check the list. Don’t drum on the list. Just check the list. “Cereal.”

“What kind?” Amber asks.

And it’s just, I don’t know, it suddenly seems like this incredibly good question

“I don’t know,” I reply, staring down at my mom’s messy cursive. It’s like it’s mocking me with its vagueness.

Cereal.

“She didn’t say. I guess she

expects me to be psychic.”

“Or maybe she’s just not feeling picky,” Amber counters.

“Still,” I say, and god

dammit

, I really want to drum my stupid fingers against the stupid list. “She could have at least specified. ‘Cereal’ – what is

that? That could mean anything! That could mean Cheerios, that could mean Captain Crunch—”

“

Nice.

” (Mitch.)

“—that could mean Malto-frickin’-Meal.”

“Or Poptarts.” (Still Mitch.)

“Poptarts aren’t a cereal, Mitchell.”

“Yeah, but—”

“No. They’re just

not

.”

“Oh, fine.”

Amber looks at me with her most piercing of gazes. “What’s up with you today?”

Right. Maybe that got a little weird. Maybe people aren’t usually so passionate about cereal. In an ideal world, they would be. Cereal matters.
Balanced breakfasts

matter

. But apparently it’s uncool to show any sort of concern about this very real issue, because Amber’s looking at me like

she knows something’s up, and while Freaking Out About Cereal doesn’t lead one right to Yesterday I Had An Encounter With A Guy That Was
Maybe A Little Unusual, I still realize I need to chill. And so I set the list down in the shopping cart, right on the little baby seat, and I ask, “Whaddya
mean?”

“You’re acting really weird,” Amber says. “Ever since you picked me up. You’re all high-strung.”

“I’m not high-strung,” I protest.

“You are,” Amber insists. Why is she my friend again? “You seem like you’re going to start freaking out all over the place any second.”

“I do not,” I say, looking to Mitch for solidarity.

Hos be crazy, brutha,

that whole thing.

But then what Mitch does is squint thoughtfully at me and say, “Yeah, sort of.”

What?

What

? Et tu, Mitchman.

“Spill,” Amber orders, forgetting our quest for cereal. “Did something else happen with Kristy?” There’s a pause, just long enough for her expression
to turn horrified. “You didn’t try something with her anyway, did you? God, Howie—”

“No! What do you think I am, nuts?”

“Yeah,” Amber replies, not even trying to be delicate about it. “That’s why we’re having this conversation. Are you still upset about it, then? Is that it?”

“No,” I reply, and it’s almost like I’m not even lying. “I’m over it.”

“Clearly you’re not.”

Seriously, what does she want from me??

“Okay, fine,” I say sharply. “I’m not over it. I’m still really pissed off. I thought she was great, I thought she was this really great, hot girl, and I thought I
was gonna get to have sex with her, and I didn’t, and I never get to, and that sucks. Because I really just wanted to tap that like a spine. And now I
can’t. So. Yeah. I’m having some feelings.”

Amber’s quiet for a really long time.

“Tap that like a spine,” she repeats, doubtful.

“I said what I said,” I reply obstinately.

“Tough luck, man,” Mitch says. He gives me a reassuring knock on the shoulder. “Let’s go get some Poptarts.”

“Poptarts are not the answer to our horny, sick, sad friend’s problems,” Amber says, admonishing Mitch with a Level 3 Amber Glare. A normal
person would be driven to shudder in fear; Mitch kinda just looks at her.

“Amber,” he says imploringly, “the

s’more kind

.”

Amber eyes me, this ‘there’s no way you’re gonna fall for this, right?’ look.

I stare back, then conclude, truthfully, “Poptarts are awesome.”

“Okay,” Amber says, pushing the cart forward with sudden, scary fervor. “You guys are idiots.”

I’m feeling a little better as we make our way over to the cereal aisle, watching Amber power on with her special brand of cart-pushing fury while we
amble behind her. This is cool. Grocery shopping’s cool. My friends are cool. My life is pretty good, just the way it is.

“I think my mom likes Raisin Bran,” I remember aloud. “Hey, do you guys think the generic brand is—”

“Oh my God,” Amber says, hushed. “Is that – oh my God, it is!”

I look over to where she’s staring, at the other end of the aisle. There, mid-reach for a carton of oatmeal, is Arthur.

Every piece of me – every nerve, every hair, every damn cell – sings out one matching song in perfect harmony, and that song is

FUUUUUUUCK.

“That’s him!” Amber exclaims softly. “That’s Arthur Kraft!”

“Really?” Mitch asks, interested and way too loud.

I’m frozen. I can’t do anything.

“Go say hi,” Amber whispers, clutching my arm. “I dare you.”

Why does she think this is funny? This isn’t funny. This is sick. Meanwhile, Arthur inspects the oatmeal and doesn’t seem to find it to his liking,
because he puts it back. Oh, God, Kraft, pick some oatmeal and

scram

, what is your

problem

But nope, he’s still there. He doesn’t look casual or relaxed, not even a little bit weekendy. He’s wearing a scarf and this nice black peacoat, he’s
wearing a

peacoat

, he’s one of those guys who wears a peacoat, like, what is this, Vermont? You gonna go to a bed ‘n breakfast next, Artie? Have

some … leaves … fall on you? … I’m realizing I don’t know a whole lot about Vermont. Point is, who is he trying to kid with the peacoat?

And

he’s

carrying a six pack of that natural soda stuff that costs like two times as much as a twelve-pack of something normal. He’s standing there, picking
out oatmeal. Being Arthur.

It’s weird and terrible, just fucking terrible to be looking at him. It’s almost like I convinced myself he didn’t exist, after … after what happened, and all
of a sudden it’s like, here he is, in the flesh, he’s still a flesh-type creature that exists, and it’s flesh that’s been in contact with

flesh, I wish I would

stop thinking the word ‘flesh,’ you know what’s a gross, creepy, weird word? ‘Flesh.’ I think my brain is melting. I think I’m having a stroke. Or a
coronary. Or porphyria. I KNEW HE WOULD GIVE ME PORPHYRIA.

“Howie?” Oh, yeah, Amber. Amber exists. And she’s looking up at me, smile falling off her face.

“Hey, let’s go,” I say, trying to sound normal.

“Oh, come on, just go say hi—”

“I’m not saying hi.”

“Come on, I want to see if he acts as weird as you say he does—”

“He does, let’s – hey, juice, we have to go get juice.” Mighty list, you are my salvation.

“It’ll take like two seconds—”

“JUICE, AMBER.”

God, if he looks over here, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’ll fuck shit up. That’s what I’ll do.

I take off, because I’m not willing to chance it. I fucking

fly

to the juice aisle, and I don’t bother to look back and see if Amber and Mitch are keeping

up. They can deal with Artie if they want to. Me, I’m getting out and I’m getting out now.

I don’t slow down until I’m staring at a carton of Tropicana. It’s like a beacon of hope. A really citrusy beacon.

“What the hell was that?”

I turn around to see Amber and Mitch approaching. In the frenzy, Mitch regained control of the shopping cart.

“I just don’t want to deal with that guy,” I say, sounding weirdly out of breath. But that’s okay, because it’s not like they could ever guess why. Never in
a million years could they guess. “I see him enough during the week.”

“Okay,” Amber says. “Well, I’m disappointed.”

“Too bad,” I say, grabbing my hope-affirming carton of Tropicana.

“Duuuude,” Mitch says, “come on. Minute Maid.”

“You know,” Amber says thoughtfully, “he got hot.”

What now??

“

Artie

?” I repeat incredulously.

“Yeah,” Amber says, like it’s no big deal, like it’s an acceptable choice, as a human being, to find The Second in any way attractive. “He’s kind of
rocking the whole smart-sexy vibe.”

Does not compute.

“Are you sure?” I ask lamely.

“No, I’m just making it up,” Amber deadpans.

“I dunno,” I say, trying to tread carefully. So super-carefully. “I think he just seems dweeby.”

“In high school he was dweeby,” Amber replies, matter-of-fact. “Now he’s definitely good-looking.”

“You only saw him for like five seconds,” I protest. “And it was just his side. Maybe he just looks good on that side.”

“Or maybe he

looks good

.”

“I don’t know, I think he’s weird-looking. He’s all tall and skinny and like – tall, right?? Don’t you think he’s like offensively tall?”

Amber’s staring at me like I’m nuts. “Not even a little bit.”

I feel stupidly flustered right now. “Okay, well, he’s still just like – and then there’s his friggin’ eyelashes—”

“You noticed his eyelashes?” Amber asks, like it’s weird to do.

, I realize with a horrible sinking feeling. It’s weird to notice somebody’s eyelashes.

“Anyone would notice his eyelashes,” I say, trying valiantly to fight my way out of this hole and losing, losing. “They do that thing. You know, that thing

that you hate and always rant about.” She stares blankly at me, like she hasn’t subjected me to that rant

five billion times.

“Where he looks like he’s

wearing mascara, but he’s not – or, actually, you know what, I don’t know, he’s a weird-ass freak. Maybe he does wear mascara. It’s like, you can’t
not look at them. It’s not like I was looking at his eyelashes. I just … I saw his eyelashes.”

There’s silence. And

It’s All Coming Back To Me Now

playing on the loudspeaker.

“Dude,” Mitch says, snickering. “That sounded kind of gay.”

“Your mom’s kind of gay.” Not a great feat of scathing genius, but considering the circumstances, it’ll cut it.

“Your mom’s not,” Mitch replies, not missing a beat. “See, I know because I totally did her last night.”

“Plebeians, all,” groans Amber.

Chapter Six

Monday morning comes way too fast, and I just can’t do it. At five to nine, I make the grand effort to reach for my phone. As I dial the number, there’s
this lump in my throat, this gross nervous feeling. I close my eyes as I listen to the ringing. After three rings, it gets answered.

“Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts this is Arthur how may I help you?” He says it all without pausing, a steady flow of words. There’s this precise lightness
to the way he talks. It sounds like a voice that should be reading

The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock

, it has the right wise lilt, and I realize that’s a

weird thing to think as soon as I think it.

“I’m sick,” I croak.

There’s this little sound, like maybe he inhales sharply. Or maybe I’m making it up because I’m losing my mind.

“Okay,” he says. He sounds like he feels weird. Well, good. He better.

I think about saying something else, for just a second. But what? ‘

How ‘bout that kissing, eh?

’ I don’t friggin’ think so. So I lie there and don’t say

anything.

“Feel better,” Arthur throws in at last, with this helpless awkwardness that sounds so strange coming from him.

I hang up.

At around eleven, there’s a gentle knock at my door. “Howie?”

Busted. Playing hooky my second week into the least impressive job known to man. Yeah, that’s right, Mommy, just making you proud.

“Honey, you in there?” my mom prompts.

For a second, I contemplate pretending not to be, but then that seems a little too lame.

“Yeah,” I call, and hold back a sigh.

She pushes the door open. “Sick day?”

“Yeah.”

She comes over and presses her fingers to my forehead. “Doesn’t feel like you have a fever.”

“I think it’s a stomach thing,” I invent.

She gives me one of those I Am Mom, I Know All looks. “Not a lame job thing?”

“Nope,” I answer with as much conviction as I can summon. Which is not a lot.

She looks sad all of a sudden. It’s enough to make me wish I had just manned up and gone to work.

“I know what it’s like not to want to drag yourself out of bed in the morning,” Mom tells me, running a hand through my hair. “I’ve still got the scars
from working retail in college. Hon, if you really don’t like it there …”

“No,” I interrupt, “I do.”

She’s not buying it. “Howie…”

“It’s fine,” I say, forcing the words out. “It’s cool. It’s low-key and the work’s really easy. And my coworkers are cool. It’s cool.”

“It is,” she says, not believing me.

“I just don’t feel great today, Mom,” I finish firmly. “That’s it.”

She looks at me for a long time.

“Okay,” she says at last. She smiles at me. I watch as she reaches over with her left hand to massage her right arm.

“Is it hurting?” I ask.

“Not too bad,” she replies in that airy tone she gets every time she knows I’m worrying about her. “I think the weather’s going to change again,
though.”

“Oh,” I answer lamely. I hate even bringing it up, but sometimes it’s hard not to slip up on this stuff.

But Mom seems okay. She just gives me this tired smile and asks, “You want a cup of tea?”

“Yeah, sure,” I reply, because if she wants to convince herself that she can still take care of me, then I’m not exactly going to stand in her way.

When she brings me the tea, it turns out to be chamomile, which feels a little bit like the universe is mocking me. Really, what else is new? I drink it
anyway.

I go in the next day. From the second I pull up in the parking lot, I feel so on-edge I think I might pass out. When I step inside, Kristy’s there already,
turning the lights on and singing along to the radio.

“Hey, Howie!” she chirps, beaming. “Feeling better?”

“Two hundred percent.”

“That’s good,” she says, bouncing over to give me a little hug. “I missed you yesterday!”

There’s this momentary urge to believe that she dumped Mr. Flower-Wielding Whasisface, that she is single and willing, that this is her

begging

for

it, but what it all comes down to is that she’s just nice.

“Hey,” she adds, “Arthur wants to see you in his office for a sec.”

“Great,” I grumble.

I take my time. First I go into the kitchen, set my stuff down, put on my buddy the Apron of Death and Emasculation. Going up there, it’s dangerous.
Who knows what awaits me? What if he, like,

tries

something again? What if he thinks he’s entitled to, just because he’s where my paychecks

come from? Newsflash, Kraft: I’m not

that

poor.

I climb the rickety staircase, trying not to remember climbing the rickety staircase with Artie all over me. He probably thinks that was, like, our
fucking first date or something. Fucking freak.

When I get to the top of the steps, I’m actually shaking. God, this is ridiculous. The fact that a drinker of chamomile can reduce me to

this

is just – I’ll

tell you what it is, it’s untoward. It’s not gonna fly. It ends now

I push the door open in one jerky, decisive movement.

Arthur looks up. “Howie.”

He seems totally caught off-guard and, like, nervous. And hearing him say ‘Howie’ is strange, really strange. I suddenly realize I don’t know if he’s
ever called me that before; it was always ‘Howard,’ always annoying as hell, like, what, now that The Thing happened, he’s gonna start being
considerate? That’s not even remotely fair.

“Yo,” I say, only I draw it out all awkwardly so it sounds more like ‘yooooo.’ Just awesome. “You wanted to see me?”

“Um,” Arthur says. He’s looking at me dead-on, like he’s forcing himself to do it. God, I wish he would knock it off. I also wish he’d lose his
eyelashes in a freak eyelash fire incident. And his lips, too, because all of a sudden I’m looking at them,

what is that

. “Yes. I thought we should

discuss—”

“You mouth-mauling me?” I ask loudly, indignantly, like a tough sonuvabitch who doesn’t want to be mouth-mauled. I make myself meet his eyes.
They’re green; I never paid attention before. This really light, interesting, intelligent green—

FUCK, this guy needs to STOP HAVING A FACE.

“Yes,” Arthur says. “That.”

“Explain away, buddy,” I order. I take a seat in the chair opposite him. “I’ve got all day.”

“No you don’t,” Arthur replies crisply. “Kristy will need you back downstairs by nine.”

“I’ve got ‘til nine,” I amend smoothly. “So you just … enlighten me.”

Arthur takes a breath, presses his fingers briefly to his right temple. Then he opens his mouth. “I—”

“Wait,” I say, seized by the sudden need for truth.

He goes obediently silent.

“Do you wear girl chapstick?” I demand.

“No.” He has the nerve to look baffled.

“Are you sure?”

“Very sure.” His forehead wrinkles in confusion.

“Wait, just, hear me out here,” I order, ‘cause I’m not settling for that, no effin’ way. “Nothing that’s, like, called pink-banana-grapefruit, or, I dunno,
raspberry fucking surprise, or that – that bee stuff?”

“Pink banana?” he repeats.

“Don’t be a sicko, I didn’t mean it like that,” I say, horrible realization dawning.

“Mean it like what?” Arthur asks, ‘confused.’

I glower at him. “Like some … gay-ass euphemism or something.”

“Gay-ass,” Arthur repeats, like he’s trying to speak another language.

“That’s

not

what I meant, Sir Elton, so you can just simmer down.”

“Bananas aren’t pink,” Arthur says, sounding increasingly weary (like that’s gonna fool me). “That was my only issue with what you sa—”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” I interrupt harshly. “Play innocent, that’s nice, that’s really great, but I just think you should know, dude, you have

clearly

got

some underlying homosexual shit you need to work out, like, stat, and me, I’m not gonna help you with that.”

There’s a long pause.

I like to think it’s the truth sinking in.

“All right,” Arthur says at last.

“I’m straight,” I add, just in case he needs me to, like, draw him a word-picture. “I like ladies.

La-dies.

”

He doesn’t answer right away, and for some reason, that last word – “

la-dies

,” dragged out like I’m talking to a two year old – hangs in the air and

makes me really uncomfortable.

“I apologize, then,” Arthur says. He doesn’t really seem nervous anymore. Just a little confused. And like he knows something that I don’t, which –

false

. “I was having a very bad day, those kids got on my last nerve, and you … just so happened to be there. Quite frankly, I was just as surprised

as you were that it happened. To be candid …”

He drifts off, like being candid is something that’s gonna hurt my

feelings

. Yeah right.

“Sure, go ahead.”

“I find you obnoxious and fairly insufferable,” Arthur finishes. His eyebrows are a little raised in this ‘you asked for it’ way, and I’m really careful not to
let my expression change, because – because screw what he thinks of me! Like I

care

. I don’t care! Just in case you cared to know. “And kissing

you was not something I had ever thought about doing or wanted to do until it actually happened. It was completely, completely spur of the moment.
Possibly some sort of hypothermia side-effect.”

“Really?” My voice sounds weird. Hollow. A tiny bit squeaky.

“Yes,” he says – and then, as if the word itself isn’t enough, he gives a brisk nod, too.

So he didn’t want to kiss me? What? Like – like,

what

, was it not

good

for him or something? So he comes stomping on in and he violates me –

yeah, that’s right,

violates

me! – and then he doesn’t even have the secretly gay decency to enjoy himself???

“Good,” I manage. I sound pretty chill.

“Yes,” Arthur agrees, utterly calm, like he’s multitasking, like he’s spent this conversation not only dealing with me but

also

trying to attain nirvana.

“Of course, if you want to stop working here, that’s perfectly understandable. In fact, it’s probably the best course of action. My behavior was
absolutely inexcusable, even if you didn’t seem bothered at the time—”

“What?” I squawk. “I was bothered. I was bothered all over the fucking place.”

“So you’d like to leave,” Arthur surmises.

All I really want to do is say “Hell yes, moron” and take off in a blaze of glory, but then I remember my mom yesterday.

“No,” I scowl.

“Oh,” Arthur says, looking mildly surprised. “Mind if I ask why?”

“Yeah,” I glower. I sound like a surly eighth grader, but I can’t even care.

“Okay, then,” Arthur says. He sits up a little straighter. His words get a little more clipped. “You should probably get downstairs, and we can just put
that little incident behind us.”

“Dandy,” I say, standing up. I kind of want to kick the chair over on my way out, but then he’ll probably fire me.

“Howie?”

I turn around, hand on the doorknob.

“Your apron’s untied,” Arthur informs me serenely.

I stare at him. And just as my brain starts boiling over with thoughts of the ‘Whoa there, you saucy bastard, eyes off’ variety, he gets all goddamn
psychic and—

“Don’t worry, I wasn’t – how did you phrase it? Ah yes – working out my underlying homosexual shit on you.” Underneath the loftiness, there is this
undeniable, loathsome flicker of amusement. “Just a casual observation.”

And so I achieve the seemingly impossible, and leave feeling even worse than I had going in.

“Kristy?” I ask as soon as I get downstairs, because something’s starting to dawn on me. Something that could make me the actual biggest
dumbass in the world.

“Yeah?” she asks brightly. “Ooh, how’d it go? I hope he didn’t get mad at you. He was sort of grumpy this morning because I like to get up early and
watch exercise tapes, you know, stay in shape! And I thought that maybe it wouldn’t bother him if I just put it on mute and turned on the closed
captioning, but I guess I’m a really loud exerciser? So I wound up waking him up, and I sort of kicked him in the face by accident at one point, and
—”

“Kristy—”

“Ooh, you want me to tie that for you?” she asks, spotting my untied apron. Without waiting for a reply, she moves behind me and gets to work. “I
love bows! Is that dorky? They just make me happy. When my mom taught me how to tie my shoes, it was all I wanted to do for like a week—”

“Kristy, is Arthur gay?” I cut in, hating the weird urgency in my voice.

“Of course he is, silly,” Kristy replies, laughing a little. “What kind of question is that?” Then, slowly, she comes back around to face me. Her mouth
is an adorable o of shock. “You mean you didn’t know?”

“No,” I reply stiffly, “I did not.”

“Ohhh!” Kristy exclaims. She reaches over and swats me playfully on the arm. “Yeah, that’s the whole reason I got him to hire you!”

“Because he’s gay?” I ask blankly.

“Noooo,” Kristy says. “Because he and Patrick have been having all these awful problems lately, and to be honest, I’ve never really liked Patrick that
much, because he has like the most boring taste in movies ever and he can never take a joke about

anything

. But Arthur loved him for some

reason, so I didn’t want him to be sad, and I thought you were really, really cute! And you’re fun, and you’re so funny, and you obviously have great
taste in stuff. And I really thought that Arthur should be with someone like you instead of someone like Patrick. You know, so he can actually get to
experience a

fun

relationship. And I know that it’s not smart to do the whole dating-people-you-work-with thing, especially when it’s your boss, but

you were just

sweet, and I really thought it was worth a shot! So.”

“You wanted me to work here,” I say, “so you could set me up with

Arthur

?”

“Not set you up,” Kristy says, giggling just enough to reveal that, yes, she wanted me to work here so she could set me up with

Arthur

. “Just … push

you in the right direction!”

“Kristy,” I say, because this is the most absolutely important thing that anyone could ever know about me, and therefore it must be said: “I’m not
gay.”

“You’re not?” It’s like watching someone find out the tooth fairy’s not real.

“No,” I say. Very, very firmly.

Kristy stares at me for awhile. Then she claps one daintily manicured hand over her mouth. “Oh, my God, I’m so embarrassed! I totally thought – I
don’t know, I just didn’t really get why a straight guy would want to work at a store like this!”

Amber wins again. Amber wins the whole goddamn world. We, collectively, as the human race, might as well make her our queen.

“Honestly?” I say. It’s not like the truth is gonna hurt me. At this point, it can only help. “To meet girls.”

“Oh, like Cora?” Kristy asks, totally oblivious.

And because I don’t think I can handle any more insanity today – and because she

great, even if she’s got that goddamn boyfriend, and I don’t

want her to have to feel bad – I just say, “Yeah.”

“Ohhhh,” Kristy says. Her eyes are still huge. “Gosh, I can’t believe it! I

totally

got that one so wrong.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, you did.”

Chapter Seven

You wouldn’t expect it, but stuff gets better after that. If you want to know why, well, it beats me. You’d think that the mess of a conversation in
Arthur’s office would send the whole thing spiraling down into new, unparalleled levels of suck, but for some reason, it has the opposite effect. It
seems like, after that, we reach some kind of unspoken truce. I’m more than happy to roll with it.

Within a couple days, I can go to work without that pit of dread-slash-unholy-terror in my stomach, and everything sinks into dull, droning, welcome
normalcy. I go to work, I wear the apron. I answer the phone “Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts, this is Howie, how may I help you?”, and it doesn’t inspire
any vomit or suicide attempts. It’s not so bad.

In fact, it seems like Arthur’s having a tougher time than I am.

For some reason, he’s still crashing at Kristy’s place. One morning he comes in, dead-eyed, and asks me, “Have you heard of Glee?”

“Yep,” I say.

“Ah,” he says faintly.

If he had been any other guy in the world, I would have given him a pat on the shoulder and a “hang in there, buddy,” because he just looks so

disturbed

that it’s clear he needs it – but, well, as things are, it’s pretty much out of the question.

“You watch a lot of TV, Arthur?” I ask instead.

“No,” Arthur replies, still dazed. “The news, mostly. PBS. The History Channel sometimes. I like Antiques Roadshow.”

Poor sorry bastard.

“You’ve got a lot to learn, buddy,” I tell him. I wonder for a few seconds how ‘buddy’ snuck in there, but then I shake it off. There’s some stuff you
gotta shake off.

For Thanksgiving we go over to the Clarks’, because like I said, my mom’s not big on cooking. Amber’s mom, on the other hand, is a culinary deity.
The food is great, and the conversation’s mostly harmless. There are seven references to Amber and me getting married and having babies, but
we’ve learned to take those in stride. Amber’s parents rhapsodize about how brilliant their little girl is, how

driven

and

responsible

and how

wonderful it is that she’s working so hard to earn money for grad school. Amber rolls her eyes a lot and reminds them that wanting to teach isn’t
exactly groundbreaking stuff, but I know that she’s pleased.

I can tell my mom feels bad as they talk, even though she keeps a smile on her face. When Mr. C brings up Dennis the Mighty Aspiring Brain
Surgeon, she doesn’t talk about him too long. I know it’s because she doesn’t want me to drown in misery, what with all this light being shed on what
a failure I am compared to my brother and my girl wonder best friend.

In an act of mercy, Mr. and Mrs. C ask about the arts and crafts store. I answer their questions and it’s not even that hard to sound upbeat about it,
what with how okay things are going.

“That Kristy Quincy works there, doesn’t she?” Mrs. C asks.

“That’s right,” I reply.

“She’s such a charming young lady,” Mrs. C says, then shoots this ‘Look out’ glance at Amber. I swear, they don’t even try to be subtle about it
anymore. Neither does Amber – she busts out an extra-emphatic eyeroll, then sticks out her tongue.

“Don’t worry, she’s got a boyfriend,” I say.

“So no workplace romance on the horizon for you, then, Howie?” Mr. C surmises.

I choke on my sip of wine.

“Nope,” I rasp out. “Nope. Nope.”

Amber gives me a weird look.

“Nope,” I throw in again as soon as I regain my ability to breathe. “Amber’s still got a chance, if she plays her cards right.”

The ‘rents eat that up. Amber, not so much.

She pulls me aside later while the parentals are cleaning up the kitchen. “Howie, what the hell was that?”

“What?” I ask, playing innocent.

“You don’t say stuff like that. It’s going to give them

ideas

.”

“It’s the holiday season. I thought it’d be nice to give them some hope.”

“Yeah, well, that’s fantastic. I’m gonna remind you of that when they lure us into a church under false pretenses one day and marry us.”

“No one could lure you into a church under

any

pretenses.” It’s the sort of thing that’d usually mollify her (

oh, Amber, you with your super-cool

agnosticism-bordering-on-atheism! You’re so edgy!

) but not tonight.

“So, are you into that weird Cora girl or something?”

“What?” I ask, totally caught off-guard.

“Your workplace romance freakout wasn’t exactly subtle, Sir Chokelton of Chokesfordshire.”

“No,” I reply. Then I realize that Amber’s a smart one, and with Kristy

and

Cora out of the workplace romance equation, guess who’s left? Yeah. “I

mean. I don’t know. Maybe I am.”

“Even with the—”

“Hey, some ladies are just foxy enough to pull off a yak coat,” I interrupt, pointing sternly at her.

Amber stares at me for a few seconds. I look back. Refuse to blink. It’s like if I look away, she’ll figure out the truth, the whole sordid fake-flower-
aisle truth. Finally, her face breaks into a smile, her classic ‘my best friend’s a big loser’ grin of indulgent affection, and I could weep with relief.

“You are so horny,” she declares, making a face at me.

Oh, for the days when that was the worst of my problems.

“Yeah,” I reply, holding back a sigh. “That’s me.”

And then it’s December, which isn’t as holly-jolly as you’d think. Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts isn’t a smashing financial success. What it all comes
down to is that there’s a Holly’s in town now. And not only that: Holly’s is a little bit cheaper. Arthur’s starting to feel the oh-God-we-might-go-out-of-
business strain. Combine that with the fact that he’s still sleeping on Kristy’s couch, and, well—

“Arthur,” Cora says, when all of us are gathered around the kitchen table in what I guess is a staff meeting, “that’s like the most fucking ridiculous
idea I’ve ever heard.”

“I think it sounds fun,” Kristy pipes up.

“You like Katherine Heigl movies,” Cora retorts, not even bothering to look at her.

Kristy pouts.

“Back me up here, Jenkins,” Cora adds, glaring at me with those heavily lined eyes of hers. I think her eyelashes might be fake today. See? I pay
attention to all kinds of eyelashes. “There’s no way you’re into this idea.”

“It is kinda …” I dwindle off, not wanting to say it.

“Kinda …?” Arthur prompts. He looks right at me, meets my gaze, and having his eyes so focused on me like that kind of gets me—

Never mind.

“Lame as shit?” Cora contributes.

“There we go,” I say, gesturing to her.

She smirks, pleased.

Arthur looks disgruntled. “Lame or not, I think it could work very well for us. It’s a fun family activity. It will remind the public that we’re a local
establishment, that we have a humanity to us that the competition—” He’s started doing that lately, saying ‘the competition’ instead of ‘Holly’s,’ “—
might lack.”

“Oh, come on, you guys!” Kristy chirps. “Everybody loves gingerbread houses!”

“Sure, okay, whatever,” Cora drawls. “Gingerbread houses are super peachy. But

dressing up

?”

“If we’re going to have a Christmas celebration,” Arthur replies with very calculated precision, “we might as well go all the way.”

“Besides, Cor, you’re an actress!” Kristy reminds her. “This is your area of expertise!”

“Exactly,” Cora says. “I’m an

actress

. Not a mall exhibit.”

“Cora,” Arthur says patiently. He looks at her dead-on, in all his green-eyed lashy glory. “Please?”

Cora looks at him for a long time. Then she lets out a tortured groan. “You’re being Santa Claus. I wanna watch you have to be Santa Claus.”

“Those are reasonable terms,” Arthur replies with a nod.

“I’m not being Mrs. Claus either,” Cora goes on, making a face. “I’ll be an elf. A slutty elf.”

Arthur sighs. “I don’t think slutty elves are thematically appropriate for gingerbread-house-making with children—”

“What if they’re

slutty

gingerbread houses?” Kristy contributes with a giggle.

“Ni-

ice

,” I say, high fiving her across the table.

“I bet Mrs. Claus is a little tarty,” Cora adds, heartened. “You know an old geezer like Santa can’t give a lady what she needs.”

“Depends,” I say, wriggling my eyebrows. “Is she naughty, is she nice—”

“Hey!” Kristy exclaims. “Who’s Howie gonna be?”

Way to ruin the camaraderie.

There’s a moment of thoughtful silence, while I rack my brain desperately for some way to change the subject. Elves are cool and everything (I …
guess), but that doesn’t mean I want to

one.

“Rudolph?” Arthur pitches.

I glare at him.

He stares calmly back at me. The corner of his mouth twitches.

Kristy squeals.

And that’s how I wind up doomed to dress up like a motherfucking reindeer.

Chapter Eight

When the day itself rolls around, Cora shows up lugging a huge black garbage bag filled with costumes. It’s roughly the same size she is, and looks
like it might devour her at any second. But when I ask her, “Why don’t you let me give you a hand with that?”, what I get back is “Why don’t you bite
me?”, so I let her make like Ralph Waldo and rock that self-reliance.

When Arthur comes in, he’s got an acoustic guitar. My stare seems to contain some quizzical, And How Are You Today, Bob Dylan? vibes,
because he explains, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, “Emergency precaution.”

Okay then.

The gingerbread house shindig doesn’t start ‘til noon. It’s set to go until three, which will probably make it the longest three hours ever. I’m not
exactly a gingerbread architect. I’m not even sure I’ve ever built a gingerbread house successfully in my life. Kristy seems like the type of person
with gingerbread talent oozing out of her cute little ears, though. I’m not too worried.

I also get off fairly easy costume-wise. Brown pants. Brown t-shirt. Pair of light-up reindeer antlers plunked onto my head with way too much
satisfaction by Cora. Not exactly hip threads, but it could be worse.

gets

worse, a little, when Kristy – Mrs. Claus’d up, with a red dress and spray-dyed silver hair and a pair of old lady glasses – insists upon

coloring my nose with her lipstick.

“You’re

Rudolph

! Not, like, Prancer!”

“I know I’m not Prancer,” I say quickly, because Arthur’s in the kitchen and suddenly nothing in the universe seems quite as gay as the name
‘Prancer.’

Arthur stares at his Santa threads with a mixture of resignation and torment while Kristy hums a few bars of

Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer

and then dubs my nose “adorable.”

Whatever.

“Oh, hey,” I tell her, remembering, “I have something for you, by the way.”

“You do?” Kristy asks, her face lighting up.

“Yup.” I dig into my backpack and hand her my

Freaks and Geeks

DVDs. “I thought I heard you say you wanted something new to watch.” (I didn’t,

but when somebody talks as much as Kristy, there’s no way they can remember all of it, right?)

“I did?” Kristy asks, scrunching her nose thoughtfully. “Wow, I totally can’t remember that!”

“Huh,” I say, innocent. “Well. It’s a great show. I think you’ll like it.”

“Awesome!” Kristy beams at me. “Thank you! Nikki and I will

totally

check it out tonight. And, hey, Arthur!” Arthur looks over from where he’s still

contemplating the Santa suit. “Look what Howie’s lending us! You have to watch it too, okay??”

“Sure,” Arthur says, sounding a little surprised.

He catches my eye, and I shrug. I can’t help throwing in a little bit of a ‘yeah, man, this is me saving your ass’ smirk. He smiles slightly. Then Cora
the Slutty Elf comes in and starts bitching at him for not being in his costume yet, all, “This was

your

idea, Jolly Old Saint Prick,” and it’s enough to

take his attention off me.

It may be one of the greatest moments of my life when he comes out of the staff bathroom bedecked in his Santa gear. It hangs off of him to a
degree that’s just, like, ridiculous, because he hasn’t been stuffed with fluffy cottony goodness yet. He straightens the hat, then adjusts the beard
with an awkward little ‘ahem’ sound. He looks absolutely just … delightful.

“Come on, Arthur,” Cora orders. “Show us what you got.”

Arthur gives a very refined and tasteful, “Ho, ho, ho.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re going to make them

want

to stop believing in Santa.”

He tries harder after that.

The first people to show up, at 11:56, are Amber and Mitch. I am immediately filled with deep, profound regret that I ever let the existence of this
event slip to them. They both grin their faces off at the sight of me, because they’re sad excuses for humans who don’t have anything better to do.
Amber’s even got a camera.

“Say cheese, Rudolph,” she instructs giddily.

I flip the camera off. It’s a pretty thirteen-year-old-skateboarder thing to do, but under the circumstances, it seems justifiable.

“Hey, none of that!” Amber chastises, gleeful.

“Yeah, dude, these are for your mom,” Mitch adds, beaming broadly. “Be

decent

.”

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it, but I’m pretty sure I hate them.

“Ooh, pictures, yay!” Kristy cries. “Group shot, group shot, come on, you guys!”

The four of us squish together. Kristy gets everyone to put their arms around each other, all snuggly; at the last minute, she wiggles out away from
me down next to Cora on the floor, leaving me and Arthur all snuggly. I have this split-second freakout, complete with the impulse to move away, far
far away, all-the-way-back-into-the-kitchen away, New Zealand away. But then I realize that Amber’s here – documenting the moment via
photograph, no less – and I know that freaking out won’t fly. So I sort of settle into it, or whatever, and don’t pay attention to his arm across my back
or his hand lightly cupping my shoulder.

Amber snaps a couple shots, and that’s that. The end. No biggie. Still, I breathe easier when we’ve all broken apart.

At first it seems like nobody’s going to show, but they start filing in at around 12:20, and by one o’clock, we’ve got ten kids sitting around getting
their gingerbread on. It’s an okay turnout. Plus, once things start to function successfully, Amber and Mitch get bored and take off. I’m glad to see
them go. There’s something about work plus life that doesn’t add up.

Arthur surprises me and the girls with his Santatude. As we’ve got a crowd inside, he

commits

, and he is all holly jolly, all the way. Stuff is cool and

fun and gingerbready until one of the little girls gets too enthralled by the fact that she’s currently surrounded by Santa and his crew.

“He’s your husband?” she asks Kristy, all doe-eyed and itty bitty as she looks over at Arthur.

“Yes, he is!” Kristy coos.

“You should kiss him!” the girl says decisively.

Everybody laughs, and more than one “aww!” is thrown in there. Kristy goes over to Arthur and plants a big kiss on his cheek, to the general delight
of everybody. Arthur ho-ho-ho’s his way through it. I almost forget he’s

not

Santa.

But the kiss on the cheek isn’t enough to satisfy this little girl. Now, she turns her attention to Cora. “You’re his elf?”

“Yes indeedy dee!” Cora chirps. It’s terrifying to see her like this, bright and kind and springy. She’s not even that slutty, elf-wise. Her green shorts
are pretty tiny, but they’re over red-and-white striped tights, and it’s not like she’s hurling Come Hither looks at the dads in attendance.

“You should shake hands,” the little girl instructs Cora. “Because you work together. That’s what you do when you work together.”

I sort of want Cora to tell her to fuck off – I’m nostalgic – but, sure enough, she and Artie share a hearty handshake. Whatever. ‘Tis the season.

Honestly, I’ve started to forget that I’m a reindeer, until the little girl’s eyes land on me.

I am immediately seized by panic. Somehow, I just know –

know

– this isn’t good.

“Rudolph!” she squeals, looking up at me with those big eyes.

“Hey!” I say, forcing as much cheer into the word as I can, because I genuinely believe for a stupid second or two that it will be enough to satisfy her.

Then I start wondering if she’s going to flip out because I talked. Reindeer can’t talk. She gets that I’m not an

actual reindeer

, right?? I mean, I have

a human face!

And then she exclaims, sweet and high-voiced, “He has to ride you!!”

…

I stare at her.

And stare, and stare.

“You have to ride him!” the girl persists, whipping her attention over to Arthur. “He’s your reindeer!”

There’s laughter again, but this time it’s tittering and naughty, and it’s all the adults. I look over at Kristy and Cora; Kristy’s hiding her smile behind
her hand, and Cora is flat-out laughing. I do not,

do not

look at Arthur.

And then somehow, accidentally, eyes guided by the will of Satan (or, you know, something else that sucks), I do.

He looks back at me hopelessly. Or at least, I think he’s hopeless. It’s hard to tell behind the big white beard.

“Not right now,” Arthur says at last. He sounds like Arthur for a couple of words until the jovial Santa voice kicks back in. “He and the other reindeer
have to work hard on Christmas Eve, so he needs to get his rest until then!”

“Ohhhh,” the little girl says, nodding her understanding.

“How about we sing some Christmas carols?” Arthur adds, dodging over to the counter and retrieving the guitar. Hey there, emergency precaution.

Arthur busts out “Frosty the Snowman,” and I am forgotten. It’s a glorious relief. I try not to think about things like sick coincidences and messages
from higher powers. From the mouths of babes comes crazy-ass malarkey

That’s what they say, right?

By the time that the gingerbread festival comes to a close, the atmosphere has gotten pretty mellow. I’m very carefully and deliberately not thinking
about anything.

Kristy and Cora go change back into their non-Christmas gear while Artie and I clean up and keep an eye on stuff out front. We don’t really talk.
Then the girls come back, and it’s our turn. Arthur heads back there really fast. I can’t blame him.

I let him get in the bathroom first. It seems fair, considering he’s wearing a jolly red suit and stuffed about twice his normal size, whereas I’m just
rocking a pair of antlers. He comes out after five minutes, straightening his tie, and he’s Arthur again. He’s carrying the beard in one hand, and the
rest of the costume is slung over his other arm.

I don’t say anything. I don’t really know

what

to say, besides, like, ‘Har dee har, how ‘bout that universe and its unending quest to make us gay for

each other – are those some hilarious hijinks or what?’ Thanks but no thanks.

Arthur looks at me and smiles a little.

“What?” I ask, immediately suspicious. He might be entertained by all this gay stuff – hell, he

gay, what has he got to worry about? – and that’s

just great for him, but—

“Nose,” he replies.

Lipstick. You could even say it glowed (like a lightbulb!). “Oh, yeah.”

I go into the bathroom, wet some toilet paper under the sink, and set to work trying to get my nose

red. It’s way harder than it should be. It’s not

glaring crimson anymore, but there’s a distinct ruddiness that definitely isn’t there under normal circumstances. Just fantastic.

I see something out of the corner of my eye, and when I look over, Arthur’s leaning against the doorframe.

“Having trouble?” he asks – harmlessly, though. If he’s mocking me, he’s at least being subtle about it.

“She could have mentioned this was gonna be permanent before she attacked me,” I grumble, swiping at my nose again.

“Kristy,” Arthur says, in a way that pretty much sums it all up.

“Kristy,” I agree.

“Speaking of – thank you for lending her the DVDs.”

“No problem.” I’d never really counted on a thank you. If I’d thought of expecting one, I probably wouldn’t have done it. “So, uh. Why are you still
suffering through Kristy’s TV, anyway? Apartment hunting not going well?”

“To be honest, I haven’t gotten started yet.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I think I might be being lazy.” He says it like he can’t quite know for sure, like he doesn’t have any prior experience.

I can’t help it, I find that delightful. “Really? I didn’t know you were wired for laziness.”

“Apparently,” he says, chuckling.

“Just like the rest of us,” I mock-marvel.

I lean nearer to the mirror, scrunching up my nose experimentally. It’s starting to look okay. Which is good, because if I have to keep this up much
longer, I’m going to rub off my whole nose, and there’s no way Kristy’s not gonna feel super-guilty—

Out of nowhere, Arthur starts laughing. It’s quiet at first, and then he really starts going.

I look over at him, tossing the lipstick-stained toilet paper into the trash. “What?”

For a long time, he doesn’t say anything – just shakes his head like I’m going to politely ignore him. I keep staring, and finally he goes, by way of
explanation, “‘You have to ride him.’”

Immediately, I feel myself blushing.

“Oh, shit,” I groan – it’s all I can come up with. Despite myself, I start to smile.

“I think I should have been surprised,” he continues, still laughing. “But honestly, after all of this that’s gone on, I wasn’t. It was more like – of course.
Of course, at this point. Why not?”

“Exactly! What is

with that?”

“I have no idea! I don’t think I want to know.”

“I’m so

tired

of it, aren’t you?” I gesture back and forth between us. “Like, you and me and there’s this – like – you know what I mean? This awkward

crap. I’m so

sick

of it. It’s making me nuts.”

“God, yes,” Arthur sighs. “Me too.”

“Good,” I say. “Good.”

We laugh for a little bit longer. It’s such a goddamn relief to do it.

When the laughter dies down, it’s in that way that sort of pleasantly fades into quiet. Somewhere along the line, without quite noticing, I turned
around. I’m facing him now instead of the mirror.

He’s got this slight, relaxed smile on his face, like he probably doesn’t even know he’s smiling, like it’s laughter left over. And for the first time, I
really just

like

him.

There’s at least two feet between him and me, and it’s not like he makes a move to come closer, but all of a sudden, I’m struck by this big feeling. It
turns right away into a panicked feeling.

“I better get back out front,” I say, not looking at him anymore. I brush past him, really feeling it as I do it. My hand grazes his for just a second, and
it’s like– whatever.

“Apron,” Cora says as soon as she sees me. “Get back there, babydoll.”

“You wanna go somewhere after work?” I ask with so much conviction that it doesn’t even sound like me.

Her eyebrows shoot up.

“Like, with you?” she finally asks.

“Yeah,” I say. I’m breathing a little heavy; here’s hoping she doesn’t notice. “With me. You know. Somewhere. After work.”

She stares at me for a long time. An excruciatingly long time. I have no idea what she’s thinking.

“Yeah, okay,” she says at last. Her mouth twists into a smile that is decidedly Cheshire Catlike. I don’t care, you know? She can bust out all the
Cheshire Cat grins she wants to. That doesn’t matter. All that matters is that in an hour and forty-five minutes, she and I are gonna be out of here,
and we’re gonna go somewhere alone, together, and, shit, my car smells like McDonald’s, doesn’t it?, because Mitch and I went through the drive-
thru a couple nights ago and then didn’t bother throwing the trash away, and that’s not exactly conducive to good times of the backseat variety, if
you know what I mean, but, hell, you know what, it doesn’t matter, she can deal. She can deal with the McAphrodesiac that is the scent of old French
fries and sweet ‘n sour sauce.

With God as my witness, I am getting some tonight. And if it requires a slutty elf to get me there, that’s a step I’m willing to take.

At this point.

Chapter Nine

That hour and forty-five minutes goes by fast and slow all at once, like, there’s a part of me that’s just itching to get out of there, an individual itch for
every single second, and there’s another part that feels

weird

when all the lights are off and I’m actually walking out the door with Cora a few steps

ahead of me. She glances back at me and gives me this little smirk that in all likelihood means impending sex.

Cool.

Fuck yeah.

last

And stuff.

Or maybe she’s just smug because she’s got me carrying the garbage bag of costumes for her. I’m feeling sort of winded already, but I’m trying my
goddamndest not to show it. Revealing you can’t carry a garbage bag of clothes doesn’t seem like the kind of thing that makes a girl want to jump
your bones. Sure, it suggests a certain sensitivity (feebleness, sensitivity, it’s all the same in the grand scheme of things), but Cora doesn’t strike
me as the sort to go for the sensitive fellows. She’d probably beat up Hans Christian Andersen and steal his lunch money.

Arthur follows us out. I haven’t talked to him since the bathroom earlier, and I’m not planning on doing it anymore. I’ve learned my lesson.

But then, while he’s locking up, he says “Goodnight,” and it’d be kind of rude to ignore him altogether.

“Yeah, ‘night,” I say, glancing back at him for a second and putting exactly no feeling into the words. It’s mostly dark out, so I like to think I’m
imagining the look on his face. It’s not, like, a facial contortion of misery, but he looks sort of baffled, like he can’t understand how we’ve gone from
buddy-buddy to grunting monosyllables in two hours.

I feel kinda shitty about it, but – well. Too bad.

“Jenkins, you coming or not?” Cora calls. She’s already next to her car, because she’s tiny and spry and, oh yeah, not being dragged down by The
Garbage Bag of Infinite Evil.

Arthur stops looking at me, so I stop looking at him – not that I was looking at him, I was just, you know, your eyes have to be

somewhere

– and

hurry to catch up to her. The bag thuds into me with every step, threatening to send me face-down onto the icy pavement, but whatever, that’s cool,
it’ll take more than a garbage bag to stop me tonight. Hell, I’d like to see a garbage truck try.

“Just put that in here,” Cora says when I finally reach her. She’s got the door to her back seat propped open. I fight the garbage bag in. There may
be some grunting and some finger-smashing and one brief, terrible urge to weep manly tears of manly pain, but let’s not dwell on that. Cora seems
pretty amused while she watches, and she doesn’t tell me to remove myself from her presence once I’m done, so I figure we’re good.

I slam the door triumphantly, then turn to look at her. She’s standing there, tiny and fierce: her hair’s pulled back, but it’s still exploding all over the
place. It’s not that she’s not nice-looking, or whatever: she’s kind of cute in her own extremely pierced way. Especially when she’s not scowling.
Now, she’s just looking at me, dead on, with this hint of a smile. Tiny wisps of breath dance from her lips and then fade.

I’m probably spending too much time contemplating wisps of breath.

Whatever, it’s not like I’m freaking out. I’m cool. I

have

spent time alone with a non-Amber, non-my-mom girl before. Not for awhile, sure, if I’m being

perfectly honest, but hey, it’s like riding a bike, right? It’s all just … riding things.

But to be honest, I haven’t been with a girl – ya know, Been With, capital letters – since Lindsay. And Lindsay was kind of awhile ago. And way less
Cora-y than Cora.

But. Not a problem. Just a casual observation.

Cora wiggles her fingers in a wave, and I look over to see that it’s for Arthur, who’s driving out. Even the vague, shadowy sight of him is enough to
rejuvenate me, to remind me of the noble purpose that’s propelling me forward, carrying me valiantly into the arms and the pants of this badass,
scary-ass lady leprechaun of easy virtue.

Cora seems to be thinking along the same lines, because she slips an arm through mine and says, “You gonna take me somewhere, Jenkins?”

Panic jolts through me. “Where do you wanna go?”

Cora squeezes my arm, leans in closer. “How ‘bout you surprise me?”

Surprise her. I can do that.

“Two, please.”

“Sure, Howie,” says Stuart, the only guy working behind the counter at The (unfortunately named) Mystic Sunbreeze. We were in the same grade in
school. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s worked here since high school. I’d be sad for him, but, well. Kinda busy.

The Mystic Sunbreeze, despite its unfortunate moniker, is probably the most beloved movie theatre in town. Sure, it gets its movies a couple
months late, but admission’s only three bucks. They play old classics a whole lot, too. Mitchy and I have cherished many a Star Wars night within
these walls.

“Hey, Stuie,” I ask, “what’s playing tonight?”

“Old Yeller,” Stuart replies.

… well,

damn it

I look over at Cora, expecting at least a derisive snort. But nope: good ol’ Lady Mockbeth just keeps on smiling that same smile, that everything-is-
so-funny-in-my-head smile that is bound to drive me nuts before the evening is over.

Old Yeller??

“Why the hell are you showing that?” I demand.

“I dunno, man,” Stuart says, shrugging. “It’s like family night or something.”

Family night.

Family night.

Oh, Christ.

I turn to Cora. “We can go—”

But Cora, wee evil lass that she is, is forking over six bucks to Stuart!

“Thanks,” he says, smiling at us.

“You don’t have to pay,” I blurt out, but it’s too late.

“It’s six bucks, dude,” Cora says, having the nerve to look at me like I’m crazy. I probably shouldn’t seem crazy. Who wants to do a crazy dude?
(Well, actually, that seems right up this girl’s alley.) “It is in no way a big deal.”

“Oh,” I say weakly, because it’s not like I want to get on her bad side. “Okay. How many other people have come?” I add to Stuart, trying to sound
casual.

“Oh, just a couple,” he replies. With a sly little smile, he adds, “Don’t worry. It will be nice and private.”

Perv.

“Cora, seriously, we can—”

“I want some Nerds,” Cora interrupts, hopping over to the concessions stand.

Great.

Jesus, what horrors must a guy endure? Mitch never has problems like this, and he

always

has girls.

But, whatever. Cora gets her Nerds, and we head into the darkened theatre, and I try really hard not to think about when I was five and I watched this

movie and I cried every time I saw a dog afterwards for like three months. This movie is the cruelest thing anyone could ever do to children.

It also doesn’t really get a guy in the mood.

Not that I’m not in the mood. Oh, I am

in the mood.

For some sex. Believe it.

The movie’s already playing, and sure enough, the first two rows have got people in them. Some of the people are so little you can barely see their
heads over the backs of the seats.

Why did I take her to the movies? Why?

Why

? Why couldn’t the surprise destination be the back seat of my car? Then we could’ve just – gotten it

over with, gotten to it, whatever. Right there in the parking lot of Artie Kraft’s, a big glorious

FUCK YOU!

to every single slightly less-than-lady-loving

feeling I have ever experienced within its walls—

“You wanna sit here?” Cora asks. It’s the back row.

“Yeah, sure.”

We inch to the middle of the row. She plops down and opens her box of Nerds. I sit next to her. She seems pretty happy with the Nerds, like she’s
suddenly forgotten my existence. Maybe I’m not as upset about this as I should be.

I stare up at the screen, but its technicolor glory, its sappy music does nothing to help me out. Instead, I find myself missing five year old me. Five
year old me’s only problem was getting called Dennis all the time by Miss Temple the kindergarten teacher. That, I could deal with. Hell, at this
point, getting mixed up with Dennis would be like an

honor

My attention is caught by a sudden rattling sound. I look over to see Cora bringing the box of Nerds to her mouth and tipping them in.

Hot.

She looks over at me, and I look away fast.

Damn it, why does Kristy have a boyfriend? I miss Kristy. I miss

Lindsay

, and we had, like, negative chemistry. Innocent bystanders cringed when

they saw us within five feet of each other.

I miss her anyway.

I’m entertaining the thought of getting up to get some popcorn, less because I yearn for poppy corny goodness and more because a temporary
escape seems phenomenal, when all of a sudden, there’s a hand on my thigh.

And apparently it missed with that initial grope, because then, there’s a hand on …

not

my thigh. If you get what I’m saying.

I sit really, really still. I don’t know what else to do.

This. This is not cool. This is public indecency. At

Old Yeller

. With kids sitting in the front row.

Her hand’s not really

doing

anything, at least. Just … sitting there.

Hanging out.

“Um,” I whisper, “what are you …?”

“I’m touching your dick, genius,” Cora whispers back. But in a way that’s way too loud to be a real whisper. Oh, God, oh, God, the kids are going to
hear that, they’re going to need therapy, all of them, this plus

Old Yeller

? They’re doomed.

“Technically, you’re touching my pants.” I don’t know why I just said that. It seemed like a good thing to say.

She smirks at me. “Are you complaining?”

“No, no!” I exclaim. It’s not like I wanna hurt her feelings. Tiny madwomen have feelings too. “I … just … you wanna leave?”

“Aw, but we’re just getting to the good part,” she protests wickedly. About the movie, I have to assume, because even though her hand is

there

, we

aren’t exactly getting anywhere, if you know what I mean.

“Let’s go,” I say, grabbing her hand off my lap and dragging her out of her seat. Her box of Nerds falls out of her hands. They spill onto the floor, a
friggin’ cacophony of little candies pitter-pattering against cement. The occupants of the first two rows turn around and look at us.

Infinite, infinite shame.

We hurry out of the theatre and leave through the back. The cold is so sudden it’s like a slap in the face all over. Maybe it’s good. Maybe it will wake
my brain up. Help me realize that I should be into this, no matter how close it comes to scarring scores of kids for life.

And then, out of nowhere, Cora pounces

She throws her arms around me, stands up on tiptoe, drives me backwards ‘til I hit the freezing concrete

of the building. She kisses me hard, all Nerd-flavored and unexpected. The metal of her lip ring is freezing cold, and even though some may think
the whole piercings thing is a turn-on or whatever, I’m mostly just scared, because well, okay, it

seems

improbable that she could somehow rip

apart my poor lip flesh with it, but not impossible, right? Right?? But this, I tell myself, is better than my last kiss.

“Let’s go back to the car,” I pant.

To my surprise, she doesn’t put up a fight, just breathlessly says, “Okay.” She darts upward really fast and nips me on the ear, then turns and skips
toward the parking lot.

I’m pretty sure my ear is bleeding. Maybe even really hard. Maybe she nicked an ear artery.

But it’s not time for a pity party. Or a legitimate-concern-about-serious-ear-injuries party. I follow her, forcing myself to quicken my pace. I come to a
stop outside the back door. It’s open, and I lean down and look in to find her draped across the seat, staring at me with that damn smile. The
McDonald’s stuff has been pushed to the floor already and everything. In fact, one of the not-quite-empty sweet ‘n sour sauces is spilling, which, like,
I get that my car isn’t a

nice

car, but it’s not like I’m in the habit of making it less nice by dumping food all over— But that,

that

is not what I need to

be focusing on right now.

I clamber inside, sort of on top of her already by necessity, and then turn to shut the door. I think I almost knee her in the face, but she’s not
complaining. Since when does Cora not complain, anyway? Is she possessed? Is she a secret succubus? I can’t believe Arthur would be lax
enough to hire a succubus. Why the hell

did

he hire this small and bountiful bucket of crazy?

Why did he do this to me?

She reaches up and clasps her hands behind my neck, pulling me into kissing her.

Amber always says all this stuff about kissing and sex, about how technically, it’s unhygienic and ridiculous, and there must be some sort of magic
there, that people are even capable of looking past how gross they’re being and enjoying it or thinking it’s so great or whatever. I always figured she
was just saying it to make it okay that her life has always been kissing-and-sex-free.

But, I don’t know, right here, right now, it’s like it has some merit. I shove my tongue into Cora’s mouth, because she shoved her tongue in my mouth
and, I dunno, it seems fair, and all I can think is, like,

excuse me while I lick your tonsils and enjoy your Nerd remnants

. I don’t know. It’s like

there’s never that – that thing where you get lost, that feeling that they show in movies by making the music swell and the camera sweep around. I
feel so friggin’

here

. Embarrassingly unlost.

I should want her more.

I mean, sure, I sort of want her. I’m not

dead

, and she’s writhing all over me.

But I should want her more.

Her fingers traipse down to my pants, take their time with the button. A damn hallelujah chorus should be bursting out in my head, but all that’s there
is,

Okay. Okay. Let’s do this.

“Howie?” she breathes into my ear.

“Yeah?” I mumble back.

Her hands abandon my zipper. “Who the fuck are you kidding, honeybee?”

I pull away. “What?”

She just looks at me. The Cheshire Cat smile is in full swing.

“What?” I say again

Suddenly, I want to be kissing her. Probably more than I’ve ever wanted to kiss anybody in my life. Bring on the lip ring, is what I’m saying.

“You are having exactly no fun,” she informs me matter-of-factly.

“What?? Yes I am! This is the best. This is

way

better than Old Yeller.”

“Yeah, thanks, that’s real sweet,” Cora drawls. She pushes me off of her and sits up. She crosses her legs all dainty. Then she levels me with this

look

“Buddy, do you need me to tell you something about yourself?” she says.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I say. My cheeks feel really hot. My heart is going to quit on me any second now. Which wouldn’t be the
worst thing in the world.

“Oh, Howie,” Cora sighs. “Howie, Howie, Howie.”

“Come on.” I put a hand on her waist, trying to pull her back to me. “Why’d you stop? Let’s – let’s do this thing.”

“Honey,” Cora says, brushing me off. “Please.”

“No,” I insist, “I really think that we should – that’s to say, I really want to – I –” I give up, because whatever, actions speak louder than words, right?
So I lean in and try to kiss her neck. I mostly just get hair, but I think I feel skin down there somewhere. Good. Progress. Now, if we just keep—

“Fine,” Cora says with an ‘I’m so over this’ sigh. “You think that’s gonna help? Here.”

She grabs my hand and plants it firmly on her boob.

“Do you like this?” she demands.

And, well, what kind of a question is that?

“What?” I ask, trying to look at her like she’s nuts. Not so hard. “Yeah. Of course. Why are you even asking me that?”

“Because there are some guys,” she replies, “who prefer rippling pectorals.”

“Yeah, well,” I say, forcing myself to scoff, “I’m not one of ‘em.”

We sit in silence.

I really just – I want to move my hand. I get that she put it there and all, but this seems rude.

“What do you like about it?” Cora asks then.

Seriously??

But the expression on her face tells me that,

yeah,

seriously, so I figure I’ve just gotta answer this question and answer it good.

“It’s … plump,” I say, feeling around a little, feeling terrible doing it. I’m fairly certain my mother raised me to be better than this. “Kinda squishy, but
you know, not – too– Fuck, I don’t know, Cora!” I move my hand away. I can’t do this anymore. “It’s a tit. Guys like tits. It’s the rules.”

“What

rules

?” Cora demands, sitting up taller and fixing me with a glare that could easily take on even Amber’s fiercest. “The rules of frigid

heterosexuality?”

“Well, yeah!” I shout without thinking about it.

“You know what, Jenkins, I’ve enjoyed a tit or two in my time,” she tells me, eyes blazing. “Am I a guy?”

“You’re a lesbian?” I ask blankly. Now that I think about it …

“And give up my chance at scoring Gerard Butler someday? I don’t think so.”

“You’re bi,” I surmise. I’m starting to feel dizzy.

“I’m gonna be with whoever I want to. Whoever makes me feel good. I’m not going to let some stupid, like, societal need to categorize tell me that
that feeling’s wrong, no matter who’s making me feel it.”

“What if it was, like, a goose?” I challenge. I don’t know. It’s starting to make too much sense, to sound too logical the way she says it, and I don’t
want any of that.

“Geese don’t tend to make me horny,” she replies without missing a beat. “How ‘bout you?”

“I’m a chicken man,” I retort.

This shocks a smile out of her. A laugh, too. And even though this is currently rivaling a certain fake flower aisle kiss for the craziest moment that I
have ever had, stuff relaxes a little.

“Howie,” she says, drawing my name out. She reaches over and I get a little nervous, but then it’s just to brush a hand against my cheek. That’s not
so bad. “You know what?” she asks, looking right into my eyes. “Honestly? You make me sad. And I’m not saying that in a bitchy way. I’m just saying
it in a true way. You’re so, like … you’re like the most trapped person I’ve ever met. Out of

anyone

.”

“What, because you think I’m gay?”

“Because I think you’re really, really into Arthur,” she replies. She says it simply, like it’s a thing that’s even remotely okay. “And you won’t let yourself
know it.”

“God,” I say, hating hearing it out loud. I’ve never had to hear it out loud, I never

planned

on hearing it out loud. I bury my face in one hand. “God, that

is so not …”

“And Arthur’s a good guy. I can’t stand the bastard most of the time, but he is. And, you know what, he’s pretty damn trapped too.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, pulling my hand away to look at her. “He’s out. He’s gay. He had a – Patrick, or whatever.”

“Like that’s the only way to be trapped?”

How one person so little and so crazy can sound so

right

when she says stuff is just … beyond me.

“I’m not …” But I know that no matter what I say, she’s not going to believe me. And right now, that’s not a battle I want to fight. I’m tired. “Shit, I don’t
know.”

“Hey,” she says, knocking her shoulder against mine. “I have a great idea.”

“What?” I ask wearily.

“How ‘bout you give me a ride back to my car, and then you go somewhere and think about this enlightening conversation?”

“Sure,” I say. Mostly because the prospect of being rid of her? Such a good one.

“And don’t drive your car into a lake or something,” she adds, squeezing my knee. “Because then I’d have to feel bad, and I don’t really have time
for that right now. We’ve got tech rehearsals starting this week.”

I promise her I won’t drive into a lake.

“Why did you even …?” I ask her once we’re both properly front-seated and on the way back to the store. I’m not really sure how to finish the
question.

“Dude, I’ve been doing theatre my whole life. You think I haven’t learned to recognize that special glint of oh-God-I’m-gay fear in a man’s eyes?”

“Huh,” I say. It’s not like it’s a confession, or some big revelation, or anything. It’s ‘huh.’ Slightly more sophisticated cousin of ‘uh.’ It means next to
nothing.

“And besides,” she adds after a little bit of quiet, “kinda been there. What?” she adds, laughing a little at the look I must be giving her. “Believe it or
not, I haven’t always been the masterpiece of blazing self-esteem you see before you today.”

I gotta admit: that’s comforting. I guess I always figured Cora sprang fully formed and badass from Shirley Manson’s forehead. “Oh yeah?”

She smirks. “Is anyone ever a masterpiece of blazing self-esteem in middle school?”

In another five minutes, we’re outside Artie Kraft’s.

She pecks me on the cheek, then climbs out.

“Thanks for a splendid evening,” she tells me in this fluttery ingénue voice.

“Yeah, sure,” I reply, scowling.

“And thanks for dragging me out of there,” she adds, becoming Cora again. “That movie still makes me cry like a fucking baby.”

With that, she slams the door and jogs to her car. I watch her go, and in spite of the mad sick hell she’s put me through, I don’t hate her.

I stare at the store for a second, not really knowing why. Then I pull out of the parking lot and back onto the street. I find myself turning right, even
though I need to go left to get back to my house. I decide that I need to make a quick stop first. I’ve given Kristy a ride home a couple times. I know
the way.

Chapter Ten

“Howie,” Arthur says, surprised, when he opens the door.

“Is Kristy here?” I ask quickly.

“No, she and Nikki went out. I can tell her you stopped—”

“Good. I need to ask you some stuff.”

“Um. All right. Come on in.”

I follow him inside. The apartment is nice and warm. There’s opera floating through the air, and even though I’m not exactly a big fan – like, at all – it
seems to match. Make things warmer. Nicer. Plus, the air’s full of the smell of something delicious cooking. My mouth starts watering a little, even
though the last thing on my mind right now is food.

And then there’s Arthur himself. He’s not wearing a tie, marvel to end all marvels. The top button of his shirt is undone. He looks all relaxed, and –
well, good, he looks good, I think he looks good. Which brings us back to the problem at hand.

“Nice tunes,” I remark. Stupidly, inanely. I don’t break the ice; the ice breaks me.

“La Boheme,” Arthur says in this way that’s sort of self-indulgent, accompanied by a little half-embarrassed smile. The way my mom would say, like,
The Carpenters.

“Cool,” I say. I don’t have anything else to say about La Boheme.

“Would you like something to drink? There’s … well, water, and diet Sprite, and some sort of … fruit punch. All Kristy and Nikki’s, I’m afraid. And I
was going to open a bottle of wine with dinner, if—”

“No, that’s okay—” I pause, because I’ve just followed him into the living room, and amongst the pastel colors and the fairy lights strung across the
walls and the eighty zillion cute throw pillows, there’s— “What the hell is that?”

I know what it is. It’s a poster. A poster of—

“Kittens,” Arthur says, with great resignation, “dressed like angels. Well,” he amends, “cherubs, to be precise, I think. Ergo the—”

“Diapers,” I say, mesmerized.

“Precisely,” he sighs.

“That one’s holding a harp. How is that even possible?”

“An ungodly act of Photoshop, I suspect.”

I wince. “Sorry, man.”

“I try pretend it’s not there when I go to sleep at night,” he replies grimly.

“How’s that goin’ for you?”

“Better. Slowly.”

I laugh. Like, genuinely.

“I’ve just got to check on the stove really quickly,” Arthur says. The kitchen’s right opposite the living room, separated by a breakfast bar counter.
There’s a big pan on the stove contentedly puffing out steam from beneath the lid.

“Sure, go for it,” I reply.

Another thing about Artie (I muse as I watch him go over to the stove): he says his adverbs when he’s supposed to. That’s tremendous and weird
and sort of awesome. How many people do that these days? Say ‘really quickly’ instead of ‘really quick’?

And then suddenly I realize, watching him, that opera and delicious-smelling food aren’t exactly the makings of a solo evening.

Oh, jeez, what if he’s getting back with the mysterious Patrick dude? Not that I care, but, I don’t know, that guy strikes me as sort of an asshole.
Really shady. Not the sort of person anybody should be dealing with, even Artie. Not that it’s my business. “Are you having people over or
something? Because I can take off. I don’t really—”

“No, no, it’s just me.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.”

“And you made … that?” I stare at the skillet.

“Chicken cacciatore. And, yes.”

“Why?”

“I enjoy cooking. And I guess I fell into the habit of having decent meals. Even if I’m the only one eating them.”

“Wow,” I say.

“Is that terribly sad?” he finishes with a wry smile.

“Not really,” I reply truthfully. “The majority of my meals come out of cans. Or, like, Ramen packets. Or fast food drive-thrus.

That’s

terribly sad.”

“Yes,” Arthur agrees, “that’s alarming.”

He smiles at me, though, this ‘aw, don’t worry, I’m just messing with you’ smile. I find myself smiling back – not to uphold the general rules of smiling,
wherein when someone smiles at you, you return it, but because I want to.

“You wanted to ask me about something?” he says.

“Um,” I say, “yeah.”

To be honest, I’m weirdly disappointed that he brought it up. I dunno, just – with the warmth, and the dinner for one, and the actual pleasantness he
and I are suddenly rocking … it seems a lot more appealing than facing the ugly maybe-truth, you know?

But it’s not like I can say ‘Nah, forget about it, ooh, look, chicken!’. I came here with a purpose, and that purpose must be upheld.

Friggin’ purpose.

So I follow Arthur into the living room. He tells me to have a seat, so I do, on a puffy pink armchair. Arthur sits down on the futon across from me. Of
course there’s a futon. It’s got a pink-and-green quilt folded quaintly over it, which I’m guessing he uses to sleep with.

For a few seconds, we just look at each other, and La Boheme la bohemes around us.

“You’re gay,” I say at last, because – well, that’s the reason I’m here. That’s the aforementioned friggin’ purpose.

Arthur nods. “Yes. That’s true.”

“So you probably know all about that stuff.”

“What stuff?” Arthur asks. Maybe this time, he’s a tiny bit sarcastic. With him it’s really hard to tell, since he’s that winning combination of wry and
chill all the time. “Being gay?”

“Yeah. That.”

“I’ve had some experience, yes.”

“So, like …” God, it’s hard to talk about this, with him sitting maybe four feet away from me, looking at me with all that green-eyed

focus

. “How did

you figure that out?”

“How did I figure out I was gay?” I don’t know if it’s just me, or if he really is acting like that’s a weird question. How the hell is

that

weird?

“Well, yeah! Because, I don’t know, it seems like a pretty complicated process to me.”

“Actually,” Arthur says, “I found it fairly simple.”

“Of course you did,” I grumble.

“Howie,” he says, frowning a little, “are you okay?”

Gee, I don’t know, Arthur. Am I okay? My dad’s dead; my mom excels at pretending to be all right but I’m pretty sure she’s a vacant shell of a human
being underneath all the smiling; my twin brother’s off being an unstoppable genius, living in the actual world, whatever that faraway elusive thing
might be; somewhere along the line my loftiest life goal became trying to determine whether you can lie on the couch and watch TBS for twenty-four
straight hours; and just to make things really special, just to put the fuckin’ cherry on top of the fuckin’ sundae of suck that is my whole existence, is
the fact that I can’t even manage to

like girls right

—

“I use my mom’s shampoo sometimes,” I blurt out. “I know I shouldn’t. I know it’s lady shampoo. But it smells better than mine, and I think my hair
might like it better, and – but that doesn’t change the fact that that stuff, that’s for

chicks

. And, that, that’s probably gay, isn’t it? Like, at least a little.”

“I don’t know whether—”

“And I cried once listening to ‘The Scientist’ by Coldplay. I don’t know, I was in sort of a lousy mood anyway, but it’s not like that

excuses

that stuff.

Like, that was gay, wasn’t it?

Guys

don’t just sit around and

cry

over Coldplay.”

“Howie—”

“And I loved Mamma Mia. Like, loved it. Amber made me watch it with her on TV once, and I didn’t want to, and

she

wound up thinking it was this

sentimental piece of crap, but I

loved

it. It was all sunny and happy and there was all that blue sky and blue ocean, and everyone was just, like, so

chill, all bouncing and singing and being

so happy

, and I just wanted to, I don’t know,

live

there or something. Jump right into the screen and sing

backup to Dancing Queen. That’s gay, right? That’s queeriest queerdom. There’s no way that’s not totally gay. It’s gay. It’s

gay. I’m … I …”

“If I may,” Arthur says.

I take a deep breath. “Yeah, okay.”

“I don’t like any of those things,” Arthur says, “and I

gay. So maybe you’re just girly.”

That?

That’s

his answer?

“I’m not

girly

,” I say, affronted.

“Just an observation,” Arthur replies innocently.

“You didn’t like Mamma Mia?” I ask, feeling like I just got kicked.

“I’m not even really sure what it is,” Arthur replies, frowning thoughtfully.

Useless bastard.

“You kissed me,” I add. I don’t know if there’ll ever be a

good

time, but I doubt I’ll find a better one. So. “We – kissed.”

“Yes,” Arthur agrees. He suddenly sounds almost as awkward as I do. It’s comforting. “That was gay.”

“Uh, yeah.” Oh, Christ. Here goes. “I – didn’t hate that.”

“Me either,” he says gently.

And even though I’m pretty sure I just doomed myself to a whole lifetime of freaking out – always, forever, completely – well, there’s at least a part of
me that goes calm when he says it.

“I don’t know,” I finish. I look at the floor. “I’m just really fucking confused.”

“Well, I’m here,” Arthur says, surprising me. I look up at him. He looks like he means it. “And I can’t guarantee I’ll understand a single thing you’re
talking about, but I hereby subject myself to your future spastic rambles.”

“They’re not spastic,” I protest. It’s easier to do that than to be serious and tell him it means something to me that he said it.

“Queeriest queerdom?” He raises his eyebrows.

“That’s just wit. Sterling wit.”

“Okay, then,” Arthur agrees easily.

We sit in silence. I look around. There’s a bunch of framed pictures on the end table next to the futon. One of the bigger ones is Kristy and her
boyfriend. He’s standing behind her, arms looped around her waist, and she’s leaning back into him. They’ve both got big, open-mouthed grins on
their faces, like they were caught in the middle of laughing. They look really happy.

It’s just – it’s

supposed

to be easy. It’s not like that’s news, it’s not like that’s some grand revelation, but it sure feels like one right now for some

reason. It’s like that thing that Cora said, the thing about falling in love with somebody because they make you feel good.

“So, how’d you know?” I find myself asking him. “About the gay – you know, the being gay thing?”

“I realized that all of the people I found myself attracted to were men,” Arthur replies. Like it’s that simple.

“Oh,” I say. I don’t really know what else to say. “Huh.”

“Yep.”

“Did it suck?”

“Somewhat.”

“Oh.”

I can’t really think of anything else to say, and apparently Arthur’s okay with the quiet. I find myself paying actual attention to the opera. It does kind of
swallow you up, the sound of it.

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” Arthur asks.

“Like, in a date way?” My heart does a panicked leap.

“In a now-you’ve-made-me-self-conscious-about-eating-alone way,” Arthur replies, smiling slightly.

And, well. When he puts it like that.

We eat, and sure enough, it’s great. I can’t remember the last time I had chicken that wasn’t Kentucky-fried or McNuggeted. At first, conversation’s
kinda stilted, but then we start talking about work. I compliment him on his Santa-ing, which seems more like it was five thousand years ago than
five hours ago, and he confides that he spent the whole time wanting to ‘perish from shame.’

“Sometimes I suspect I’ve gotten

too

good at doing what I have to do,” he concludes, shaking his head.

“Yeah,” I say sympathetically. “You were pretty damn good.”

He smirks at me over his wineglass. “You were a fairly lackluster reindeer.”

“Yeah, well. Lackluster’s my specialty.”

“I thought sterling wit was your specialty.”

“Oh, ya know.” I shrug. “Many talents.”

He chuckles.

Feeling sly, I add, “I’m also pretty badass when it comes to being insufferable and obnoxious.”

“I’m aware of that, yes,” he replies, not getting tripped up at all.

“If you feel the need to apologize, I’m not gonna stop you or anything.”

“I said you were insufferable and obnoxious,” Artie answers pleasantly, not falling for it. “Not that I didn’t like you.”

I like that more than I probably should.

“I didn’t like you.” Maybe it’s the sort of thing that I ought to keep to myself, but I’m feeling nice and relaxed for the first time in ages.

“I suspected as much,” Arthur replies. He smiles a little, not seeming bothered. “Why?”

“No idea,” I say. And maybe that’s true. It suddenly seems really hard to pin down one solid, concrete reason

why

I was so eaten up with hatred over

this guy.

We finish dinner and carry the dishes to the sink. Artie gives them a quick rinse – of course he’s a subscriber to the cult of obsessive rinsing – and
then turns back to look at me. I’m contemplating the shopping list on the fridge, looking at Kristy’s loopy half-cursive ‘dishwasher detergent!!!’.

“What’s this?” Arthur asks, catching me off-guard.

“What?” I turn around so I’m facing him. There isn’t a whole lot of empty space between us. It’s a small kitchen.

“Your ear.” He touches it with his pointer finger lightly for the slightest of milliseconds. It’s a good millisecond.

“Cora bit me,” I tell him, remembering.

“Ah.” He sure accepts that easily. It gets a guy wondering what other bodily harm Cora has inflicted upon her coworkers.

But Cora doesn’t stick around in my brain for long, what with Arthur being right there. We just stand, looking at each other. La Boheme keeps on
being operatic. In the back of my head, in some distant unaffected place, I wonder why it is that I like

looking

at this guy so much. The simple act of

directing your eyes at somebody else shouldn’t be all-consuming, should it? That seems weird. Impractical.

I think about taking a step or two in.

“Arthurrrrr, we’re hoooome!”

We both jump a little at the sudden shock that is Kristy.

“Oh my gosh, you won’t believe what this guy said to Nikki—” She freezes abruptly at the sight of us. A gigantic smile blossoms on her face. A cute
strawberry blonde – Nikki, I presume – trails in after her. “Howie!!”

“Hey,” I reply awkwardly. Arthur turns around and goes back to fumbling with the dishes in the sink. As he does it, his hand catches my elbow for just
a second. I try not to ponder whether it was deliberate.

“What are

you

doing here?” Kristy asks me, but it’s in this way where you can tell she thinks she knows the answer.

“Just admiring your sweet kitten posse over there,” I say, pointing at the poster.

“That was a present from my niece,” Kristy says with stalwart defensiveness that is just plain adorable. “She’s six.”

“Well, that’s very kind of you to put it on prominent display. With absolutely no intention other than to appease her.”

“Thank you,” she replies, with great dignity.

Three … two …

“But it’s

super

cute, isn’t it? Because kittens are cute, and baby angels—”

“Cherubs,” Arthur mutters.

“—are cute, and when you put them together, it’s—”

“Super cute,” I finish.

“Yep! And you don’t get to make fun of me. Arthur hates it, I can tell.”

Arthur looks up from washing a glass to protest, “I don’t—”

“You do,” Kristy says, proving that bouncy blonde ponytails and heightened discernment aren’t, in fact, mutually exclusive. “You totally, totally, totally
do.”

“I’m a dog person,” he grumbles.

“Yeah, me too,” I say. He smiles at me. Kristy smiles at both of us, the kind of smile that makes Julie Andrews look like a jaded crack whore.

“Okay, I’m takin’ off,” I announce. “Before I get converted.”

“Men can like kittens too, Howie, it’s okay!” Kristy calls after me.

I head to the front door. Arthur comes along.

“She might let you off the hook about the kittens if you tell her about your true feelings for Mamma Mia,” he mutters, his voice low and full of laughter.

“Right,” I say. “If that gets out, I’ll hunt you down.”

He’s mighty cheery for a threatened man. “You know where to find me.”

“See you Monday.” I stifle the urge to linger. Mostly.

“Goodnight,” Arthur says pleasantly.

I step out into the cold and throw one last glance over my shoulder. He smiles at me, then closes the door. Driving home, I’m careful not to think. The
truth is, I’m feeling pretty damn okay right now. It’d be a shame to wreck it.

Chapter Eleven

“You were out late,” my mom observes the next morning. She’s sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and her laptop in front of her.

“Yeah,” I reply, getting a mug out of the cupboard and pouring myself coffee. “You weren’t worried I was out wreakin’ havoc, were you?”

“Please, kid, I have better things to do.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem, sweetheart.” She resumes typing away, but she abandons Gwendolyn and Captain Horny when I sit down next to her. She minimizes
the window, revealing her snazzy new desktop background: reindeer me, giving the camera the finger. Cute. “So, where were you? Out with Amber
and Mitch?”

I’m about to answer in the affirmative to this handy-dandy, Mom-provided, just-add-nodding lie, but then I realize it’s not the greatest idea. My mom
happens to see Amber and Mitch on a pretty consistent basis – hell, she’s got the pictures from yesterday already! One might go so far as to say
my mom and my best friends are

in cahoots

. If I go along with this and Amber and Mitch find out, they’re either going to reveal to my mom that I

wasn’t telling the truth, or they’re gonna demand to know what was going on. And why going over to a coworker’s house for dinner is worth lying
about.

So I tell the truth. More or less. “I went over to Kristy’s, actually.”

“You did?” My mom sounds surprised. “I thought she had a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, I killed him. They’re probably going to need you to, like, testify at some trial? I don’t know, I didn’t really get the details. You might want to
keep your schedule free. Also, I’m arrested.”

“Oh, sweetie, you could never kill anyone.”

“No, Mom, for real. I am so serious.”

“So am I. They’d beat you down, honeybun.”

“Man, you are all about the supportive parenting this morning.”

“Sorry,” she apologizes, but her eyes are dancing. “I think Gwendolyn might be turning me saucy.”

“Blech, ‘nuff of that,” I say, sticking my tongue out. “Anyway, it was just a friend thing. Boys and girls

can

just be friends, you know.”

As long as she doesn’t ask about boys and boys, I’m good.

“Well, that’s very nice. I’m glad you’re branching out a little bit. It sounds like this job is really working out for you.”

“Yeah,” I reply. “I like it.”

“I’m happy.” She smiles at me. Then she asks, “Is Arthur still living with Kristy?”

Curse my tendency to bring home entertaining tales of Arthur Kraft the Second, non-fist bumper and mad boss man. I should’ve known it’d come
around to bite me in the ass.

“Um, yeah,” I say.

“Was he around?”

“Yeah, he was.” No biggie. It’s cool. “He made dinner for – us all, me and Kristy and her roommate. It was pretty decent.”

“So you two are warming up to each other?”

“We’re doing okay,” I answer. Mighty neutral. “I guess.”

“And he cooks?” my mom goes on, because she’s obviously got some kind of unhealthy fascination.

“Yep.” Simple stuff. One-syllable responses. We’re gonna get through this.

“Well?”

“Pretty well.” Three syllables, not ideal, but I’ll survive.

“Ooh.” She lifts her eyebrows, mischievous. “Maybe I should go after him. Do the cougar thing. We’d never have to order Chinese again.”

“Good luck with that, Mom.” I courteously don’t throw in

Already got it covered.

“Thanks, sweetie.”

“I like Chinese, by the way,” I throw in. For security’s sake.

When I go into work the next day, the front room’s empty. I can hear voices coming from the kitchen. Voices of the Kristy-and-Cora variety.

“I don’t know,” Kristy’s saying, bubbly and super-excited. “I came home, and they were standing reeeeeally close.”

Oh, shit, she’s talking about

Unless Nikki’s got some steamy new romance going on that Cora cares about for no discernible reason.

Or Arthur’s in the habit of bringing random dudes home.

… Arthur’s not in the habit of bringing random dudes home, is he?

“Howie left right after I got there, though,” Kristy continues. I feel a surge of – not relief, no sir, why would it be relief? “So I didn’t see much. I tried to
ask Arthur about it after, but all he said was—”

“You can get your ass in here, Nancy Drew,” Cora cuts in.

At a

really

inconvenient time, I gotta say.

Kristy looks over and spots me. “How

! How long have you been there?!”

“Oh, ya know,” I don’t-really-answer. Turning to Cora, I ask, “How did you know I was there?”

“Superpowers,” Cora replies dryly. “I can see through doors. Especially when people are leaning past them to look into the room.”

“That’s skills right there,” I tell her. “You should start wearing a cape.”

I sit down at the table, lean back in my chair. Real casual. “So. What were you guys talking about?”

“How ‘bout you tell us?” Cora retorts oh so sweetly. “Since you were listening and all.”

“I wasn’t really

listening

. I maybe heard some stuff, but it was just because I’ve got ears, so I couldn’t really help—”

Cora keeps on looking at me like I’m lamer than a herd of My Little Ponies breaking their legs on rainbows, but Kristy goes along with it. Bless her.
“I was just telling Cora about how you were over at my place with Arthur on Saturday night!”

“Oh,” I say. “Yeah, yeah, I was there.”

Do something with

that

, girly girls. I’m totally cool.

“Didja hit that?” Cora asks.

Kristy does this great gasp-giggle hybrid thing. “

ra!”

Thank God I dragged her out of

Old Yeller.

I’m pretty sure this girl shouldn’t even be let out in public. “

What

? No! Where the hell would you get that

idea?”

“I dunno,” Cora responds, twisting a strand of crazy hair around her finger. “I guess I was just hoping that you’d grow a pair after our little evening
together, sweetie pie.”

“Well, I didn’t,” I retort. Admittedly, without really thinking about it first.

Cora just about smirks her face off.

“Because I didn’t

need

to because I’ve already got a pair,” I finish. “But really, thanks for your concern.”

“What can I say? Men’s health issues really get me going.”

“It seemed to me like they just had dinner,” Kristy jumps in.

“Yes,” I say, pointing at her. “

Thank you

. That is what happened.”

“Did you at least make out a little?” Cora persists.

I glare at her. “What is

with you?”

“I’ve decided to live vicariously through you,” she replies, not even slightly discouraged. “Your sex life is my sex life. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Arthur seemed like he was in a really good mood for the rest of the night,” Kristy mercifully interjects. “I think he liked having you over.”

“Really?” I ask. Not that I care either way, but, well. You go over to somebody’s house, you want to hear that they had an okay time. It’s just common
decency.

“Yeah! He didn’t even start to look like he had a headache when we found

13 Going On 30

on TV and stayed up late so we could watch it to the

end. Oh my gosh, I am pretty sure I just want to

Jennifer Garner when I grow up. She’s so

radiant

, isn’t she?”

“Totally,” I say. It’s the least I can do, I figure. “Jennifer Garner, she’s awesome. I can’t think of a better person to aspire toward being.”

“Madam Curie,” Cora says. “Shakespeare. Jesus.”

“He didn’t, er, say anything about me, did he?” I add. Nonchalant. Just wonderin’. No big.

“Jesus?” Cora asks dryly.

“Not directly,” Kristy says, eyes sparkling. “But he did mention that—”

“Good morning,” Arthur says, coming into the kitchen. He seems pretty jaunty. Pretty step-springy.

“Would you look at that!” Cora exclaims. It’s like she’s doing a freakily accurate impression of Kristy. “My goodness, it’s almost time to open! And
nobody’s out front! We’d better fix that right away, huh, Kris?”

I think at first maybe Kristy will refuse to go along with such cruel, tactless shenanigans – or at least get insulted at being made fun of or something
– but all she does is link her arm through Cora’s. “Gosh, you’re right! Let’s go!”

They skip off giggling like a couple of lady lunatics, leaving Arthur and me to stare at each other. He quirks an eyebrow at me; I feel myself starting
to smile.

Then—

“Oh, by the way,” Cora says, stopping in the doorway and pulling Kristy to a halt along with her, “what are you guys doing on Friday night?”

Something in the way she says it makes it sound like we’d be doing something together, which is totally ridiculous and also, hey, FUCK YOU,
reddening cheeks,

I am your master now.

“Well,” Arthur begins, “I thought that I might—”

“Wrong,” Cora interrupts briskly. “You’re coming to see my play. All of you.”

“Rocky Horror?” Arthur frowns.

“Yep,” Cora replies, absolutely merciless. “Bring your fishnets.”

“I—”

“Don’t pretend you don’t have any.” And with that parting shot, she drags Kristy out front.

There’s a moment of silence.

“I don’t have fishnets,” Arthur says then.

“I know,” I reply. Because sure, he’s gay, but the whole ‘maybe you’re just girly’ lesson still shines fresh in my mind.

“Good,” he says, going for a mug in the cupboard. He’s halfway to chamomile heaven when he adds, throwing a glance back over at me, “I suspect
they’re trying to matchmake us.”

And, well,

duh

, but having it said out loud is a little unsettling.

It’s also sort of nice, though. Because, here’s the thing: this is a big deal. Inevitably a big deal. But Artie? He doesn’t really make it seem that way.
And that, I can appreciate.

So I just say, “Yeah, what’s that about?”

“Honestly, Kristy’s been at it for awhile.”

“Yikes,” I say.

“Yikes,” he agrees.

It gets quiet, but it’s not necessarily a bad kind of quiet. I grab a book on the table, only to discover it’s

A Little Princess

. Super cool. I pretend to

read the back cover, and I watch Arthur out of the corner of my eye. Oh yeah. Straight up spy skills. He opens the cupboard above the sink and pulls
out a mug, then goes over to the coffeepot and fills it up. Arthur plus coffee? What can it possibly mean?—

“Here,” he says, suddenly right next to me. “You’re a coffee drinker, right?”

“Um, yeah,” I say. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” he replies genially, heading back to the microwave.

I take a sip. It’s scalding and has a distinctly tarlike consistency. Ah, Cora. A lady who knows how to brew it right.

“Can you maybe pass me some—”

Arthur soundlessly hands me five sugar packets.

“Awesome. Thanks.”

I set to work pouring them in. He grabs his tea out of the microwave, then settles down in the chair next to me.

“This a favorite read of yours?” he asks, a perfect mockery of seriousness, and prods at

A Little Princess

lightly.

“Oh, yeah. I love the part where she’s a princess. And does all that … princess crap. And then, when the – dragon attacks— it really sucks for her,
because she’s so little, she fits right in his dragon mouth—”

“Nope,” Arthur says.

“Didn’t think so,” I say. “You a big—” I glance at the cover, “—Frances Hodgson Burnett fan?”

“I,” Arthur says, “grew up with a big sister. Who loved to force upon me the reading material of her choice.”

Oh, this knowledge has some potential. “Did she ever make you dress up in, like, tutus?”

“Not answering that,” Arthur replies crisply, and takes a sip of his tea. I chuckle.

There are a few moments of peaceful quiet.

“Thanks for dinner,” I say.

“Thanks for staying,” he replies.

“Oh, totally. You feed me, I will stay.”

He smiles. “Good to know.”

Whoa. Is it?

Do I want it to be?

Kind of.

I don’t really know what to say, and I think I can feel my ears turning red, a feat that should not be biologically possible. (Like, isn’t that so lame that
evolution should have knocked it out by now?) I rip open my remaining two sugar packets at the same time and dump ‘em in.

Arthur’s brow furrows. “Didn’t I give you--?”

“Five.”

“And you put in …”

“Five.”

“I didn’t mean for you to use all of them.”

“What can I say? I

live

to exceed your expectations.”

“Oh,” Arthur says, staring into the mug. “My God. That’s so ruinous.”

I lift the cup and give it a tantalizing little swirl. “You want a sip?”

“No. No, just – not … at all.”

“You sure?”

“So completely certain.”

“Come on, man. It’ll give you a little jolt. Wake you up.”

“And I will remain awake for the next three months. Say, haven’t you ever contemplated chamomile?”

“Yes, and the conclusion I came to was, ‘I’m not eighty.’”

“I think it may be time to reevaluate your stance—”

“ARTHUR! WHAT DOES IT MEAN WHEN THE CASH REGISTER SPITS THE TAPE AT YOU??” comes Kristy’s desperate cry from out front.

Arthur sighs. “I appear to be needed.”

“Go save ‘em, boss man.”

“Enjoy your sludge.” He stands up.

“Oh, I will. Count on it.”

“I SWEAR I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING DIFFERENT! BUT IT IS TOTALLY FREAKING OUT!”

“FUCK THIS MACHINE.”

“CORA, CALM DOWN, IT’S OKAY! ARTHUR!!”

Arthur takes a few steps toward the door. Then, so fast that I don’t even realize it’s happening ‘til it’s happening, he comes back over to me, grabs
my mug out of my hands (complete with some finger brushing I don’t totally un-notice), and takes a sip.

There’s a moment of solemn silence broken only by the distant sounds of Kristy and Cora hysterically battling the cash register.

“Yep,” he says at last. “Disgusting.”

Then he hands the cup back to me and hurries on out.

I stare after him, awed.

“Oh! That thing Arthur said!” Kristy exclaims out of nowhere that afternoon; we’re sitting in the knitting aisle restocking yarn.

“Oh, yeah,” I say, oh so subtle. “I forgot about that.”

“It wasn’t all that much,” Kristy continues, bouncing on her knees. “It never really is with Arthur. He didn’t even cry after he broke up with Patrick, and
they were together for two and a half years! And I know boys aren’t supposed to cry, but that is such a lie, sometimes they do! Like, I have totally
seen Reddy cry before, even though I don’t think I’m really supposed to tell anybody about it, so forget I said it. But it’s not like it makes me like him
less! I think it’s

so sweet

.” (Reddy’s her boyfriend’s name. Well, no, correction:

Clifford

is her boyfriend’s name, and everybody calls him Cliff –

except Kristy, who calls him Red, like, Clifford the Big Red Dog. And then, because Kristy’s the sort of person who likes to put ‘ee’ sounds on the
end of things to the point where it might be an actual speech impediment, he’s Reddy.) “And anyway, if Arthur needed to cry, I would have totally
held his hand and told him it was gonna be okay! But all he did was read

The Remains of the Day

over and over, which is apparently about a sad

butler? He told me all about it. After I asked. A couple of times. So anyway! That’s how Arthur shows his emotions. He doesn’t. He reads books
instead. So when he does even a little thing, it means a lot.”

“And … what’d he say?” I don’t want to seem eager. I’m

not

eager. Just … curious. Not, like, cat-death-curious. A healthy amount of curious.

George-curious.

“After you left, I was like, ‘You seem happy,’” Kristy reports, her eyes bright. “And he was like, ‘Yeah. It was a nice night.’”

Huh,

I think.

I dawdle after work, take awhile to get my coat on. I step out into the parking lot while Arthur’s still locking up, but I don’t get into my car yet. That’s
saying a lot, just so you know: it’s reached new levels of freezing out here. After what seems like roughly twelve gazillion frozen eons – like, maybe
we squeeze in a new ice age – Arthur turns away from the front door and starts over to his car.

“Hey,” I say, sauntering over. Okay, maybe it doesn’t count as sauntering if you slip on the ice a little. But whatever. I’m totally cool. I don’t fall or
anything. Barely noticeable.

“Whoa,” Arthur says, holding out a steadying hand. His fingers brush my shoulder. “You okay?” He smiles at me, this small, easy smile, and even
though we’re drenched in the dull orange light from the lampposts, the kind of light that’s just bright enough to turn everything dingy and ugly, he still
looks so good to me.

Damn it.

And so I ask. “Will you do something for me?”

“Yes?”

“Freak out about something.”

He stares at me. “What?”

“Freak out about something. Anything. Just – I, okay, I would appreciate it if you’d just show me that you can. Like, hey, how about that kitten angel
poster?

That

is some freaky nonsense. No one should be forced to live with that! Am I right??”

“I’m not really upset about it,” Arthur replies, with that typical slight frown of his. He has a nice frown. “It

Kristy’s house, and I am imposing upon her

hospitality. Complaining about her choice in wall decor seems unfair.”

“Of course,” I mutter.

I start to turn around. What’s the point in trying to force the impossible, and all that.

“Howie?” Arthur says.

“What?”

“Why do you want me to freak out?” He asks it sort of gently, which makes it worse somehow.

“Because you make me freak out all the time.” Maybe I’m not so totally chill, but whatever, whatever, I’m sick of it. “Like, honestly, I’m pretty sure I’ve
started doing it professionally. Maybe you should start considering paying me extra. ‘Cause seriously, dude, when it comes to freaking out about
you, I am the master. I am friggin’ incomparable, I got mad skills all over the place. And I don’t think this is exactly mutual freaking out, like, I don’t get
the sense that I make you want to wither and die and explode. And that’s okay. That’s cool. I’m kind of going through a thing here that you probably
went through a long time ago, unless you didn’t go through it at all because you’re just all together, like, you popped out of the womb, all, ‘Thanks for
squeezing me out, Mom; no more pussy for me.’”

“I would never say ‘pussy’ to my mother.”

I glare at him. I think I’m out of words.

“And that was a terrible response,” Arthur adds, sighing slightly.

“No, that’s cool,” I say. I kind of feel like shit. “I’m just … going completely friggin’ nuts all over the place, it’s okay, I’m getting used to it. ’Night, man.
See you tomorrow.”

I take three steps, and then I get—

“I hate going to the dentist.”

I stop. “Everybody hates going to the dentist.”

“I suppose so,” he agrees, sounding discouraged.

It’s nice that he tried.

I take another step away.

And then, with renewed fervor: “But I

hate

going to the dentist. I really do. I find it degrading and filthy and … and frankly a bit sickening.”

All right, fine. I’m intrigued. I turn around.

“How is it filthy?” I ask. “They’re cleaning your teeth.”

“Yes, yes, they’re cleaning your teeth,” he says dismissively. “That doesn’t mean it isn’t terrible. It is. I find it terrible.”

I smile a little. “Okay.”

“They poke at you,” he continues, making a tiny, spastic hand gesture, “with those terrible little instruments – it’s like something you’d find in some
sort of torture chamber. I’m fairly convinced it’s inhumane. And then the sound – ughh, the

sound

of the metal against your teeth, like fingernails on a

blackboard but worse, and your

gums

! Surely they must understand that it’s unpleasant to get poked in the gums by a sharp metal object, but that

certainly doesn’t stop them, does it?” By God, he’s into it. It’s stunning.

“Sure doesn’t,” I agree, grinning now.

“Not to mention that they always talk to you as they’re doing it. And they don’t even have the decency to make it a one-sided conversation – they
always ask you questions! Horribly insensitive, if you ask me! It’s not as though you’re in the position to answer. It’s inevitable you’ll sound like an
idiot if you do. And the toothpaste is gritty and disgusting, and the toothbrush – the horrible electric toothbrush, just the sound of it, that mechanical

hiss

. Right there, against your teeth. The way it feels. It’s deplorable, all of it. You’re left completely stripped of your dignity, spitting all over yourself

and wearing a

paper bib

, for God’s sake. You might as well be an

infant

– you’re just, just composed of drool and the inability to speak. And then,

you can’t even eat for a half hour afterward. I

hate

that.”

He finishes, breath coming out in puffs, looking sort of surprised at himself for spewing out so much bitterness.

It’s kinda sweet.

I don’t stop to think, but I don’t make the effort not to think either. I just step forward, getting rid of the distance between us, and I kiss him on the
cheek. The slightest beginnings of stubble tickle against my mouth. That should weird me out. It doesn’t. His face is cold, but so are my lips, so it’s
not like it makes any difference.

After a few seconds, he turns his face to meet mine, and we kiss. It’s not much like the first time – it’s not all desperate and hungry, not exactly mind-
blowing stuff, but it’s calm. Serene, sort of. It feels like being where you’re supposed to be.

When we pull apart, he smiles, but he’s got this slightly wary look to him, too, like he’s expecting me to lose it.

I stay put, and I smile back.

“That chapstick that you’re wearing,” Arthur says after a few seconds, his smile broadening, “is that pink banana?”

“Fuck you,” I reply, but I laugh. This one, he can be funny when he wants to be, the sneaky bastard.

He laughs too, this wonderful warm sound. “Goodnight, Howie.”

“’Night,” I say, and it’s weird to hear me sounding, I dunno. Happy, I guess.

Chapter Twelve

“You know,” Kristy says the next morning, out of nowhere (the kind of nowhere, in case you’re curious, where she’s been staring at me for the past
ten minutes, all sly and sneaky and – bless her blonde, bouncy heart – super-friggin’-obvious), “someone was talking to me about you yesterday.”

She waits, mighty pleased with herself. Like I’m immediately going to start falling all over myself, begging to know exactly

who!

this mysterious

someone is and

why!

they were talking about me and

what!

it was they said.

Real cute, Kris. Real tricky. Guess what? I’m not fallin’ for it.

Anyway, it’s obvious she means Arthur.

… Hey, she means

Arthur

“Oh yeah?” I am so fucking casual in this moment. Not, like, desperate, or wild with curiosity, or anything like that. Some people might be eager to
hear what gets said about them after they happen to kiss somebody by quasi-accident. Not me. I’m cool. I’m like thirty-two flippin’ degrees of cool.
I’m

freezing

. Ice motherfuckin’ ice, baby. “What’d they say?”

“That you’re cute,” Kristy informs me, all playful, dragging her words out.

Oh, jeez. He thinks I’m cute. Am I cute? I dunno, I guess the whole messy-hair thing could lend me a certain disheveled charm, but cute? Full-scale
cute, for real? He should have told that to some of the girls in high school, because they sure as hell needed to have that little knowledge bomb
dropped on ‘em. And

how

cute are we talking, exactly?

“—aaand that she’d really like to hang out with you sometime.”

All lame-ass pondering of the word ‘cute’ immediately fizzles and dies.

“She?” I repeat without thinking about it. Then I really wanna just kick myself or something, because as far as the whole rest of the world knows? I’m
straight! And, you know, as far as

know, I’m straight, too. I’m just having a slight man-digging episode.

I’m not the only one who sucks at preserving the illusion (or, not illusion, but …

whatever

) of my heterosexuality, though. Kristy actually snaps her

fingers and says, “Darnit!”

So she wanted me to think it was Arthur. Jesus Christ. I’m starting to feel like Artie and I are the ‘rents in the world’s gayest

Parent Trap

, and Kristy

and Cora are twins. Really fraternal twins.

“Who’s this she?” I ask, because wow, is it subject-changin’ time.

“Nikki,” Kristy reports.

My mind immediately drifts back to her – or what I can remember of her, which, honestly, isn’t a lot. I dunno, my brain was a lot of places that night,
but a focusing-on-Kristy’s-roommate place wasn’t really one of them. I vaguely remember reddish-blonde hair, but in terms of a face? Nope. I’m
fairly certain that she was hot, though. Almost-but-not-quite Kristy hot.

An almost-but-not-quite-Kristy-hot girl thinks

I’m

cute?

It might be like an actual Christmas miracle.

“If you’re interested, I can give you her number,” Kristy continues, sounding real cheery. “She’d be really happy to hear from you.”

“Oh,” I say.

And that’s all I can really come up with at the moment.

It’s just – this, this right here is a weird, unforeseen turn of events. Because I think … Jesus, I think it

worked

. I got a job at an arts and crafts store.

Now, thanks to a series of events that occurred

solely because

I got aforementioned job at aforementioned arts and crafts store, a hot girl is

interested. In

Wow.

The only thing I’m sure of in this moment – like, the only thing about which I am really for real concretely certain – is that Amber is going to get one
hell of an “In your

face

, woman” the next time I see her. Maybe I’ll even spin something about how if Alexander Graham Bell could be here on this

momentous occasion, he’d be proud. Glad to see that a fellow bold imaginer, a taker of risks, a planner of strange and glorious plans has
triumphed at last. Telephone; cleverly concocted scheme resulting in the getting of mucho action … It’s guys like us who change the world.

But then, well, Nikki, Nikki herself, the actual hot girl in question—

I think about Arthur. Not on purpose, or anything; all of a sudden he’s just there in my head. It still seems really vivid, the way he looked last night
standing there in the parking lot, drenched in shitty light. Smiling at me.

Kristy’s looking at me expectantly. Knowingly.

“Uh—” I begin.

“Hey.” Arthur comes in, showing off his crazy good timing. When he meets my eye, something about his face lights up a little. I don’t hate that. “Can I
talk to you for a few minutes?”

“Yeah,” I reply, “totally. Um.” I turn to Kristy. “I’ll get back to you on that.”

“Okay.” She’s practically floating on air just looking at the two of us. She’s like a mom who wants to snap our picture together before we take off for
the school dance.

“What were you two talking about?” Arthur asks as we head back to the kitchen.

And, well, jeez, should Kristy’s roommate pining after me (or, fine, being slightly interested) be the sort of thing I discuss with my man Artie here?

Not, like,

-my man. That was fully sarcastic.

“Why?”

“You look thoughtful.”

“I’m not thoughtful,” I protest at once. Then I realize that this is a dumbass answer, and Artie, he probably doesn’t waste a whole lot of his time on
dumbasses. He seems like more of a smartass kind of guy. “I mean,” I quickly correct, “no more so than usual. Like, I do have thoughts, but it’s not
like they’re gonna erect a sculpture of me anytime soon.”

Oh, shit. Freudian word choice attack. Is it even possible to erect a sculpture? Is that what you do with sculptures? Why are my fuckin’ brain and my
fuckin’ mouth locked in this perpetual

duel

? Or maybe they’re working together, because honestly, at this point, I don’t even know which one to

blame.

Fortunately, Arthur doesn’t seem to think I’m verbally sexually harassing him or whatever. “Okay,” he says easily.

Then I realize that maybe, as far as witticisms go, that could very well have been way too vague. Like, there are lots of sculptures.

“I meant, like, The Thinker,” I throw in, and strike a thoughtful fist-to-chin pose. Because I am a moron.

“Yeah, I got it,” Arthur replies. He doesn’t seem too repulsed by my lameness, though. In fact, he’s smiling a little, like he might even be charmed.

“Cool,” I say, pleased. Then, because I figure he’s earned himself an explanation (and maybe because I’m a little curious about his reaction)—
“Kristy’s roommate thinks I’m cute. Is what we were talking about.”

“I see.”

“Kristy said so, anyway,” I add, because I don’t want it to sound like I’m bragging.

“That’s nice,” Arthur replies. He’s all cool and inscrutable. It’s really friggin’ frustrating. “She’s very pretty.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “Yeah, she is.” Is he supposed to seem this chill with this? Isn’t he supposed to … react a little more? I mean, it’s not like I want him
to go into some jealous frenzy, or anything. Because that would be unnecessary. But, I dunno. Something would be nice. A slightly worried eye
twitch, maybe. Doesn’t seem like too much to ask. “And how are you … this morning?”

“I’m very well,” he replies. He sounds all sincere and jaunty.

“That’s cool. Grammatically correct, too.”

“I do my best.” We step into the kitchen. He shuts the door behind us. Maybe it gets my heart thumping a little harder. It’s just, hey there, privacy.

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you. About us.”

“Us.” Whoa. We’re an us now? Does kissing twice equal ushood? I try to decide whether I hate it. “Okay, sure.”

He sits down at the table. So do I. For awhile, we just stare at each other in silence; my nerves get more and more on edge with every second that
passes, but at the same time, I can’t tell if it’s necessarily

bad

. Just charged. Finally, he asks, “What’s going on, exactly?”

“I don’t know,” I reply. I can’t help laughing a little, because ain’t that the question of the hour? But he just keeps on looking at me, like I’ll magically
come up with something better than that. Not frickin’ likely, bro. “Honestly, tales of dentistry just tend to get me going,” I toss in. Take

that

, silence.

“Va-va-voom.”

He stops looking so serious; smirks a little. “Oh really?”

“Yeah, totally. Little Shop of Horrors? Forget about it. I’m gone.”

“I don’t really know what that is.”

“Of course you don’t.” I kick his foot under the table. “Weirdo.”

Somehow, my little act of violence turns into my foot resting against his. Neither of us moves away.

“What are we doing here, Howie?” Arthur asks at last. He doesn’t sound accusatory or anything – just like he really wants to know. Gotta say, I am
so mighty acquainted with that feeling.

That doesn’t mean I know how to answer.

For a second, I think about getting up and walking out – like, claiming I have super-hearing, that I can detect a serious puff paint emergency going
on out front, that I can’t in good conscience leave Kristy to deal with it all on her own. But, damn it, he keeps on

looking

at me in this

way

with his

eyes

, and I just … I don’t want to bail on him. I owe him more than bailing.

And so I move my foot back into the safe, non-Arthur-touching zone, and I force myself to start talking. “I … have no idea. I think I just like specialize
in confusing myself lately. I’ve got no friggin’ clue what …” Yeah, this is going about as well as I expected. “You know what, I’m figuring things out.
Let’s put it like that.”

“All right.” Well, gee, thanks for that vagueness.

“How ‘bout you?” I ask, not really wanting to be the only one forced into special confessions time.

“I just got out of a two and a half year relationship a month ago,” Arthur replies, “and am now living with two teenage girls who like to have Drew
Barrymore movie nights.”

“So technically, we could both plead insanity on this one.”

“I think so, yes.”

I can’t quite figure out whether pleading insanity means calling it quits. If it does, then I’m not sure I’m such a fan. Sure, it’d be the smart thing to do –
no one could ever know about it, and he’s my goddamn boss, and also, ya know, minor detail, he’s a

dude

, he’s a dude, he’s a dude.

Really, all the whole being-with-Arthur thing has going on for it is that I’ve never really felt this good about anybody before.

“I don’t know,” I say again. Real fucking helpful. “I really just … don’t.”

“Okay,” he says. After a few seconds, he sighs. We keep on sitting, keep on saying nothing.

I start to wonder what ‘okay’ means. Does okay mean done? This whole thing, is it done now?

All of a sudden, that just seems like the most incredible fucking waste. I didn’t – I dunno, get kissed by a guy and have my whole life turned upside
down just so it could all be

nothing

. Get labeled the side effects of douchey Patrick and Drew Barrymore.

And so, not even feeling like me, I decide to do something about it. I look down at the tabletop, and I bust out all the bravery I’ve got, plus more that I
definitely

don’t

got, and I say, “I like you, though.”

It’s quiet for a few searing, excruciating seconds.

“You do?” he says then.

“Of that I am sure,” I reply, real gravely. I’m not sure if it’s jokey seriousness or the real deal. Artie, he doesn’t help me out at all – he just keeps
sitting there, staring at me, saying exactly nothing. It’s the kind of thing that’s gonna make a guy feel nervous, and eventually, I add, “Unless you don’t
like me, in which case, I’m just bullshitting you—”

“Nikki has good taste.”

I don’t even really know what to do with

that

completely irrelevant little gem. “In what, music?”

“Cute guys,” he says, all deliberately.

Ohhhhhh.

Well. Okay. I can be down with that.

“Are you flirting with me?” I ask. I’m pretty sure he is, but hey, that doesn’t mean I can’t rub it in.

“Maybe a little,” he replies, eyes all slyly glinting.

“That,” I say, “is really unprofessional.”

“Of course,” he agrees. He holds up one hand, this ‘my apologies’ gesture. I’d almost think he was serious if it weren’t for the sly eyes and the way
the corner of his mouth is just barely twitching. “I’ll back off accordingly.”

“No,” I say, a little softer than I mean to. “Keep doin’ what you’re doin’.”

I watch him start to smile as the words sink in. Then he leans in and puts his hands on my face and kisses me. I kiss him back, which is definitely
gay. And wouldn’t you know, at the moment, I don’t even fucking care.

“You know,” I tell Kristy when I go back out, “I’m not so sure getting involved with Nikki is the best idea.”

“Really?” she asks, in the most profoundly unconvincing imitation of shock I’ve ever seen. “Why not?”

Luckily, I’ve got a nice, practical explanation all worked out. “It’s just … you and I work together, and she’s your best friend, and it’d maybe be
awkward if I, ya know, got with her or whatever, and then it didn’t work out, but she might have to come in here sometime to see you—” (Number of
times that Nikki has been in here to see Kristy, just for your information: zero. That part, let’s ignore it.) “—and then

I’d

be here, and it’d be weird,

and I think it would really be better if we just didn’t let things … get weird. With her. And me. Even though,” I throw in generously, “she’s totally hot.”

“Well,” Kristy says, her eyes starting to go into sparkle overdrive, “that’s too bad.”

“It’s a real shame,” I courteously agree.

“But I totally understand,” she continues, starting to work a little bit of bouncing in now, “and I’m sure Nikki will too!”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I say pleasantly.

“Oh, eeee,

Howie

!” Aaaand she throws herself on me. “I’m so

happy

for you.”

Okay, whoa, this wasn’t part of the plan. “Because I won’t date your roommate?”

“

Yes

!” she squeals. “You and Arthur and eeeeee!”

“Whoa, wait, I don’t really know what you’re—”

“I just meant that you’re

such

a courteous employee, and Arthur should be happy that he hired you.” She pulls away and looks at me, mischievous

as hell. In a harmless, Disney princess kind of way. “Why? What did you think I meant?”

Good girl

, I think. “Exactly that, KQ. Exactly that.”

She beams and kisses me on the cheek.

It’s a good week. I’m not gonna lie.

On Friday, as ordered, Arthur and Kristy and I make plans to go see Cora in Rocky Horror. I feel bad for a couple seconds climbing into the back
seat of Arthur’s car, because I told Amber about the Rocky Horror thing ages ago, and she’d immediately insisted we go. But, hey, they’re doing
another performance tomorrow night. She and I will just go to that one, no big. She’ll never even have to know about me going tonight. This, this is
just supposed to be a coworkers thing. It’d be weird to mix Amber with … Kristy.

So I text Amber about seeing the play tomorrow night, trying not to think about the fact that Dennis comes home on Monday, that I should probably
be here for her right now. I push that gem of a thought into the back of my brain, and then I take off with Kristy and Arthur. We stop at the flower shop
first, because Kristy insists we have them at the ready to bestow upon our little actress. After some contemplation, we finally settle on a bouquet
that’s violently orange and pointy and a little scary-looking. Just seems right.

Performance space isn’t amply available around here, so they’re putting on the show in the high school cafeteria. And I dunno, man, it just seems
like there’s something not quite right about watching this festival of cross-dressing extraterrestrial debauchery in the same place where I used to
copy Amber’s math homework while scarfing down soggy ham sandwiches.

But a festival of cross-dressing extraterrestrial debauchery it is: we step inside to find a bunch of tables set up around the room, and, against the far
wall, a makeshift stage. In terms of being the old room that I once so knew and … lunched in, there’s not much that’s similar: the lights are turned
down low, and there must be some dry ice at work, because the whole place has some creepy fog going on. An instrumental version of

The Time

Warp

is pulsing away in the air. A couple of people (guys? Girls? Guys who do a great job of looking like girls?) in feather boas and fishnets are

mulling around, carrying trays with shot glasses on them. I get the sense that I should probably be afraid.

It doesn’t take long for one of them to descend on us. It’s a guy – or at least, that’s what the facial hair wants us to think, no matter how violently the
eyeshadow tries to argue otherwise.

“Wow, you can walk in heels better than me!” Kristy exclaims, totally undaunted. “Ooh, is this juice?”

“It’s Dr. Frank-N-Furter’s Intergalactic Sexy Space Juice,” Makeup Man reports. He’s looking at Kristy in this way I don’t like. Garters or no garters,
he’s man enough to want to tap that. And, sure, on the surface it might seem a tad hypocritical, having a bit of a Want To Tap That history myself,
but I’m still feelin’ the urge to fight for her honor or bite my thumb at him or something. Besides, just between you and me, I’m starting to wonder if
my Want To Tap That history counts.

“Is there alcohol in it?” she asks, wrinkling her nose a little.

“It’s Dr. Frank-N-Furter’s Intergalactic Sexy Space Juice,” he repeats indignantly.

Kristy blinks up at him innocently.

“… Yeah,” he finally relents. “There’s alcohol in it.”

“Eep, too bad!” And then, like she’s worried about hurting his feelings: “I’m sure it’s very good.”

“You wanna try some and find out?” He leans in a little closer, and somehow, that plus the low lighting plus the smoke makes all of this feel weird
and sort of gross, like the cafeteria’s got this double life as a creepy opium orgy den.

Kristy takes a few steps backwards for his step forward and chirps, “I’m nineteen.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t.” Oh, I am so gonna take this sonuvabitch on. My thumbs, they’re just itching to be bitten. (Okay, fine, I don’t really know the
specifics of the whole ‘I bite my thumb at you, sir’ deal.)

Kristy gives him this ‘You’re very sweet, but well now

really

’ look.

“But hey!” she adds on a stroke of inspiration, sliding one of her arms through mine and the other through Arthur’s. “They can try it!”

Which gets him to turn on us.

Swell.

“Space juice, fellas?” He wiggles the tray, like that’s somehow tantalizing.

“Sure,” I say, grabbing a few just to shake him off. Kristy beams at me. Meanwhile, some more sorry bastards come in, and our humble drink-server
leaves to harass them.

“Cheers,” I deadpan, handing one of the shot glasses to Arthur. He squints down into it, skeptical. I can’t really blame him. It’s a pretty suspicious
shade of highlighter-yellow.

“You know,” he finally concludes, “I suspect I’d regret drinking this.”

“Oh, come on,” I urge. “Spirit of the evening.”

He makes a face, but finally nods. Bwahaha, triumph. I down the shot. My taste buds, throat, and lungs immediately threaten to disown me. I’m pretty
sure I taste some bleach in there, and that’s one of the more mild ingredients. There might also be toxic piss. A little lemon. All of a sudden, I really
remember why I’m not so into the whole getting-wasted thing. Then I forget it, because conscious thought is for people lucky enough not to have just
imbibed bleach and toxic piss.

As for Arthur:

“I thought you were going to drink it, too,” I rasp, staring in dismay at his shot glass.

“I did,” he replies, looking grossed out enough that I believe him. “That was horrifying.”

“It’s still in the glass.”

“I took a sip.”

“A sip? You took a sip of a shot?”

“A small sip was sufficient.”

“Laaaaame.” I prod at the glass with my finger. “Finish it off.”

“No.”

“Finish it.”

“Are you trying to get me to succumb to peer pressure?”

“You know, this, right here, this whole shot-sipping deal, it’s a real pansy-ass thing to do.”

“Says the man who is openly weeping in public.”

“My eyes are watering,” I correct (and throw a little bit of furious blinking in there too, even though it’s totally unnecessary because I am

not

weeping). “There’s a difference.”

“Wait.” Arthur starts to rummage around in his coat pocket. “I think I might have a tissue here somewhere, if you need to wipe your tears away—”

“Are you sure it’s not a handkerchief, Gramps?”

“I …” He dwindles off, and I follow his gaze to Kristy. She’s staring at us with jubilant adoration just, like, shooting out of her eyeballs and bursting
into tiny heart-shaped fireworks. Her hands are actually clasped in joy

“What?”

“Yeah,” I agree, “what?”

“You guys are so

cute

!” she squeals. I take a step back from Arthur by default and she quickly, oh-so-unconvincingly adds, “As friends.”

“Move on, Kristy,” Arthur instructs, smiling a little.

Fortunately, we get help in this department, because at that very moment, a guy’s voice calls out, “Kristy!”

We all turn around to see Cliff sitting at one of the tables, looking like he’s trying to somehow collapse in on himself.

“Oh!” Kristy bounces over to him. “Hey you, you’re here already!”

“Yeah,” Cliff replies, looking numbed by the horrors he has seen. “I’ve been waiting. For like ten minutes. Alone. Here.”

“It’s

spooky

, isn’t it?” Kristy beams.

She kisses him hello as she sits down next to him, and he pulls her into a hug. Or maybe it’s just desperate, traumatized clinging. Either way,
there’s something really nice about it. To just be able to, I dunno, be with someone, and have it be that easy. To not have to even think about who

sees.

But, whatever, I drank Dr. Frank-N-Furter’s nasty-ass space juice, I’m done with suffering for the night. No angsty thoughts.

“Cute?” I mutter instead, going back to Kristy’s little outburst. “We’re not cute, are we?”

“Lord, no,” Arthur murmurs. “That would be so unmanly.”

I get the sense I’m being made fun of.

“Speaking of unmanly,” I say, not about to get bested in banter, “you gonna be a man and finish your space juice, boss?”

“Under no circumstances,” Arthur replies crisply. “You want to do the honors?” he adds, holding it out to me.

And, well, I’m not really keen on experiencing round two of all-consuming liquid torture, but he’s smirking at me a little bit in this way I don’t undig,
and, hell, why not?

Our fingers fumble into each other as I take the glass, and neither of us really rushes to change that. Once he’s pulled his hand back, I take a deep
breath (in a totally cool way, in the way of a man who has drunk many a man under the table), and I down the once-sipped shot.

“See,” I announce triumphantly, in between all the agony, “

that’s

how it’s done.”

“Enlightening,” Arthur remarks, laughing.

We sink into a nice silence for a few seconds, but that just gives way to instrumental Time Warps and some nearby person howling out “Holy

shit

!”

after getting space-juiced. Instinctively, I find myself looking over to the far corner of the room, where Amber and I used to sit pretty much daily.
“Does it seem, like, really weird to you that they’re serving alcohol in the high school cafeteria?”

“Tremendously.”

We sit down. Kristy and Cliff are caught up in conversation. It doesn’t sound like profound stuff; in fact, from what I can tell, he’s describing the
sandwich he had for lunch. But they seem happy, and I feel like Artie and I don’t exactly have the right to pop their happy bubble.

“I feel like I should still be in here,” I say after a little while. “Like, sometimes I still feel like graduation never really happened. Like it was a mistake or
a joke or something. And I should still just be … here. I don’t feel any older or whatever.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Yeah?” I kinda like the idea. He’s all grown up and together, but he’s still stuck here with me. We’re just a couple of mediocre tragedies, like, why
choose life in the world when you can be stuck in the sorry-ass town you grew up in until the end of your days, right? A friggin’ match made in
heaven if there ever was one. No wonder we’ve been driven to making out in the supply closet.

Not that I’m gonna hate on making out in the supply closet.

That just seems whiny.

“Yeah,” he agrees with a sigh. After a couple of seconds pass, he amends, “Well, the spirit of it, anyway. I usually had lunch in the music room.”

“Of course you did.” I wait a couple of seconds, then cough a “nerd!” into my fist.

“Charming.”

“I am,” I agree, cracking a grin. “I am one charming son of a bitch.”

“Oh,” he says, “utterly.”

His hand finds mine under the table, and I let him wrap my fingers up in his, I’m happy to do it. I’m still not quite used to it, having someone touch you
because they want to touch you.

I am all for supporting Cora and everything, but all of a sudden, man, do I want to be somewhere that’s else. Somewhere where there’s him, and
there’s me, and that’s it.

I drag my thumb slowly over the back of his palm, just liking the feel of my skin against his. He’s looking at me in a way that maybe wouldn’t pass for
professional coworkerly admiration, but it’s dark in here and now Kristy’s telling Cliff about some really groundbreaking article she read in Teen
Magazine and, wonder of mightiest wonders, he’s actually managing to look interested, so I figure it’s okay. Arthur can keep on looking. It’s a lot of
things, the look: calm and relaxed and glad, with a hearty dash of ‘If we were anywhere else I’d be much less all the way over here.’ Which, word.

It’s a good moment.

And then I hear it: a voice, a girl’s voice. One that’s familiar, but distantly so. One that really fucking clinches the sense that I’ve never left this place,
that I’m still seventeen, that for all eternity I will be that exact person, shitty skin and shitty flirting skills and shit, shit, shit,

why

I stop feeling Arthur’s fingers or liking his eyes on me, because everything that’s not her plummets into absolute insignificance. Goodbye
surrounding chatter, goodbye Time Warp. It’s been real, it’s been swell, but now there’s nothing except the remembered scent of tequila-tinged
vomit and perfume and a feeling that’s a whole lot like dying spreading from the middle of me to the rest of my body because she’s

here,

it’s her.

It’s Heather Grimsby.

I mean, okay, it’s not like this is the first time our paths have crossed since that fateful prom night. In this town? Not gonna happen. I’ve even seen
her a few times since I started working at Artie Kraft’s – being next-door business neighbors and all – but that was different. That was, like,
pretending not to see each other as we were both walking to our cars. That’s not being trapped for hours on end in the same smoky, cramped
cesspool, surrounded by booze and sex – which, frankly, are two things I never want to have to associate with Heather fucking Grimsby ever a-
fucking-gain.

I watch her and feel sick, just sick. Even in the dark, her straight brown hair is shiny – this profound, supernatural kind of shiny. It swishes back and
forth with her every movement, like she’s trained it to do that, like she knows it has weird, enthralling powers, and each strand is this tiny serpent
that exists to beckon helpless unwitting men forward, drawing them into doom. She’s Medusa. The back of her head is just about the worst thing I’ve
ever seen.

“Howie?” asks Arthur, who I only kind of remember at the moment. “Are you all right?”

“Huh?”

“You seem distracted.”

“No.” Damn it, I can’t look away from her hair. She’s sitting at the table right in front of ours with a couple of other girls from her high school posse.
She’s there. She’s all chill. She’s the

lady devil

And then that head – that dreaded, shiny-haired head – turns.

And she’s looking at me.

I yank my hand out of Arthur’s so fast I think I scratch him. He twitches, startled, but that can’t exactly be my priority right now. My eyes are locked on
the destroyer of my teenage life. Even Artie’s gotta take a back seat to that one.

She gives me that

look

, the look that hasn’t changed a single bit even though it’s not like she can still boast being the student council vice-president

and the hottest cheerleader. (Not super-impressive; our cheerleaders weren’t all that hot, on the whole.) She does

hair

, for Christ’s sake. Who the

hell’s that going to impress?

Heather Grimsby looks at me like someone appointed her queen of the world and we all just missed the memo. Like of course you’re not on the
same level as her, but you might do something to amuse her with your hilarious uncoolness, so she’ll keep paying attention to you. For now.

There was a two-week period in my frenzied youth where I really dug that look – it felt like a challenge. Every time I could get her to laugh, or I stuck
my tongue in her mouth successfully, it was a momentous victory. The look was momentarily vanquished. She might be all queenly, but guess who
was king? Yeah, that’s right.

I dunno. I guess I did sort of like her for awhile (

a girlfriend at last!

), but I never even remember that part. I’m too busy being eaten up with horrible

stomach-twisting soul-eating dread.

“Hey, Howie,” she says. She’s got this low, rolling voice, where all of her words are a little too slow. Like she doesn’t quite care enough to pay
attention to what she’s saying.

My heart starts punching itself in its little heart face.

“Heather,” I answer. “’Sup.”

She does this not-quite-laugh thing, then turns back around.

Swish swish swish

goes the hair.

Heather. ‘Sup. Heather. ‘Sup.

I can feel myself deteriorating into self-loathing – and not your normal, run-of-the-mill self-loathing, either. Oh, hell no. This is acute, all-consuming
self-loathing. I’d forgotten I could loathe myself to

this

degree, and she’s still just

sitting

there, all

there

and

sitting

, shouldn’t she get struck by a

lightning bolt in some form of divine justice right now? I’m just saying, it’d be nice if you’d get on that,

God

—

“Howie, are you okay?” Now I’ve got Kristy’s attention.

“I’m great,” I say. “So very great.”

She doesn’t even have the decency to pretend to believe my madly obvious lie. I struggle to remember why I find her so nice. “You look like you’re
going to be sick.”

“That would be the space juice, little lady,” I say, the perfect excuse dawning on me. Bless you, sketchy against-the-rules alcohol-serving operation.
“

You

didn’t taste it. You can’t even imagine. I think there might have been nail polish remover in there. Maybe some gasoline.”

Kristy starts to look horrified, and Arthur hastens to assure her, “I don’t think there was gasoline.”

Me, I’m still stuck on the space juice. The space juice suddenly seems like juuuust what I need.

And then, like a here-ya-go-man from God, Mr. Space Juice walks right past our table. I would have preferred a lightning bolt striking Heather
Grimsby down, down, down, but this’ll work too. At this moment in time, I ain’t picky.

As Mr. Space Juice comes to a stop near us with a creepyish eyebrow raise and a “More?”, Arthur waves a hand and starts, “No thank you—”

Not so fast, buddy.

“Absolutely,” I cut in. Arthur gives me a look that is decidedly wtf-esque in nature. I reach forward and snatch three shots off the tray. Three seems
good. To start.

“Ooh,” the server says, his creepy eyebrows creepstering it up all over the place. “Go all crazy, why don’t you?”

Don’t mind if I do, Tights McGee. Don’t mind if I motherfuckin’ do.

Chapter Thirteen

You know what’s, like,

really freakin’ wild

when you’ve had many a shot of Dr. Frank-N-Furter’s space juice? The Rocky Horror motherfuckin’ Show,

man. I can’t decide if it’s scary or awesome. Then, right around the time that Frankie reveals his hot hunky sex slave creation, who’s only wearing
like this gold speedo,

what

, I realize – hey,

hey

, maybe scary and awesome are

the same thing

. You know what else is scary

and

awesome?

Being like, ‘Hey, I think I might have a crush on a

guy

.’ Or, like, rollercoasters.

Rollercoasters

!! And, hey, that movie Labyrinth! Bowie – David

fucking Bowie, there is one

scary awesome

motherfucker! Fuck, man, scary and awesome, they

are

the same thing, time and time again!

There should be a word. A whole new word for this.

“Aaaaeeeerrrrryyyy,” I attempt, but no, that ain’t gonna fly, no way, no how. Try it again. Try it again. “Scawesome.”

Scawesome

Scawesome is

scawesome

“What?” Arthur whispers. I turn around to see him looking at me, his forehead crinkled. He’s been crinkling his forehead at me for like the past … I
dunno, lots of minutes. I think I could watch him crinkle his forehead all day. He just has like the best fuckin’ face.

“Oh, nothin’,” I whisper back, leaning in so he can really hear me. My lips brush his ear a little bit. “Inventing some words. The Willster wasn’t the only
one who could do it, you know. I mean, stop and think about it. We

all can

.”

“The Willster,” Arthur repeats, like he doesn’t get it. I

love

when he doesn’t get stuff. It’s so, like,

watch and learn

“El Shakespeare, young grasshopper,” I enlighten him. “Him and me, we’re tight. English major thing. It’s a priblidge.”

“Privilege,” Arthur tells me, like a bro who’s used to knowin’ it all. Can’t be right all the time, Krafty Kraft.

“Are you sure?” I ask gently, humoring the poor bastard. “That doesn’t sound right.”

“Watch the play, Howie,” he orders, smiling, and knocks his knee against mine. Knee footsie!

Kneezie.

I dunno, man, maybe I’m the next Shakespeare. I could write my own fuckin’ dictionary. Watch your back, Samuel Johnson. Check it, Boswell. Word
to your mother.

But it’s not like that’s my main priority right now: my main priority is watching this

play

, this friggin’ crazy

play

. It all goes by in a bunch of bright

colors and loud songs, and a couple times me and Artie get danced on a little bit because we’re closest to the actors when they groove through the
audience. And Cora, she is awesome, man – no, she’s scawesome. Totally and completely scawesome. I wonder what friggin’ Heather Grimsby
would think if she knew I was good buddies with the scawesome incestuous alien chick up there – deal with

that

, Heather fuckin’ Grimsby, I know

way cooler chicks than you now! This ain’t high school, babydoll. This is

life

, and I’m livin’ it. Ohhh, am I livin’ it.

But me, I’m not thinkin’ about Heather Grimsby, and I’m not lookin’ at her shiny head. Me, I’m just havin’ a good time. A good, weird, drifty time,
where I feel like my brain might not be in my skull all the way, but that’s cool! In fact, that’s

better

When it’s finally over and they take some bows, we head on up there to give Cora her flowers. Nobody else brought flowers, which seems kind of
weird, like, isn’t that play etiquette? Someone throws a rubber chicken at the guy playing Frank N. Furter though, which, I’m sorry, but that’s fucking

hilarious

“Howie,” Kristy giggles, just because I happen to be

enjoying

myself, thank you very much, “you are

drunk.”

“Whatchoo talkin’ ‘bout, Quincy?” I demand, which just makes her giggle harder. I turn to Arthur. He’ll back me up. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are,” he interrupts, resting his hand on my back. He looks all amused. “You truly, truly are.”

“Pfft,” I scoff. “You wish.”

“Why would I wish that?” Oh, smirk away, Artie.

“So you could get

all up in this

,” I reply, waving my hands around a little, doing some fancy pointing at myself. It’s harder than you’d think – and, hey,

you know what else is hard? Standing. What

that??

Then I realize that Kristy and Cliff are both looking at us, all ‘Whatchoo talkin’ ‘bout, Jenkins?’, and I realize that, oh, yeah, shit!, they don’t get to
know about the me and Arthur thing! The me and Arthur thing, it is on the downlow. It’s dooown. Lowwwwww.

“We’re friends,” I explain. There we go. All covered up.

“I know you are,” Kristy replies super-sweetly. I don’t think she believes me. Whatever. She

should

believe me! She’s such a crazy chick.

“We’re friends,” I reiterate, a little quieter, to Artie himself.

“Maybe not after this,” he replies, smiling at me. “You’re very embarrassing.”

Whateverrrr.

“Oh my God, you guys are

losers

, what is this, a middle school choir concert?” Cora exclaims when she finally pays attention to us, but she takes

the flowers and smells them and she’s smiling a lot, so I’m pretty sure she’s just bitching in her special Cora way. What she really means is that she
loves us. She loves us, and we love her, and is that awesome, or is that awesome? That’s

awesome

, man! Heather Grimsby can’t ruin a thing like

that! Cora looks at me, and I grin at her, because, man, we are just

buddies

“Jenkins,” she says, grinning broadly, “you’re shitfaced.”

“Whatchoo talkin’ ‘bout, Caldwell?”

“Yeah,” Kristy reports. “He had like six of those space shot thingiemajigs. It’s

adorable

.”

“I’m not

adorable

,” I protest, making a face at her. “I’m totally cool right now.”

I notice all of a sudden that Heather Grimsby is walking out the door. Just walkin’, walkin’, walkin’ away. Good riddance, Bitchy McBitcherson. Don’t
barf on anyone on your way out.

“Bitch got

ooowned

,” I mutter, sneering at her shiny hair, watching her disappear. Later, hater.

“What?” Cora asks.

“You heard nothing,” I tell her, real serious. It’s serious business. Serious business all over the place.

“Drunk Howie’s kinda sexy,” Cora declares, latching her arm through mine and leaning up against me.

“Hey hey hey.” I try to shake her off. Enough’s

enough

. “Not again. My ear just healed.”

“Cocktease,” Cora accuses, smirking.

WELL, JEEZ, CORA. Tell the whole flippin’

world

, why dontcha?

“Nuh uh,” I force out. “I don’t … do … that.”

She just laughs and kisses me on the cheek and doesn’t say anything else about cocks. God, she’s nice. God, I love Cora.

Kristy and Cliff wind up taking off (Cliff’s cat misses her, or so she says – can cats really miss people? I hope so, man, because that, that’s so

beautiful

, right??), and that means it’s just me and Artie. You know I’m down with that. I love me some Artie.

The parking lot ain’t so easy to get across, on account of the fact that there’s ice motherflippin’ everywhere and walking is sort of like

woOoOoooOoo

. Arthur finally winds up just linking his arm through mine, real tight, and we walk really slow. There are other people around, but I

don’t think it really matters. Dudes used to walk around arm in arm all the time. That just meant they were classy. Classy like Lassie. It’s like, we just
so happen to be fellows of

style

and

refinement

. We are

gentlemen.

“We,” I tell Arthur, “are so gentlemanly.”

“Is that right?” he asks, smiling at me.

“Fo’ schizzle, mah nizzle.”

“Spoken like a true gentleman.”

“You know what I like? Top hats.”

“Top hats are nice.” We’re at the car all of a sudden, and Arthur opens the passenger’s seat door for me. “All right, into the car, gentleman friend.”

I let him usher me in, then keep talking while he walks around the car to the other side. Dude, I got things to say.

“Bowler hats,” I declare. “Hats are cool. How come nobody ever wears

hats

anymore? Except, like, ‘I’m cold’ hats. People used to wear hats

because they looked cool. How come nobody ever looks cool anymore? It’s so fucking

sad

, that’s what it is. How come nobody cares about

anything anymore at all, like,

at all

?”

“I care about things,” Arthur replies.

“Me too!” I notice I’m talking sort of loud, but whatever, man, that’s

, that is

exactly, I

love

this guy. “See, that’s why we’re good together, man.

That’s why we work. I think we work. Do you think we work?”

“I—”

“Hey hey hey hey hey,” I interject, because he’s got the key in the ignition and he’s about to turn it. “Don’t go yet.”

He stops obediently. “Why not?”

“’Cause,” I say, and then I lean over and kiss him. I sort of miss his mouth and wind up on his cheek instead. He starts laughing, and his face rocks a
little against mine as he laughs and dude, God, he is just so fuckin’

great

“You’re ridiculous,” he tells me, still laughing, and he presses a few fingers under my chin and guides my mouth to his. He kisses me, this nice
steady kiss, and then he breaks away. “And you taste like space juice.”

“But you like me anyway,” I check, just to make sure.

“I like you anyway.” He kisses me on the forehead. His mouth is like the greatest mouth. “I very much like you anyway.”

“Mmmm.” Feeling really good, I lean back into my seat, let my head fall back against the headrest. It’s really fucking cold in here, but I still feel, I
dunno, really comfortable. I think maybe it’s his fault, like, wherever he is, I’m good. “You know what, you might be a fuckin’ man and everything, but
you’re still like the best girlfriend

I’ve

ever had.”

“Girlfriend?” he repeats skeptically.

Oh, right.

“Boyfriend,” I correct. I don’t really like saying it. “Man, that’s weird.”

“It’s a change,” Arthur agrees. I can’t tell if I pissed him off or not. God, I hope he’s not pissed off.

I start feeling like, I dunno, I owe him something. An explanation. He’s really fucking nice to me all the time, with his smiling when I’m a crazy bastard,
and his kickass kissing, so you know, fine. An explanation,

he shall have.

“You know Heather Grimsby?”

“From the salon next door? Who sat in front of us tonight?”

“Yeah, that’s her.” I sneer, thinking back to the shiny hair. Fuck you, shiny hair, and fuck the head you grew on. “She was my girlfriend. My first
girlfriend. Senior fuckin’ year, man.”

“You didn’t seem very friendly,” Arthur remarks.

“Yeah,” I say impatiently. “That’s ‘cause

I hate her.

”

“Oh really?”

“She’s only the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” I scowl. “And having to be in the same room with her was just like,

aaaaaaughhhhh!!

, you

know? I think,” I continue, sort of lying, because I

know

, man,

know

, “that’s why I drank the space juice. She got me so freaked out. She freaks me

out

, dude. I don’t usually ever drink.”

“You don’t?”

“I

don’t

. Or, like, I dunno, I’ll have a beer or whatever, but I don’t get drunk. Drunk I don’t do. I don’t do drunk.”

“Oh yeah?”

”

Yeah

. I don’t like it, you know? I don’t like not being, like, in charge of me. I need to be the master of me, so I don’t do anything stupid. I don’t want

people thinking I’m stupid. But I dunno, this isn’t so bad. I didn’t do anything stupid, did I?”

“No more than usual.” He smiles at me.

Oh, Artie.

“What happened with Heather Grimsby?” he continues.

Oh, shit. I can’t explain

this part.

“Prom,” I reply, and that’s it.

There’s a long pause.

“What about prom?” he finally asks.

“I can’t tell you, man,” I reply. I feel kind of like frickin’ nauseated even thinking about it.

“All right,” Arthur agrees easily.

It gets all quiet, except for the music he’s got going on the stereo. It’s something nice and calm and piano-y. All I can think about is Heather now.
Heather and that fucking night, Goddddddd.

“Okay, fine, I’ll tell you,” I say at last, turning so I can look at him. “But you can’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t.”

“You swear?”

“I swear.”

That seems good enough.

I look back out at the road in front of us, because I realize I don’t really want to tell him while I’m looking at him. All the street lights are on. They’re so
nice against the dark.

“So,” I say, “she and I like started going out or whatever toward the end of senior year. And I didn’t really like her. Or, well, I did, but I

really

was just

like crazy about Celia Burke, who was one of her friends. She was so fucking pretty and smart and nice, like, Kristy-nice – she was a lot like Kristy
– and everyone was just frickin’ all over Celia Burke. If you had to like a girl, Celia Burke was the perfect girl. For liking. But it’s like,

she

wasn’t ever

gonna date me, you know? She went out with my brother for awhile. My brother was like friggin’ awesome. Everyone loved my brother. That hasn’t
really changed, actually. But anyway. So, I used to think what it would be like if she suddenly decided she was into me or whatever, but she didn’t,
and – okay, wait, but first, my best friend? Amber? She was totally in love with my brother, like, she’s been in love with him since we were all like
ten. It’s fucking terrible but, I dunno, she just never really got

over

it. I wish she would get over it. It’s such a fucking sucky situation.

“But anyway, for junior prom, the two of us, we just went together, me and Amber, and it was great, but then for senior prom, Dennis wasn’t dating
anybody, and he always got along well with Amber – but

as a friend,

just as a friend

, and she just doesn’t

get it

– and so he wound up asking her.

And it was like the greatest thing that had ever happened in her whole life, so she was all like, ‘Yay, oh my God, I get to go to prom with Dennis.’ So
then I was like fuckin’ screwed and I didn’t have anyone to go with. So finally, I just like mustered up all this courage or … I don’t even fuckin’ know,
man, I don’t know how I did it, but I finally just asked Celia. And she already had a date – like, of course. It was fucking Ryan Thompson, like, ‘Ooh,
I’m so fuckin’ special, I can bounce a fuckin’ basketball!’ but whatever, whatever. I’m over it. The point is, Celia, because she was so nice and
everything, told me that Heather Grimsby didn’t have a date and I should go with Heather Grimsby. So she like set us up.

“And it was a few weeks before prom, when we got that all set up and all, so it’s sort of like she was just my girlfriend for awhile. And, I dunno. This
girl kissed me once on a dare in like seventh grade, but that was just like whatever, so I’d never even really

kissed

anyone ‘til Heather. And that

really fucking sucked, you know? Like, that’s weird. Like, it’s sort of okay if you’re a girl, I guess, but if you’re a guy, that just isn’t gonna fly. That’s
just not okay. And by the time you’re a senior, you know, it’s like if you haven’t had sex you’re some kind of weird pariah leper thing. You know what
sounds a lot like pariah leper? Piranha leopard.”

“That’s true,” Artie allows, graciously.

“Piranha leopard. That’s awesome.” God, I don’t like telling this story. But whatever, whatever. Might as well finish. Then I will just like move the fuck
on. “So, I dunno, Heather was the first girl I ever really did any of that with, but I didn’t sleep with her, but then after the prom her parents were out of
town, so she had this party. And she just got like totally

wasted

, man, it was ridiculous. And then she wanted to like go fool around or whatever, so

we were in her parents’ room and she was just like all over me, which was good, because it was like, ‘Finally,’ right? Like, I was finally just gonna
like get it over with. But then when she started, like, getting really serious about it, I just – I dunno, she was so drunk, and she kept

giggling

, and so I

said maybe she should just get some sleep or whatever, and she got all, ‘What? Don’t you want to?’ And it’s like – she just wouldn’t shut up about it,
after that. ‘Don’t you want to, Howie, why don’t you want to, Howie, haven’t you done it before, Howie?’ And I wasn’t really even saying anything
back, because what the fuck are you going to

say back

?, you know. And then.”

I stop, because I’ve never said it before. Not ever. It’s the thing that I don’t ever, ever say. You don’t just go around

saying

the thing you don’t ever,

ever say.

It’s like I can still hear her, though. And see her, too. In the dark, her makeup kind of smudged and her fancy prom curls going limp like they’re giving

up on life. She’s too close, half-on my lap, one hand on my shoulder and her face too open, in that loose drunk way, all covered in laughter. And
then, that stupid whisper.

Are you gay?

And then that moment where all I had to do was say no.

And then whoosh, there that went, and it was over, and her eyes went all big, and it was like,

Oh my God, oh my God, you

are

, you’re gay, you took

me to prom and you’re GAY!, that is so fucked up, does anybody else know, is that why your best friend’s a girl, who do you like, holy shit, why
haven’t you told anyone?

and the only thing that shut her up was suddenly realizing she had to puke, and doing it all over me because the toilet was

too far away. And I put her to bed in her prom dress, not really friggin’ caring if it got wrinkled or whatever, and changed her parents’ sheets as best
I could with my hands shaking so hard and then I went home and I never talked to her again.

“Howie?” Arthur says. He reaches over with his right hand and rests it on my knee.

I spit it out. “She asked if I was gay. And that’s why I didn’t want to jump her lady bones or whatever. And I didn’t say anything, because it’s like, even
though I

wasn’t

I just couldn’t tell her no for some reason. Like, I knew I had to – I

knew

it, man – but I just couldn’t for some reason. Like her hair was

a bad influence on my voice and they decided to give up on life together.” I remember that I didn’t say that part out loud, so I helpfully add, “Her hair
totally looked like it was giving up on life, at that point. And so – she just decided that I was. But it’s okay, because then she threw up all the fuck
over me, and pretty much passed out, and who even knows if she remembers. But just in case, I stay away from her, because it’s like – what if she
does? You know.”

He squeezes my knee. God, his hands are so the best ever thing. So I guess she was right after all.

“Whatever.” I’m suddenly really fuckin’ tired of talking about this. We should be talking about something cool. We should go back to hats. “Maybe
she made me gay.”

“It sounds like you were already gay.”

“I don’t know if I’m gay,” I make sure to say, because hey,

I don’t.

“Maybe I’m just like … up for anything.”

“Maybe,” Arthur agrees, but I can tell he doesn’t really think that. “Speaking of.”

“Hmm?”

“Were you … involved with Cora?”

“She tried to hook up with me to prove that I wanted to hook up with you.”

“Ah.” He maybe sounds relieved a little; I do like that. “That sounds like Cora.”

“Yeahhhh. Hey. About that.”

“About what?”

“Hooking up with you.”

“Aren’t we hooked up already?”

“I mean, like—” I feel myself starting to blush, jeeeeeez. “Hooking up is sex.”

“Oh,” Arthur says. He sounds a little flustered too. “I have trouble keeping up with all that. You young kids these days.”

This, this is something that has been bothering me for awhile. Pretty much ever since one makeout round got intense enough for me to notice that,
hey, Arthur definitely doesn’t have girl parts in his swimsuit zone. And this seems like the time to ask, since talking is like remarkably friggin’ easy at
the moment.

“I feel really fucking good with you,” I say, ‘cause I do. Better than any guy should with another human with boy swimsuit zone parts. “But that … I
don’t really … y’know, it’s not like I ever even knew anything about … okay, fine, I found this Kirk and Spock fanfiction one time, but that was
seriously just like a googling accident and morbid curiosity

all the way

, it’s not exactly like that makes me a fuckin’ expert, and it’s not like I

wanted

— So how does that all go?”

“You want me to explain the technicalities?”

Jeeeeeeeeeeeeez.

“I get the technicalities, thanks. I dunno. I just. Like … maybe it shouldn’t even

work

—”

“It works.”

“’Cause it sort of seems—”

“Some things aren’t different,” he interrupts simply. “Some are. Overall, the sentiment remains the same.”

Well, when he makes it sound like that. “Huh.”

“I haven’t made a habit of throwing up on anyone,” he adds, a wry smile curving his mouth.

“Yeah,” I say, ‘cause I can believe that. “I like you.”

“I like you.”

“You think I can come back to your place?” I add. “I don’t really want my mom to see me drunk.”

“Sure.”

“I’m not like coming onto you or whatever,” I make sure to throw in, ‘cause seriously,

seriously

, who knows what this one’s gonna think? “I’m not

trying to seduce you.”

“Dear friend, you’re not in the position to seduce anybody.”

“But sleep,” I say, “sleep is good.”

“Sleep it is.”

He helps me up the stairs – hard stairs, slippery stairs, stairs of death – and it feels pretty damn miraculous when we make it all the way to the top.
We go inside, and I sink down onto the futon, and after he’s got his coat off Arthur sits down next to me. He turns the TV on and starts flipping
through channels. I slump against him and listen to his commentary on what’s on: he gets, like, for real

pissed

at how lame everything is, and it’s

hilarious. Scawesome. For someone so bony, he sure is comfy to lean all over.

After awhile, my eyes start getting heavy. “Okay, you, time for bed,” Arthur says. I don’t put up a fight; I just let him lead me down the hall and into
what dimly registers as Kristy’s room. Pink. Lots of pink.

“Kristy sleeps here,” I mumble.

“Not tonight,” Arthur murmurs back. “Don’t worry, I don’t think she’ll mind.”

He pulls the covers back and navigates me into the bed – mmmm, bed. Soft, nice bed. I settle in against the pillows, turn around a little. The sheets,
I see, have pink apples all over them.

“You people are the best,” I declare, because, man, they

are

. Who would have thought that getting a job at an arts and crafts store would have

resulted in knowing so many great humans? My life, I dunno, all of a sudden it’s just

better

with them in it. Maybe even almost good.

“You aren’t so bad yourself,” Arthur replies, tracing the line of my jaw lightly with his fingertip. Even in the dark I can see him smile.

And as I doze off, I don’t feel so bad. I don’t feel so bad at all.

I wake up at twenty minutes to noon the next morning, feeling like what shit wants to be when it grows up, not really able to manage any coherent
thought. My brain is pretty much one endless EEEEEEEEEUUUUUUURRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHH.

But the bed smells nice – flowery and fresh and Kristyish – and there’s actual sun glinting through the pink gauzey curtains, and out in the kitchen, I
can hear the clang of dishes and the considerately faint sound of the Beatles on the stereo and Arthur singing lightly along. And wouldn’t you know,
all things considered, I feel pretty damn fine myself.

Chapter Fourteen

“Are you hung over?” Amber demands.

I should have seen this coming.

“What? Why would you say that?” I ask, trying to sound righteously offended as she brushes past me into the house.

She squints up at me. “You look awful.”

“Maybe that’s just my face. Real sensitive, by the way.”

“You

are

hung over. Jesus, I thought you were hanging out with your mom last night.” She goes into glare mode. No one locked in the throes of a

hangover should have to deal with Amber in glare mode. “You didn’t let Mitch take you out with the guys again, did you??”

“No,” I answer. It’s the truth and everything, but it comes out sounding real feeble – mostly because even talking is a pain in the ass today.

It’s not my fault that she chooses to interpret that as lying.

“You

did

,” she surmises. She’s like some bizarre mom-wife hybrid. “Howie, come on, you know the guys are too crazy for you.”

On a better day, I would have argued against this claim. Just because Mitch’s other dude friends happen to be a little more with the beer and the

sports and the Megan Fox than me doesn’t mean that they’re

too crazy

for me. I am totally capable of crazying it up with those sons of bitches.

Anyway, Amber just hates the guys because once one of them said he would go after her if, direct quote, ‘she had a different personality.’

“Seriously, Howie. You don’t have to try to fit in with them, you know. Trying is just gonna make you look even sadder than you are.”

Call me crazy, but I’m not in love with the idea of standing around getting chewed out over something I didn’t even do. “Can we just go to the friggin’
play already?”

“Fine,” Amber sighs, but she keeps looking at me in a way that makes it perfectly clear that she’s still, I dunno, disappointed in me for conforming,
when I didn’t even really conform at all. When, interestingly enough, my true last-night actions probably would have caused the guys to beat the shit
out of me, or at least partake in some hearty vomiting.

And so we go.

It’s just as mad and smoky a den of seduction as it was last night, but some of the magic gets lost when you’re hung over and with Amber.

“They can’t serve alcohol here,” she remarks upon catching sight of the shotglass-wielding Transsexual Transylvanians.

Oh, crap, I hope that Tights McGee isn’t here. There’s one dude I never want to see again as long as I live, no matter how much enjoyment I might
get out of giving him a snappy nickname in my head.

“Amber, they’re sexy space aliens,” I say distractedly, keeping an eye out. “They can do whatever the hell they want.”

“Um, yeah, I’m pretty sure they

can’t

. This is the high school—”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, well, they are.

You’re

the one who wanted to come, okay? Don’t chew me out about it.”

Amber is starting to look pissed, but I don’t even get to bask in that happy knowledge for long, because I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around,
and—

“Hey, it’s you.” Tights McGee, in the scantily clad flesh. “Back for more?”

“What,” Amber says, “the hell?”

ABORT. ABORT.

“No idea,” I say quickly, not looking him in the eyes. “Hey, I gotta go to the bathroom.”

“Don’t leave me with—”

“It’ll be the world’s fastest pee,” I promise, already halfway towards the door. You can’t catch me, Tights McGee. The Gingerbread Man

wishes

had these moves. “Stay strong, Clark.”

“You suck,” Amber informs me. Wouldn’t you know, I can live with that. I make my way out to the swiftly dwindling sounds of her tellin’ old Tights, “

I don’t want to try one. What’s in there, acid rain?”

I slip past the crowd that’s filtering in and keep going until I’m in a deserted stairwell next to a trash can. I whip out my cellphone, ready to call up the
Mitchman, when I find a text message waiting for me.

“I found a pair of someone’s socks on the floor next to my bed!! Don’t worry, i washed them for you, i’ll bring them in to work tomorrow!! have fun at
the play! Tell amber and cora hi for me! don’t get too tipsy, lol! xoxo KQ”

I know that Amber’s my best friend. I know that it’s been awhile since she and I really had some buddy time, what with me working and leading a
scandalous double life. I know that she’s a little snippier than usual because Dennis is coming back on Monday and bringing his mysterious new
ladylove Emily along with him.

But man, I’m hung over and I’m scared of Tights and what I want, what I

really

want is to be over at Kristy’s, hanging out with her and her roommate

and a certain gentleman friend of mine.

But Amber’s my best friend, and it’s one night. Cue that funky disco beat, because I will survive.

I send Kristy “Many thanks, sock fairy. Also, too late. Already shitfaced,” successfully resisting all urges to throw in anything that resembles ‘Good
sweet baby Jesus God, I wish I was there instead, come rescue me.’ Then I call up Mitch.

“Howie! Heyyyy!”

“Mitchy, heyyyyy. I need a favor.”

“Anything, man.”

“She probably won’t even mention it to you or whatever, but if Amber asks, I spent last night with you and the guys, okay?”

“Whoaaaaa!” I can hear,

hear

his face splitting into a grin. “Whaaaaat?”

“I was out with some work friends, and wound up getting pretty wasted.”

“

Ohhhhhhhhh

!”

“But, I dunno, I don’t really want Amber to know about—” Wait. I’m starting to realize that I don’t really have an alibi for Mitch. Goddamn, this double
life stuff gets tiring.

“It’s Cora, right?” Mitch asks between grunts of my-boy-done-good laughter.

It totally catches me off-guard. “Huh?”

“The little crazy elf chick. Did you boink an elf? That is so boss, Jenkins! I hereby commend thee.”

“That’s none of your business, man.”

“You did!” Mitch exclaims, complete with some reverent laughter. “You boinked an elf!”

There we go. Alibi attained. If it’s really going to bring Mitch this much joy to believe I’m elf-boinking, then far be it from me to deprive him of that
happiness.

“Yeah, well, keep it on the DL, will ya? I’ve got musical transvestites to watch. Later.”

I hang up on the sound of him laughing jollily away and saying ‘boink’ a couple more times.

Magnificent people, these friends of mine.

When I slip back into the cafeteria they’re lowering the lights and Amber’s sitting by herself, glowering. Lucky me.

“Hey, guess what?” she whispers as I take a seat. “Not the world’s fastest pee.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” I mutter back. “I’ll try harder next time.”

“Why did shots guy seem like he knew you?” she adds, because apparently criticizing my urination abilities isn’t enough for her tonight.

I fight back all impulses to bust out a hearty ‘Damn, get OFF my CASE, woman!’

“I gave Cora a ride to rehearsal once,” I invent, “and I wound up chatting with him for awhile. Total psycho.”

“Huh,” Amber says, and then the play gets started, so that’s it.

I don’t know, maybe it’s stupid not to tell her I went last night. No sane person would consider that a friendship-ending offense. But I get the feeling
that she’d be pissed if she knew that I went already without her, like she wouldn’t get why I didn’t just invite her along. And Amber can’t see me with
Arthur. She just fuckin’ can’t. It’s like there’s my life, and it’s got Amber and Mitch and my mom and directionlessness and the shadow of my dead
dad still hanging over everything. And then there’s the senseless, glorious, unasked-for vacation from my life, and that’s Arthur and Kristy and Cora.

Even having Amber and Cora here, together, in the same room, feels dangerous. Thank God Cora’s onstage.

So we watch the play and ninth grade Amber comes back pretty fast, I think, because she seems into it by the time like fifteen minutes have gone
by. Meanwhile, I sit and try to ignore my headache and how much I want to be somewhere else.

Finally, after about twelve hours, it’s over.

“Okay, let’s roll,” I say, starting to stand up.

“You’re not even going to go tell Cora she did a good job? Come on, Howie, I’ve trained you better than that.” At least it’s affectionate nagging this
time. She even ruffles my hair. Bless the healing powers of

Touch-a Touch-a Touch-a Touch Me

Still,

. Talking to Cora was so not part of the deal.

“I don’t think she really cares if I—”

But then everyone’s favorite boinkable elf-turned-alien spots me.

Oh, God, it’s all over.

“Jenkins! What are you, like, turning into my stalker or something?” Cora demands, bouncing over to us. Taking in the sight of Amber, she adds,
“He dragged you along this time?”

“No, I did all the dragging,” Amber replies. She sounds totally normal, but she turns to look at me and something darkens a little in her eyes and her
voice and it’s enough to make it really flippin’ obvious that I am completely and utterly screwed. “You came before?”

“He was here last night with the rest of those losers I work with,” Cora reports, oblivious that she’s singlehandedly crafting my destruction. She loops
an arm through mine and nestles up against me. “Really, darling,” she adds, pinching my cheek (

), “it’s touching that you care.”

“Yeah, well,” I reply, forcing a smile at her and trying, for a few blessed seconds, to be unaware of Amber’s whole existence, “I’m your number one
fan.”

Amber and I don’t talk until we’re in the car. I make sure the CD player’s on, so that even then talking isn’t really a requirement.

She does it anyway. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“About the whole me-seeing-the-play-last-night thing?”

“Yeah,” she says darkly, “that.”

“I didn’t

not

tell you.”

“Uh, I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what you did.”

“I dunno, I … it was just work stuff, okay? I figured you wouldn’t want to get mixed up with those guys.”

“I’m pretty sure I could have handled two hours at a play with them. I’ve got fortitude that way.” She pauses just long enough for me to hope that
maybe she’s given up on this conversation. But then,

bam!

— “Since when are you even friends with them?”

“I don’t know,” I say, because it’s not like I can tell her they’ve made my life so newly great. “They’re who I see every day. I guess I’m just … I don’t
know, Amber. Whatever. Does it matter?”

“No,” she replies, toneless, “I guess not.”

For a merciful ten seconds,

Good Feeling

is the only sound in the car.

“You’re not sleeping with Cora or whatever, are you?” Amber asks then.

The correct answer would be a resounding ‘No,’ and I’m about to tell her as much – but then I remember Mitch, and it’s probably smartest to stick
with one lie all around, right? So instead I throw out a suitably vague, “Why would you care?”

“Um, I don’t know, maybe because I’m your best friend and you’re supposed to tell me that kind of stuff.”

I glance over at her. She’s not looking at me: she’s staring out of the windshield and she’s leaning about as far away from me as she possibly can,
like if this conversation takes a sucky enough turn she’ll throw herself out onto the road.

“No, I’m not,” I say, feeling pretty chastised.

She snorts. “Yeah, right.”

It doesn’t take someone of my boundless mental abilities to tell that she’s pissed off. Like,

weirdly

pissed off. I want to restate my whole ‘Why would

you care?’ question, because seriously,

why would she care?

But my boundless mental abilities also tell me that maybe that’s not the best course

of action.

“I hate this stupid band,” she says then, hitting me where the sun don’t shine. “Gordon Gano’s voice is like getting stabbed in the brain.”

I choke back the five thousand ‘This from someone who worships Colin Meloy’ retorts that threaten to bubble over in that split-second and say,
“Fine.”

I eject the CD, and we listen to pizza restaurant jingles all the way home.

Kristy’s jaw drops. “Maybe,” she breathes, “she’s

in love with you

.”

It’s the next morning, and I’m sitting at her kitchen table. She’s still in her pajamas, a pink tanktop with a baby polar bear on it and white pants
spattered with pink hearts and really profound sayings along the lines of ‘You are sweet!’ and ‘You + Me.’ It seems fitting that even her PJ pants
make me feel better about myself.

Arthur’s in the process of making coffee, or at least trying to. His staunch tea-drinking ways are finally biting him in the ass, because the dude’s at a
total loss face to face with a coffeepot. Still, it’s pretty nice that he’s insisting on it anyway – especially after he saw the donuts I brought and almost
went catatonic at the unhealthiness of it all. I’m starting to think that maybe there’s only one thing weirder than me being with a dude, and it’s me
being with a healthy eater. What

that?

I, for the record, am on my fourth donut. Desperate times.

“She’s not in love with me,” I say with a hearty shudder. “Don’t even say stuff like that.”

“But it sounds like—”

“She’s in love with my brother. She has been forever. Like, foreeeever.”

“Who’s in love with who?” Nikki asks, stepping into the room in – why, lookie there, nothing but a towel.

Score

, I think, for old times’ sake, even though just between you and me, I’m a little more preoccupied by Arthur’s battle against the coffeepot. He’s

measuring coffee grounds into the filter with immense concentration, and he’s one of those people who actually sticks their tongue out a little bit in
moments of immense concentration. Hot chicks in towels with errant droplets of water glistening on their smooth milky skin are great and all. But
when it all comes down to it, my loyalty lies with Arthur’s tongue (which, quite frankly, has done more for me).

“Howie’s best friend Amber loves his twin brother Dennis,” Kristy informs Nikki. I feel queasy, and I can’t even blame the donuts: I know,

know

that

me getting drunk at a shady production of Rocky Horror and then not telling Amber about it is delightful as cupcakes next to her finding out that I’m
spilling all of her private business to a bunch of strangers. All of a sudden I’m acutely aware of just how shitty it is to do it – but Jesus, I need to tell

somebody

. And it’s not like she’ll find out. Never the twain shall meet, and all that.

“Ooh, you have a twin brother?” Nikki asks. “Is he cute?”

“Of course he’s cute,” Kristy pipes up courteously. “He looks like Howie.”

There’s a pause. A definite unmistakable pause.

“Oh, right,” Nikki says, and gives me this huge, simpering smile.

On second thought, maybe she looks merely adequate in that towel.

Booyah.

(Still, it’s a little bit depressing to think that my work-at-a-craft-store-to-get-some-booty scheme of ingeniousness did fail, and Kristy’s implying
otherwise was all an elaborate matchmaking charade. Cute chicks are brutal.)

“Anyway,” Kristy continues, “maybe she realized after Dennis went so far away that she was being unrealistic, and the one she should have been
with all along was

you

!”

“No.” The concept’s so sickening that it drives me to set down my fifth donut. “No way. No how.”

But she won’t be stopped. “Ohhh, it’d be so perfect, though! It’s like, you’re the boy next door who she’s already loved for

ages

, and you’ve always

been there for her through thick and thin, and you understand her like nobody else does, and how awesome to just

realize

one day, all of a sudden,

love epiphany! And now she’s upset because she can’t figure out how to tell you, but it’s okay because you’re so

nice

and it’s not like you’re going

to—”

“Uh.” Right. Can’t take it anymore. “Kristy?”

She stops mid-rhapsody. “Yep?”

“Hello,” Arthur throws in helpfully.

“Ohhhhh!” She slaps herself on the forehead. She’s like the world’s cutest Little Rascal. “Gosh, gosh, okay, I take it back, you know I didn’t

mean

that! It’s just it all seemed so romantic for a second! But that’s right, Howie, of course you can’t be with her. You’re

Arthur’s

!”

This is enough to send her and Nikki into a fit of “aww!”s and giggles. I don’t like that at all, if we’re being honest. It’s just – it’s hard to feel, like,

human

, even, when your relationship or whatever is such an anomaly that it sends people into what, God help us all, can probably be best

summarized as a tizzy. I still don’t really get when or why our previous arrangement got abandoned, the one where Kristy pretended to believe we
were just buddies, and

of course

Arthur and I were down on the floor in the supply closet when she walked in because we were searching for his

lost contact lens. I was a big fan of that arrangement.

I make sure to sound unbothered, though. “Ehhh. Depends on whether he figures out how to work the coffeepot.”

“Patience, Howard,” Arthur orders without looking away from his opponent.

“Hey. Watch yourself there, motherfucker.” Okay, that came out a little harsher than I’d intended. Stupid tizzy giggling. It’s got me discombobulated.

He doesn’t burst into tears or anything, though: just rolls his eyes and smirks a little. So maybe I’m being paranoid. Wouldn’t be the first time.

“Poor Amber,” Kristy says, shaking her head woefully.

Something about her saying that makes me feel like the absolute scum of the earth. Amber, she’s a badass. She’s brilliant. You don’t

say

‘Poor

Amber.’

She’ll never know

, I console myself.

She’ll never, never, never know.

I polish off another donut and a cup of warm water poorly endeavoring to masquerade as coffee (“I thought I’d err on the side of caution,” Arthur
says, chagrined), then get ready to take off. My mom is determined to present the illusion that we have a functional household to my bro’s new ho,
so there is much cleaning and grocery shopping to be done.

“If she

in love with you,” Kristy says in parting, “let her down gently, okay? And, hey, you know what, maybe if she’s really lonely, I could try to set

her up! Reddy’s got a bunch of really cute friends in his band, and most of them are single—”

“Nah, that’s okay,” I interrupt. “She’d never go for a blind date. Definitely not Amber’s thing.”

“Sometimes you’ve got to take a chance to find love,” Kristy says sagely.

“Yeah, I’ll pass that on,” I deadpan. “Peace, Quincy.”

She starts talking to Nikki, which gives Artie and me the chance for a one-on-one farewell.

“Word of advice,” I tell him, “don’t go into barista-ing.”

“That’s not a word,” he replies, “and I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Good. You’re such an inspiration as an arts and crafts store manager. It’d be a shame to lose you to a lesser vocation.” He’s absently folding his
sleeves up to button them; the sunlight pouring through the kitchen window glints off the gold hair on his forearms and the whole process is infinitely,
inconveniently fascinating.

He moves in closer to me, and I notice Nikki throwing a glance our way.

And so I knock my fist against his shoulder and say, “See you Monday, man.”

“All right,” he says slowly.

He doesn’t seem pissed – just minorly confused – but I still feel a little bad after I leave. I dunno, maybe that’s just my specialty now: feeling bad
about Amber, feeling bad about Arthur. But, you know. It’s one thing if we’re alone. It’s another thing if there are bystanders.

Chapter Fifteen

“You don’t think that—”

“No, Mom.”

“Oh, come on. It could be charming. Quirkily so.”

“No one wants to get off a plane and hear Rock Lobster.”

“Then how about Tom Jones?”

“Depends. Are you going to seduce her with a sexy dance? Because I’m not sure if Dennis is gonna be down.”

“I thought I raised you to appreciate quirky charm.”

Then my mother unearths the be-all-end-all of aural horror.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, where did you get

that

?”

“Your Aunt Claire. She’s quite the fan.”

“Figures.” I groan, staring at the fiend’s fearsome mug on the CD case.

Mom pokes my shoulder. “Eyes on the road, junior.”

“You never listen to that kind of shit. That’s why I keep you around.”

“Normal mothers listen to Josh Groban. I would like to project some normalcy around this girl, thank you.”

“Yeah, what’s the whole deal with that?”

“I just want her to have a pleasant time here,” Mom says. She sounds poised, but she’s scratching the ‘Great Value! [Price Blacked Out]’ sticker off
of ol’ Grobie’s forehead with scary vehemence. “It seems like your brother is very attached to her, and from what he told me about going to her
home for Thanksgiving, it sounds like her parents are very normal people.”

“You’re normal people.” I even mercifully leave out the whole Rock Lobster thing.

“Yes, but I just don’t want to drive her away.”

It’s such a dumb thing to say that I want to go into a taunting frenzy, but I take mercy on her. I can tell that she actually

means

it. It’s kind of sweet and

a little bit sad, to see her so eaten up about wanting Dennis to be happy. I know she’s proud that he got out and up and far, far away, but I think she
gets scared that he’s gonna stretch his little pre-med wings so far that he’s going to forget this place even exists, and us along with it. The whole
she’s-still-got-me part apparently isn’t much of a consolation.

For the record, she doesn’t even bother to get out of her PJ’s when Amber and Mitch come over.

We get inside and wait around for awhile, because the flight’s a little delayed. I wind up buying a bag of ridiculously overpriced M&M’s and picking
out blue ones for Mom because they’re her favorite. She’s got her hand out for them when the passengers start filing in, looking rumpled as they
burst on into this quaint sea of hugging and happy exclaiming. A couple of blue M&Ms hit the floor, casualties of Dennis’s sudden appearance.

He looks good; he’s smiling as he walks in. Hour upon hour breathing nasty plane air doesn’t seem to have done a number on him at all. His hair’s
cut really short, and he’s totally rocking a goatee that I know in an instant will result in an endless fountain of mockery from yours truly, even though
just between you and me, he pulls it off. He looks like who I’d be when I grew up if this was some alternate universe wherein I was awesome.

My eyes lock on the pretty blonde walking a couple of steps behind him, and I’m in the middle of mentally labeling her ‘Emily’ when she throws
herself into the arms of a middle-aged couple standing a few feet away from us.

Okay, not Emily.

Which means that Emily must be—

My eyes land on the only other option, unless Emily is a towering black man or a really bouncy eight year old.

Uh. Wow.

She’s the kind of person your eyes skim past by default. Actually making the effort to look

her is a little exhausting. Mousy seems too tame a

word. This girl, she taught mousy how to squeak. Her hair is brown-blonde and stringy from underneath an amorphous beige lump of a hat. She’s
wearing glasses, but my brain so yearns to classify them as spectacles: they’re huge and perfectly round, and, like, unless you’re Harry Potter, don’t
even try to pull that off. Especially if you’re a girl. Especially if you’re the girl who’s dating my

brother

This is the girl who’s dating my brother?

Turns out, Emily digs the arts ‘n crafts scene. I tell Mom to drop me off at work on the way back from the airport, and she can come pick me up at
the end of the day. She protests, but I pretend it’s really urgent, like they really need me there. (They don’t, but it’s not like anybody else needs to
know that.) This leads Dennis to start singing the praises of his ladylove, who is, he informs us delightedly, knitting him a scarf.

Oh, jeez, I can’t not ask. I glance at Emily in the rearview mirror. “Did you make the hat?”

“Yes, Howie. I did,” she replies. She’s got a nice voice, at least. It’s soft and ladylike and everything she says sounds really polite, like she’s out of
some movie on Amber’s DVD shelf. One with Emma Thompson and corsets.

Still. The hat. Oh, God, the hat. For real?

“Awesome,” I croak.

“Thank you,” she says with a quaint little incline of her head.

There’s an awkward silence, punctured only by the dulcet tones of Josh Groban.

“Hey, maybe we can stop in at this fine establishment of yours,” Dennis suggests, leaning forward from the back seat to slap me on the shoulder.
“Mom says you’re doing great there.”

“Not that great,” I grumble, feeling suddenly humiliated. “Sure, I guess, for selling yarn and shit.”

“Hey,” Dennis says, faux-chastising, “some people need yarn and shit.”

“Right,” I mutter.

“Plus, I wouldn’t mind stopping in to see your buddy Arthur,” Dennis continues.

I take the turn maybe a little (read: infinitely) more jaggedly than I needed to. “You remember him?”

“Oh, yeah, totally,” Dennis says. “He was on the student council with me.”

“Right.” Okay, don’t panic. Keep it cool. And maybe, for security’s sake, imply some everlasting animosity. “He sucks.”

Everlasting animosity implied.

“I thought you were starting to get along,” Mom says.

“Nope,” I reply crisply. “He is one unbearable pompous motherfucker if I ever met one. Um, no offense.” I throw another glance in the mirror at Emily.

“I don’t remember him being that bad,” Dennis says.

Oh,

come on,

family. “Well, he is. He’s the worst. He’s what the devil pukes up during a hangover. He’s atrocious.”

“Atrocious?” Dennis repeats.

Okay, maybe that was a little much. Still. Gotta commit. “I said what I said.”

Dennis chuckles, then turns to his lackluster ladylove. “I think we can take him, huh, Em?”

“I would like to look around,” Emily replies demurely.

“You heard the lady!”

“Swell,” I mutter.

And so, in a scene only conceivable in my nastiest nightmares, the family and I march into Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts.

“Why don’t you give us the grand tour—”

“Sorry, Mom,” I interrupt, hurrying towards the back. “Gotta get the apron on.”

“You have an apron?” Dennis asks, starting to grin.

“You have a goatee,” I snap. (I would have liked to take more time with that one, really spring it on him in a glorious festival of barbed wit, but what
can you do? Nothing. That’s what you can do.)

Instead of going back into the kitchen, I race up the rickety staircase of doom and prior homoerotic encounters. It’s probably taking my life in my
hands to climb ‘em two at a time, but Death By Rickety Gay Staircase currently doesn’t seem like such a bad way to go.

I burst into Arthur’s office without knocking. He’s on the phone. At the sight of me, he goes, “Can you hold on just a minute?” and puts his hand over
it.

“My family’s here,” I announce, breathing heavy. There’s a part of me that’s a little disappointed his face doesn’t immediately contort into an
expression of horror. Get with the program, man. “In case any of them ask, you’re atrocious.”

“Really?” he says, all light and conversational.

Maybe that was a little blunt. But, well,

emergency.

“I had to tell them something.”

“So you went with … atrocious.”

“Well, yeah. They can’t think I like you.”

“Why not?”

“Because –” Oh, come on, Kraft.

Now

? Seriously? “Shit, I don’t know, because then they’ll figure out that I

like-

like you.”

His mouth twitches. “You like-like me?”

Oh, jeez. “Not the time, home dawg.”

“Fine. Should I come downstairs, I’ll be sure to behave atrociously.”

“That’s all I ask,” I reply, relieved. “Also, I might have to be kind of an ass to you.”

“Of course.”

“It’s not that I want to. I just, y’know, have to.”

“Of course.”

Well. He took that pretty well. At least I’ve got one person I don’t have to worry about amidst the crazy.

When I get back downstairs, it’s bad. Oh, it’s real bad. The worst part is how, to the untrained eye, it’d look pleasant. Kristy is talking to my mom
and Emily. Cora’s got my brother. For a couple seconds, I can’t decide which scenario to put a stop to first. On one hand, Kristy and my mom are
looking chummy, and for all I know, this is going to result in them starting a bookclub and getting together for tea once a week so they can discuss
my emotional well being. On the other, I wouldn’t put it past Cora to jump Dennis any second now. It’s the fuckin’ goatee. It’s got magic.

Not to mention that I

also

wouldn’t put it past Cora to, like, try to regale Dennis with the epic story of how she got her hands all up in my business at

a showing of Old Yeller to convince me I was gay.

Cora it is.

“Hey, you guys,” I say, hustling over. “How’s it goin’?”

“Real spiffy, Jenkins,” Cora replies, and her huge wicked smile makes it clear she gets exactly how freaked I am, exactly why, and is delighting in
that knowledge. “How are you?”

“Fine and dandy.” Suck on

that

, you old she-devil. “What you guys talkin’ about?”

“She was just telling me about how you and Amber went to see her in a play this weekend.”

Seemingly harmless, but I am not fooled.

“That we did.” I cross my arms and try to give Cora a ‘Don’t even try anything’ look that’s piercing enough to get the point across but inconspicuous
enough that Dennis won’t notice it.

For one look, it’s a pretty tall order. I’m just saying.

It fails spectacularly.

“He even came twice,” Cora smirks away.

I deflect the inevitable suspicion that will arise from that remark with a quick, ardent, slightly deranged, “That’s what she said.”

There is silence.

“Wow,” Cora remarks in monotone. “That was hilarious.”

“I am hilarious,” I retort savagely.

“Hey,” Dennis says, studying me, “where’s your apron?”

Shit.

“Arthur called me upstairs to talk to him.” Whoo. Okay. Nice save. “Man, I hate that guy.”

Cora arches her eyebrows.

“

Hate

him,” I reiterate, making sure to look at her as I do it.

I half-expect her to bust out a snappy “Do you make out with everybody you hate, or is he special?”. She doesn’t, thank God. Just gives me this
‘Whatever, it’s your funeral’ look. Please. It’s my

funeral, lady, because I just skillfully averted this death crisis.

I start feeling like maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if Arthur showed up right about now. Everything’s under control. My hatred for him has been
established. It’s all good.

He doesn’t, though. They stay for fifteen minutes, and never once is there that telltale creak on the staircase. Huh. He must be really … busy, or
something. (What the hell does he even do up there anyway?) I mean, it’s for the best, no question, but at the same time, now that the apocalypse
has officially come and my mom and my brother have inhabited the same space as my coworkers, I kind of wish I could get it all over with in one fell
swoop. They see Arthur, they see me hating Arthur, the end. Simple.

But Arthur’s MIA, so … whatever.

Emily eventually drifts off into the yarn aisle, and as soon as she’s become lost in its depths, Dennis grabs my arm and starts dragging me toward
—

Well, wouldn’t you know. The fake flower aisle.

“Pick one,” he orders.

“What?”

“I wanna sneak one for Emily, and you’re the professional. Which one’s the best?”

It’s clear what’s going on now: the universe is mocking me with the fake flower aisle. Thanks, universe. You’re a pal, you sick son of a bitch you.

“Seriously, man, I don’t know. I’ll get Kristy.”

“No, we’re being stealthy,” he insists, dragging me back.

“I dunno, how ‘bout that one?” I ask, pointing to a pink one at random. “That’s nice.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dennis says, grabbing it. “Thanks.”

“I’m the master.”

He slips me a five and tucks the flower in his jacket, off to charm his lady. He makes it look so easy. That’s always been Dennis’s thing: making it
look easy. He ditched his training wheels the same day Dad put them on his bike.

Me, I was a tricycle man ‘til an age I wish not to disclose.

“Hey,” Dennis says, turning back. “It’s good to see you, little brother.”

“Yeah,” I reply automatically. “Yeah, you too.”

“Your mom said something about you not getting along with Arthur,” Kristy mentions later when she and I are putting price tags onto the zillion new
boxes of colored pencils.

“Yeah, I thought that’d be smart,” I reply offhandedly, and concentrate really hard on writing

$9.50

on a price tag.

“How is that smart?”

“That way,” I say, holding back a sigh, “no one’s gonna find out he and I are … I dunno. Whatever.”

“In love?”

Oh, Christ. “We’re not

in love

, Kristy.”

“You could be soon,” she argues. “And don’t you think it might hurt his feelings to have you pretend you hate him?”

“Nah,” I reply, although just between you and me, my stomach gives a little contradictory lurch. “He seemed cool with it.”

“He’s going through a really hard breakup.”

“Went through,” I remind her. “Past tense. It’s over. They’re broken up.”

“Well, yeah,” Kristy agrees, looking a little uncomfortable. “And now you’re supposed to be making him happy.”

“You think I’m not making him happy?”

“I didn’t say that—”

“I’m so making him happy! Earlier, I told him I like-liked him and he got all smiley. He’s good. We’re happy.”

“You don’t seem happy,” Kristy observes. Her voice is soft.

“I’m okay,” I insist bluntly, starting on a new column of

$9.50

price tags.

“You’re not getting along with the girl who’s been your best friend for like ever. And you seemed so freaked out earlier when your mom and your
brother were here.”

“Yeah, well, that’s because it’s kinda fucking stressful to have you guys around them. For all I know, you’re gonna slip and say something to give it
away.”

“If you don’t want them to know, we’re not going to give it away. We’ll be careful.”

It’s easy to believe it of Kristy. Unfortunately, it’s not just Kristy I’ve got to worry about. “What about—”

“Cora will too.”

“You solemnly swear?”

She holds up her pinkie.

Ahh. The most sacred of oaths.

I link my pinkie with hers with great formality. That gets a giggle out of her. Good. Maybe we can actually get off this sorry subject and onto
something tolerable.

“I think your mom is a really nice lady,” she says as soon as we’ve de-pinkied. So much for new, non-terrible subject matter. “She would be happy
about Arthur if she knew he made you happy. I can tell.”

I snort. “Yeah, okay.”

“Howie, you should just tell the truth.”

“Yeah,” I say, “that’s not gonna—”

“Howie—”

“I’ll think about it,” I lie. It seems like the easiest way to get her off my back.

Kristy takes off early, leaving Arthur and me alone. I’m pretty sure it was a deliberate move on her part. She’s wily, that one.

“You didn’t come downstairs,” I say nonchalantly as I turn the lights off.

“I thought perhaps it would be best for me to stay out of the way altogether,” he replies, buttoning his coat.

I go over to him and kinda just stand there, watching him do the coat-buttoning thing. He follows it up by putting his scarf on. Riveting, all over the
place. The world’s most mesmerizing reverse strip tease.

“I’m not making you, like, miserable or something, am I?” I say.

“Why would you think that?” he asks. It’s in that brisk, unaffected voice that I’m starting not to trust.

“Hey, man, could you just answer?”

“Maybe a little bewildered. A tad frustrated. Not miserable.”

“Okay.” Well, that’s a relief, at least. There’s something about the way he’s looking at me that makes me feel like he’s the one person in the whole
damn world that isn’t going to get on my case about this.

I reach over and tug absently at his scarf. “I just … they can’t know, y’know? They just can’t. It’s not you, it’s just … the whole thing. I can’t do that to
them.”

Kind of a lame explanation, but it’s true. It’s what I got.

“I understand why you feel that way.”

Thank you, Jesus.

“Oh yeah?”

“Believe it or not, I even have some past experience with it,” he adds, smiling slightly. It’s not a happy smile – maybe ‘bitterly nostalgic’ would be the
more apt description.

“Okay,” I say. “Good.”

“It’ll work out eventually,” he adds.

For the moment, I’m gonna choose to believe that by ‘It’ll work out eventually,’ he means, ‘I have no qualms whatsoever with living in secrecy for
however long these crazy hijinks might ensue between us.’ That’s about as much as I can handle.

He lifts his hand and brushes it against my cheek, looking at me fondly. This must kind of suck for him too, I realize. He could’ve gone for someone
who isn’t gonna have to keep this a secret until the day he dies.

“I’m sorry,” I catch myself saying.

“For what?” he murmurs, but his eyes have drifted to my mouth and it doesn’t seem like conversation’s his number one concern at the moment.

In which case I’m not really big on making it mine either. I kiss him instead.

This goes on for awhile.

Until the fucking bells on the fucking door let out a merry fucking jingle, to be precise.

“Oh!” comes a girl’s voice.

We scramble apart so fast I almost fall over.

“Dennis and I have come to pick you up,” Emily says faintly. Behind her dweeby Potter glasses, her eyes are huge.

Chapter Sixteen

“We should hang out with Amber sometime soon,” Dennis suggests on the ride home.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” I say numbly. “Sure.”

“How’s she been doing?”

“Good.”

“You mean ‘well’,” Emily informs me placidly.

‘Bitch, recognize the English majordom and say is, “I did mean ‘well.’ Thank you, Emily.”

back off’

is what I want to say. However, because she owns

me now, what I do

“You’re welcome, Howie.”

It’s like Basil the Butler ought to show up with the tea and cucumber sandwiches any second now.

Even Dennis notices. “Are you guys okay?”

“Yes,” Emily replies serenely. It is the most bizarre, conspicuous reply in the history of language.

“I don’t eat pigs,” Emily informs my mother placidly when we sit down to dinner.

There’s a split-second where Mom tenses. I can tell she wants to smack Dennis. “You’re a vegetarian?” She arches her eyebrows in my brother’s
direction. “I’m so sorry, Emily, Dennis didn’t mention it to me.”

“Oh, I’m not a vegetarian. I just don’t eat pigs.”

“Ah,” my mother says. “You’re … Jewish?”

“No,” Emily says. “I don’t have any particular religious affiliation. Although Neo-druidism does sound interesting, doesn’t it? I wish more people still
wore cloaks.”

“Um,” says my mother. “Well. If there’s something else I can whip up for you instead—”

Whip up? Okay, that’s just not gonna happen. Especially considering the only other thing that’s remotely meatlike in our refrigerator is a half-empty
pack of turkey hotdogs that’s been in there for so long we stopped recognizing them as anything other than the fridge’s benign(ish) extraneous
growth. You don’t

eat

those. At this point, it’s just a matter of respect.

“No, no, that’s fine,” Emily says. “I’m very fond of salad.”

“Well,” Mom says, “good.”

And that’s that.

We’re halfway through eating in terrible silence when, out of nowhere: “When I was a little girl, we used to go and visit my aunt and uncle’s farm in
the summers. There was a pig there that I got to be very good friends with. They have such wise eyes, you know? I didn’t have very many friends
when I was little, especially ones I could really talk to, so he became very dear to me. I named him Gilbert, after Gilbert Blythe from L.M.
Montgomery’s

Anne of Green Gables

. That was my favorite book then. It’s still one of them, but I very much like

Mansfield Park

too. Anyhow, that

was a tangent; I apologize. My point is, near the end of the summer, my uncle butchered Gilbert and we wound up having him for dinner, and I didn’t
know it was him until after I’d eaten. I felt very bad about it for a very long time. I was sure he’d never forgive me.”

Emily starts to look distinctly misty-eyed behind her glasses. Dennis reaches over and squeezes her hand. “Aw, hon.”

It’s a weird, silent, mournful,

weird

moment of weird.

“I also don’t eat asparagus,” Emily adds then, sounding much more chipper.

“Why?” I ask without meaning to. “Tragic pet asparagus history?”

Damn my inherent wit! The last thing I can afford is to mess with

her

“No,” she replies, totally unbothered. Or at least that’s what she wants me to think. “I just don’t like the way it tastes.”

“That’s fair,” I answer lamely.

“What a sad story,” Mom finally remarks.

“It’s all right,” Emily replies. “My mother died the following year, and that was much worse.”

Well, gee.

“I … expect it was.” Mom. Oh, Mom. “So, you like Jane Austen?”

“Oh yes. She’s good, isn’t she?”

“People seem to think so.” There’s an unmistakable flicker of

bitch please!

ery there. I can’t really blame my mom for that one. Thanks to her and

Amber, I’ve learned how literary ladies get about their Austen. “I always make a point to teach one of her novels in my class. In fact, I even wrote a
sequel novel, many years ago.” Oh. Oh, that was not good.

My mom realizes it right at the same time. Hell, even Dennis seems to realize it enough to come out of his happy love bubble.

“You did?” Emily asks. So innocently. “What was it called?”

Smooth move, Mom. Smooth move.

“Oh,” Mom says, backtracking. “I don’t think you would have heard of it.”

“Probably not,” Emily agrees pleasantly. “But I’m curious to know the title.”

“Oh, I –” And then, finally, she crumbles. Doesn’t even try to make up a fake title or anything. It’s damn tragic, to watch her just give in like that.
“Mansfield Spark: The, um, Hot Nights of Mr. and Mrs. Bertram.”

“Oh,” Emily says, after a very long silence. “I don’t think I would like to read that very much. No offense.”

“No, no, that’s fine,” Mom hurries to agree. “It was … tawdry.”

Well, jeez. I hope Dennis is happy. His ladylove got Mom to feel ashamed of her

tawdriness

. Is nothing sacred?

“Dennis told me you’ve written lots of other books.”

“Yes, well. Those were … also tawdry.”

Emily nods demurely. “I thought they might be.”

“They’re done under a pseudonym,” Mom fights on. “And they’re just for fun, really. One day I’d like to try a

good

novel. But, you know, I just haven’t

… haven’t really had the …” Emily just keeps on watching her, so placid, so creepily attentive. Mom breaks. “Peas?”

Emily frowns. “I don’t think I know that expression.”

“Um,” Mom says. “What was that? … Dear?”

“‘Haven’t had the peas.’ Is it British slang?”

“Er, no. It’s—” Mom holds up the dish, defeat in her every movement. “Peas.”

“Oh!” Emily nods. “I see. Literal peas.”

“Literal peas,” Mom confirms weakly.

“How nice. Yes, please.”

“Peas,” I say, because, man, I gotta help somehow. Dennis definitely isn’t leaping in. “Awesome.”

“Yes. They are awesome, Howie.” Emily looks right at me as she says it. I know, I just

know

that somewhere in that brain of hers, she’s thinking

about what she just so happened to walk in on earlier. And the fact that she regaled us over dinner with a story of pig slaying suggests that this girl’s
not really an expert on which topics make for appropriate conversation and which ones don’t.

As soon as Dennis goes downstairs to get Emily’s bags, I make a beeline for the guest room. Emily is sitting on the bed, staring at a picture of my
grandparents on the wall like it’s the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen.

“So,” I say without preamble. “Uh. About what you saw earlier.”

“Yes,” Emily replies, shifting her eyes to me, “that was awkward, wasn’t it?”

“A little bit, yeah.”

“Was that Arthur?”

She sounds so damn quaintly conversational; it totally throws me off. “Um. Yep, that’s him.”

“He looked like a very attentive kisser.”

“Yeah, he’s got skills, but, uh, see, here’s the thing.” She suddenly seems really far away, sitting all the way over there on the bed, and my voice
seems extremely

loud

. So I sit myself down next to her and continue real quietly. “My mom and Dennis, they don’t exactly

know

about that whole

thing.”

“Yes,” Emily agrees, “I thought they mustn’t have.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I think Dennis would have mentioned that you were gay. He’s told me many things about his family, and I thought that probably would have come up
if he knew.”

“Well.” At least she’s got that much figured out. “Yeah, so – wait. What things?”

“You cry very much when you watch Old Yeller.”

“What?

Did,

okay. I

did

cry. I was five. If I watched it now, I would be—” Right. Not the point. “So, uh, can I count on you to not … ya know, tell them

anything?”

“Yes,” Emily replies. “I don’t feel like it’s my business to tell your family anything you don’t want them to know.”

“’kay. Uh. Thanks.” Well, that wasn’t so bad. I’m about to get up when—

“Why don’t they know?”

I turn to look at her. She’s staring up at me like she’s genuinely puzzled. (Emily, I can already tell, isn’t the sort of person to just get plain confused –
no, Emily gets

puzzled.

)

“They just … they don’t. It’d just – I dunno, it’d just be weird or whatever, and it’s not like there’s even any point in them knowing, ‘cause it’s just a …
it’s just like this … mistake-type … one-time … he tripped and his face fell on my face. It’s not even a big deal.”

“All right,” Emily says. There’s something going on in her crazy eyes that I’m not liking at all.

“In fact,” I say, standing up, “you should probably forget about it. It’s so not even a thing that matters. It was just—”

“You seem ashamed.”

“I’m not—” I begin, but I’m interrupted by Dennis dragging her stuff into the room.

“Your luggage, milady,” he declares, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. She smiles. “You guys bonding?”

“We are,” Emily replies, throwing a little look at me.

“Oh yeah,” I say. “Totally.”

We haven’t got any milk. Not unusual, but milk, it’s kind of a household staple. The way I see it, we can try to impress Emily all we want with Josh
Groban and rejected pork chops, but if there isn’t even milk in the morning, well, that right there is a surefire sign of inherent dysfunction.

I pitch this to my mom, who thankfully sees things the same way. Then I gallantly offer to run out and get some, therefore averting this most horrific of
crises.

On my way to the store, I take a little detour.

Arthur’s the one to open the front door, which is a relief. I don’t really know how well this’d go with Kristy interference.

He looks happy to see me, even though his face gets worried right away, to show he hasn’t forgotten about what happened earlier. The fact that the
first thing he looks is

happy

, though, just because it’s

– I dunno. It makes me feel like shit somewhere in the back of my brain, but not to the

point where it changes stuff any.

“How are things?”

“Cool. She’s not gonna tell.”

He relaxes a little. “That’s good.”

“Yeah. Hey, listen. I’m not ashamed of you or anything.”

“Um,” Arthur says, frowning a little. “Thank you.”

“I dunno, man, I just don’t want you to think that’s why I … I just know how stuff has gotta be, you know? That’s all. It’s like, my life is this certain way,
and that’s how it works, and I can’t just – but I’m not ashamed of you. You’re good people. The fact that you like me, it’s … you’re the best person
that ever has, no question. I don’t really get why you even bother.”

He’s starting to smile.

“And I—” I’m not really sure how to say what I’m supposed to be saying, so I go quiet and just look at him. His tie is flipped back over his shoulder
and he’s got a kitchen towel in his hands. Must have caught him mid-dishwashing.

Oh, you son of a bitch,

I think, in the least oh-you-son-of-a-bitch way possible.

“Can we maybe put this on pause for a little while?”

His brow starts to furrow.

“Not, like, it’s-over-pause,” I hurry to add. “Just … I don’t think I can really handle this while my brother’s here and we’re doing the whole family
Christmas thing. And hey, you know, you’ve probably got Christmas stuff to do, too, right? So you probably don’t even have time to be dealing with
…” Oh, man, the furrowed brow, it’s not budging. “You okay over there?”

“Splendid, actually,” he replies, but my new foe the furrowed brow does not lend credence to his words. Damn it, furrowed brow! It is very quickly
becoming my new life goal to vanquish it.

“It’s not you. It’s –” Okay, no way am I finishing that sentence with ‘me.’ I do a mental search for alternative endings. “—this girl. This friggin’ girl my
brother is dating. She doesn’t eat pork because of Gilbert, and she wears this hat, and – and she

knows

things. I feel like maybe we should tread

carefully while she’s around.”

“Why?” Arthur points out, all wry and valid. “I get the sense that she might know about us already.”

“I dunno, man, I think she was really starting to buy my whole he-tripped-and-fell-on-my-face story.”

And then the furrowed brow heightens its presence. Not only that, but it’s accompanied by this not-quite-sigh thing and a shake of his head. I feel my
stomach plummet and ooze into my toes. Arthur stares at our feet for a couple of seconds, like he can see the stomach-oozed toes through my
sneakers, then looks back up at me. “Howie—”

He goes silent.

It is some motherfucking ominous shit.

“Yeah?” I finally croak.

He looks at me. I don’t even know what to see in that look.

And then – wonderfully! Miraculously!

“Nothing,” he says, expression softening. “Do what you feel like you need to.”

It’s not a

perfect

response – like, what is this ‘

feel

like you need to’ malarkey? This

what I need to do, plain and simple. But, whatever, he gets an

out for being patient and understanding. I will forgive him a couple of poorly chosen words.

“Really?” I ask, just to make sure he’s not messing with me. “And you and me, we’re …”

He shrugs, the hint of a smile on his mouth.

Then he slams the door in my face.

Well.

“Cute,” I call.

No answer.

“Seriously,” I persist, shoving my hands into my pockets. “I mean it. Adorable. They should draw a picture of this moment and make it April on a
calendar.”

Nothing.

“Stick it next to a cherub-kitten. Some babies dressed like eggplants…”

Still nothing.

Despite myself, I start to feel a little worried. Who resists hilarious calendar quips? Nobody! Nobody who’s not secretly pissed at you. Oh, shit. This
wasn’t a good idea at all. I should have just gone straight for the milk. The milk that we didn’t even technically need, because – fine, I’ll admit it, I
poured it into the sink so I would have an excuse to leave, and stop here, and tell Arthur I’m not ashamed of him

out of nowhere

, which, hey genius,

maybe that’s the kind of thing that you’re not supposed to randomly tell someone you’re involved with, especially when you follow it up with narrowly
avoiding It’s-not-you-it’s-me-ing them,

Jesus

, what is my

problem

. You know what? Emily.

Emily

’s my problem. Thank you,

yet again

, brother of

mine, for showing up and making it abundantly clear how much I suck when compared to your greatness, I sure have missed those good times—

The door swings open.

Arthur smirks at me.

“That wasn’t funny,” I let him know.

He shrugs. “I thought it was a little funny.”

“Yeah, see, that’s why you need me around. To teach you that your sense of humor actually sucks.”

“How can one person be so unfailingly charming? Honestly. I keep thinking we’ve reached the peak of it, and then you outdo yourself.”

“That’s a little thing I like to call skills, Artie my man.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“That’s what I call it. Oh, the things I could teach you.”

I don’t really want to leave once we get talking. I’m starting to notice a pesky pattern there, where conversation with Arthur is concerned. But it only
takes so long to buy milk, so I extract myself. I don’t kiss him goodbye – that seems a little too two-steps-forward-one-step-back – but there’s this
weird, lingering, stilted moment, like where a kiss is supposed to be. I can tell that he’s just as aware of it as I am.

Still, it feels pretty good once I’m back in the car and away from him. I feel a lot lighter: Arthur doesn’t seem pissed, and I don’t have to worry about
keeping up my life of deception for a couple of weeks. I mean, sure, it kind of sucks to be all “Happy holidays –

later

!” to someone I, well, like a lot,

during the time of year where you’re supposed to be all extra-cuddly and full o’ love, but whatever. Small price, and all that. The point is, I am
temporarily free of all this. I walk into the grocery store feeling so relieved I could whistle. I don’t, though. People who sing to themselves in public
always freak me out.

Chapter Seventeen

I wake up the next morning to the sound of Mitch.

I pull myself out of bed and head downstairs. My first glimpse of the kitchen from the hall reveals Mitch standing in front of our open refrigerator like

a king surveying his majestic domain. A king in a ‘Dick’s Hardware’ t-shirt.

“Amber, Amber! How much would you pay me if I ate one of these?” he demands, showing exactly no reverence for the balance of nature as he
peels the pack of ancient hotdogs off the shelf.

Amber. Sure enough, she’s sitting at the counter next to my mom, cup of tea in hand. All of my Amber angst has been suppressed by necessity, but
seeing her again gets me feeling horrible right away.

“Hmm,” she replies, tilting her head in mock-contemplation, “lemme think: zero dollars.”

“No, seriously. If I

ate one

.”

“I would pay you nothing, Mitchell.”

“Amber, these are hella old. That’s gotta be worth like five bucks at least.”

“I’m not going to pay you to eat somebody else’s old hotdogs, you moron.”

“What if I covered them in—” He rummages through the contents of the side door: “—

marmalade

? Why do you guys have marmalade? Doesn’t this

only exist in, like, Australia?”

I decide this is as good a time as any to make my entrance.

“Morning,” I say to my mom. Amber’s posture gets stiffer. “Why’d you let him in?”

“He seemed hungry,” Mom replies, casting an amused smile at Mitch. “And I know I should clean out the fridge, but if I can get your buddies to do it
for me—”

“Is it good?” Mitch ponders, staring in fascination at the marmalade.

I finally let my eyes rest on Amber.

“Hey,” I say to her.

“Hey,” she replies, stirring more honey into her tea with extreme concentration.

“Emily and Dennis up?” I ask my mom.

“Up and out,” Mom replies. “He wanted to show her around town.”

“Oh. Show her

what

?”

“I don’t know,” Mom says, shaking her head. “But he was very enthusiastic. It was sweet. He really seems to like that girl.” A pained expression
fleets across her face. Amber’s too. Presumably for a different reason.

“I was just getting an earful about her, as a matter of fact,” Amber tells me.

“Not an earful,” my mom protests. “Maybe half an ear.”

“I can’t believe she had the nerve to hate on Mansfield Spark. You did explain to her that it’s got a

point

, right?”

“Oh, honey, I didn’t even bother to try. I was still getting over the dead pig story.”

“The whole point is that Mansfield Park is the neglected little freak of the Austen family. Sure, you’ve got your one thousand trashy sequels about
Darcy and Lizzy’s sex life, but no one until you even

thought

of writing four hundred pages of smut about Fanny and Edmund.”

“And then Fanny and Henry Crawford.”

“And then Fanny and Edmund again.”

“And then Fanny

and

Edmund

and

Henry Crawford.”

“Don’t forget Mary Crawford.”

“Maybe it was a little tacky to toe the incest line,” my mom muses.

“Whatever,” Amber replies dismissively. “Edmund and Fanny are cousins. It’s always been there to an extent.”

“How are you my mother?” I want to know.

Mom ignores me.

“I can’t believe Mansfield Park’s her favorite,” Amber sighs.

“I know,” my mom agrees despairingly. “It says so much about a person.”

They are speaking in code. Austen code.

“I mean,

any

of the others—”

“

Any

of them—”

“—would recommend her so much more to me. She’s the first girl I’ve ever encountered who doesn’t seem to aspire toward being Elizabeth
Bennet.”

“Who doesn’t want to be Elizabeth?”

“I suspect,” my mother says delicately, “she’s got a bit of Fanny Price about her.”

Amber groans. “Oh, Jesus.”

“Exactly! Is it so wrong that I want my boys with Elizabeths? I’ll settle for Emmas or Cathy Morlands. An Elinor, a Marianne—”

“Are there any skanks?” I interject helpfully. “’Cause if so, you should probably wish them upon me.” (Check me out, working my heterosexuality into

everyday conversation.)

“Yeah, I’m sure you and Isabella Thorpe will be just darling together,” Amber replies, rolling her eyes.

“But

Mansfield Park

,” my mother laments. “Oh, Amber. Remember when Dennis decided he was in love with you for about a month in eighth

grade?”

“Kinda, yeah,” Amber replies. She sounds totally normal, and if she has this tiny little split-second where

something

crosses her face, well, it’s

subtle enough that Mom doesn’t notice.

My oblivious, oblivious mother sighs. “Why couldn’t those days have lasted?”

“But then you wouldn’t have this great new prospective daughter-in-law,” Amber replies, even managing a wicked grin in the heights of her secret
pain. Tough as nails, this girl.

“Oh, please,” my mom says, reaching over to squeeze Amber’s shoulder. “I’d take you in a heartbeat.”

Man, this is even starting to make

soul hurt.

And so I do something about it.

And that something is ask: “What about the one with the crazy bitch in the attic?”

Silence.

“What?” Mom says, blank.

“I thought we were discussing our favoritest of Austen titles. I’m not hearing any love for the one with the crazy bitch in the attic.”

“You

are

kidding, right?” Amber finally asks.

“… the crazy

woman

?” I amend.

Amber stares at me. And stares, and stares. “You’re an

English major

.”

“I’m an English major ‘cause it sounded way cooler than studying crap that exists,” I retort, trying to seem shameless. There’s maybe the tiniest
spark of shame, but let’s just keep that between you and me. “I’m not your average English major. I’m the rogue, the renegade, the underdog.”

“Jane Austen and Jane Eyre are different, sweetie,” my mom says, tousling my hair with pitying affection.

“That’s all well and good,” I reply impatiently, swatting her off. “But which one’s skankier?”

“Jane Austen never got married,” Amber says. “Jane Eyre found out she was accidentally having an affair with a married man so she cut things off
and went to be a spinster schoolteacher. She was fictional, by the way.”

I pretend to ponder my options for a second. “Nope. Not skanky enough. What about the crazy wife in the attic? It sounds like she likes to get fuh-
reaky.”

“Oh, babe,” Mom says, “at the least I like to think that I’ve raised you to appreciate the value of a spinster schoolteacher.”

“You’re like a spinster schoolteacher variant,” I point out. “Let’s not get Oedipal.”

“Fair enough,” Mom says.

“Please, Howie, you just know your mom’s fighting back guys wherever she goes,” Amber adds. “Infatuated schoolboys, smitten coworkers, the
whole deal.”

“That’s true,” Mom acknowledges with a fake-demure nod. “Especially the schoolboy part.”

I cover my ears. “Augh! First Sparky Mansfield, now this?”

“Not to mention,” Mom continues, dropping the harlot schoolmarm schtick (thank

God

), “that actually—”

“LADIES, LADIES, LADIES.” Mitch interjects. “And Howie.”

“Thanks, man.”

“No problem, dude. Announcement.” He pauses grandly, standing before us with the jar of marmalade (now open) and the spoon he used to
sample it. A fleck of it flies across the room and onto the counter top as he waves his arm. “This nonsense is

delicious

.”

“Mitch, honey, I’m really not sure how long that’s been in there,” my mom says warily.

Mitch does not give a damn. It’s why I keep him around. “Seriously though, you guys, those Australians know what they’re doing.”

“Is anyone going to explain to him about how it’s England?” Amber asks in an undertone.

“Nope,” I say.

“I think it’s sort of sweet,” says my mother.

Amber sighs. “Mitch, let me explain something to you.”

While Amber breaks down the real deal about marmalade, I get ready for work. When I come downstairs again, it’s with minty fresh breath and a
plan to weasel myself back into her good graces. I hide my hand – the hand holding the object that will, God willing, win her heart – behind my back.

She’s sitting at the kitchen table with Mitch. The marmalade is on the table, one in a line of many of its refrigerator brothers: maple syrup, strawberry
jam, blackberry jam, some frosting, and some chocolate sauce. They’ve also got a packet of saltines. It’s not hard to decipher what’s going on here:
namely, major tastebud experimentation. Mitch, ever boldly going where no man has gone since elementary school, is clutching a cracker that’s got
all the toppings on it.

“That is disgusting. It’s

disgusting

! I am of the serious belief that you are five and big for your age.”

“Try it.”

“No way.”

“Amber. Come on. Try it.”

“There is not enough ‘no’ in the universe.”

“What if I make it fly? Here, I’ll make it fly. Bzzzzzzzz!!”

“Mitch,

—”

“Bzzzzz – oh, oh, it’s comin’, it’s comin’—”

“You are a

dork

, you are the dorkiest of all the dorks—”

“It tastes better if it flies into your mouth, Amber, it’s like food science—”

“It’s like food science? What does that even mean?”

“Uh, it means a little thing I like to call

delicious

. Bzzzz—”

“Oh, fine.” Amber snatches the cracker out of his hand and shoves it into her mouth. It’s the kind of thing that’ll garner Mitch’s respect for life.

Sure enough—

“What what?

Hell yeah!

Pound it!”

She pounds it accordingly, laughing. “God, this is so gross—”

I figure I might as well get in on this while there’s a smile on her face. “Hey, Amber, can I talk to you for a second?”

Her expression darkens a little. I think she’d frown at me if she wasn’t so busy chewing. She covers her mouth with her hand (ever the lady) and
asks, “Aren’t you gonna be late?”

“No biggie,” I reply. “Walk with me.”

For a second I think she’s gonna refuse, but then she stands up. “Fine.”

She follows me outside to my car. I open the passenger’s seat door for her.

She stares at me. “Seriously?”

“If you would, good lady.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sure, okay.”

I close the door behind her, then walk around and get in. I turn the car on.

“What is this? Are you kidnapping me or something? Because, you know, ooh, ahh. Bold.”

I don’t speak. Speaking would ruin the perfect, momentous solemnity of the moment. Instead, I reach over to the CD player with my free hand, and I
press eject. Out come the Femmes. I take the CD out and, after a pause rich with poignancy (in my head, anyway), I hand it to her.

“Wow,” she deadpans, but I can tell she’s trying to figure out what’s going on. “Thanks so much. You know how I love—”

“Take it. Keep it. Lock it up. You are their guardian now.”

“What?”

“I’m relinquishing my Femmes rights. From now on, whenever I chauffeur you around, you get free musical reign.”

She laughs a little. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”

“In their place,” I finish, revealing the secret weapon, “I bring you this.”

And I hand her the CD, which has been collecting dust under my desk ever since she thought it would be hilarious to give it to me as a joke a few
years back.

“Boys for Pele,” she murmurs, taking it from me.

“Boys for Pele,” I confirm gravely.

Maybe not epic to everybody, but

everybody

didn’t bear witness to my many ‘whose genius idea was it to give Tori Amos a goddamn

harpsichord?’ laments. Oh, the battles Amber and I fought over this one.

I figure surrendering is worth it. I just want stuff to be good with her. The only thing I’ve always had is stuff being good with her.

“And if I want to play Professional Widow on repeat a thousand million times …”

“My ears may bleed, but I’ll drive on.”

“You’re such a stupid bastard,” she declares, a smile breaking out onto her face. She leans forward and wraps her arms around me. “I love you.”

“Right back atcha,” I murmur into her hair.

“I’m sorry I freaked out at you,” she says when she pulls away. “I mean, of course you can be friends with whoever you want and date whoever you
want. It’s just … you’re all I’ve really got going for me here.”

“I get that. I totally get that. You’re all I’ve really got going for me

anywhere

.”

“Oh, now you’re just sucking up,” she says, shoving me. In a nice way. “But, you know, I’m sorry. I don’t want you to think you can’t tell me stuff
because I’ll go all crazy-bitch-in-the-attic on you.”

“Sister, I’m

down

with crazy bitches in the attic. I thought we established this.”

“Of course. And that was—”

“Jane Eyre. Not the same as Jane Austen.”

“Aw, you’re learning.” She pinches my cheek. I scowl at her. Then she gets serious again. It’s kind of starting to freak me out, honestly. “Howie, you
can tell me stuff, okay? I don’t need you to, like, exist in this cage where I only let you out to be my trusty friend boy.”

“I know,” I say, but I’m feeling kind of nauseous all of a sudden. There’s this moment, this moment that seems so clear, and I realize that I could just
tell her. I could just say the words – the ‘Actually, I’m kind of crazy about my boss, my dude boss, and yeah, it’s in a gay way’ words – and she’d

know

and I’d be … man, I don’t even know what I’d be.

But then I look at her, and … she’s Amber. I’ve known her my whole life. She

knows

me. Better than anybody. I can’t. I can’t bring myself to screw us

up.

“I tell you stuff.” I force a smile. “I tell you all kinds of stuff.”

She gives me a fond little smile. “Yeah, I know.” Then she sighs. “Besides, I’m just a little awful right now because of the whole … you know, your
brother thing. Your brother having a girlfriend thing.”

“Oh, Christ. I think we’re all awful over that. She is a friggin’

lunatic

.”

“Really?” I can tell she’s trying not to look too pleased. “Your mom really didn’t seem over the moon about her.”

“You kidding? She’s ridonk.”

“Ridonk.”

“That’s right. Ridonkulous. For when ridiculous isn’t enough. Because it

isn’t

. She’s – she’s awkward and weird and, um, not to be a shallow bastard

man here, but the lady ain’t exactly a looker.”

“Really?”

“Amber, you are so much prettier than her. So, so, so, so. If there was a way to italicize your speech, I would do it right now to communicate

how

much so,

and it still wouldn’t get it across all the way. Not to mention that your sanity and actual interesting personality have kinda got it goin’ on.”

“Shut up,” she orders, very diplomatic, but I can tell she’s fighting back a smile. “I bet he really cares about her.”

“For now,” I snort. “There’s no way that’s lasting. There’s just no way. And if it does, I will sabotage that friggin’ love connection myself, because no
way is

that

marrying into this clan.”

“Kitty got claws,” Amber smirks.

“Kitty got claws, and kitty will scratch her shit up,” I confirm.

She smiles at me. “Hey, Howie?”

“Yep?”

And that’s when she puts the CD in.

“Aughhhhhh!” And the harpsichord, it harps and chords madly on.

Chapter Eighteen

As soon as non-work stuff starts to go okay, the universe retaliates by making work stuff suck.

The sorry fact of the matter is that people just don’t come in so much anymore. It’s not like we were ever busy to begin with – I’m still pretty sure that
your average human doesn’t even know that arts and crafts stores exist – but now it’s, like, tumbleweeds.

It’s not like I’m giddy about Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts descending into ruin. I like having a job, and if we’re being realistic, this is pretty much my only
employment option that doesn’t involve fast food or heavy lifting. Not to mention that I don’t want any of my coworkers to suffer the pitfalls of this
place going down – especially Arthur, who I’m guessing wouldn’t take the failure so well.

Stuff keeps happening to make that abundantly clear. As time goes by, he starts to develop this

look

. It happens, unfailingly, when the customers

are trying to be nice. Like, some granny’ll come in and buy some wool for a sweater, and while she’s paying she’ll reach over and pat Arthur on the
hand and say, “

still think this place is very nice, dear. Don’t you mind anyone else.” Cue The Look. Or, worse: “Hang in there.”

In those moments, it seems like maybe he won’t. Which sounds flippin’ ridiculous: it’s Arthur Kraft. Arthur Kraft doesn’t need to be told to hang in
there.

I don’t think.

But then one afternoon the ladies and I are pretending to be busy – a noble art you tend to get good at when no one’s set foot inside for the past
hour – when Arthur comes out. The Look is there.

“Cora,” he says in a voice so composed that it’s scary, “may I speak to you for a moment?”

“Yeah, sure,” she says easily, and doesn’t budge.

“I was thinking in my office.”

She smirks. “Why, Principal Kraft? Am I in trouble? You gonna give me detention?”

Arthur doesn’t answer. Just stares her down.

“There was totally a Principal Kraft on Sabrina the Teenage Witch.” Ah, Kristy. Valiantly jumping in to save us all. “There was this one episode
where he and Sabrina’s Aunt Zelda started dating, and—”

Arthur’s not having it. “Kristy, if you could …”

“Sorry,” she squeaks.

I give her a ‘hey, ya tried’ look. She stares miserably back.

“What’s up, Arthur?” Cora asks bluntly.

He raises his eyebrows. “You’d like to discuss it here?”

“There aren’t exactly any customers to startle.”

Yowch. Bad call, Caldwell.

“Fine.” Arthur pauses. The tension mounts. I think Kristy might actually start biting her nails in a second. It’d be a shame, since she just spent fifteen
minutes explaining the detailed procedure that was painting them last night. There are little smiling daisies on her thumbs.

“Why,” Arthur asks Cora, “have you been shopping at Holly’s?”

Kristy honest-to-God gasps.

What’s even lamer is that I have to stop myself from following suit.

Cora goes from zero to scary in two seconds flat. “You were going through my shit?”

“I happened to see the bag with your things in the kitchen.”

“It’s my nephew’s birthday tomorrow. I got him some watercolors.”

“At Holly’s.”

“No, I just liked the bag;

yeah

, at Holly’s. Fine. You caught me.”

It is the worst. The actual worst. Kristy and I are hiding behind the counter for dear life, Cora’s morphed into the uberest of uber-bitches, and Arthur’s
staring at her like she just committed the highest form of treason and deserves death by firing squad.

“Cora,” Arthur finally says, sounding freakishly, terrifyingly calm, “Why. Would you shop. At Holly’s.”

There’s a horrible, bad pause. A death pause. Cora looks like she’s weighing all her options; there’s something sharp and primal in her eyes.And
then:

“It’s cheaper.”

She spits the words out like the foulest of obscenities.

“You get an employee discount

here

.”

“It’s still cheaper. You give me a raise, maybe I’ll buy my art supplies here.”

“This is unacceptable.”

“Really?

This

is unacceptable?” She slams her hand down on the counter. Kristy and I wince. “‘Cause I wasn’t aware that nine bucks an hour gave

you the right to tell me where I can and can’t shop.”

Oh, shit, Arthur looks pissed. Like, actual pissed-for-real, where he doesn’t even bother to cover it with composure. “Holly’s is directly responsible
for running us out of business. The fact that you would be so completely insensitive—”

“Hey, Arthur, you ever think that Holly’s is running us out of business because it’s the better fucking store?”

Oh, hell no.

“Jesus, Cora, come

,” I mutter. Kristy lets out a miserable whimper.

Arthur and Cora stare at each other, western showdown style.

“Maybe you should leave,” Arthur says at last.

“Noooo,” Kristy whispers in a tiny voice.

Cora’s jaw drops. “You’re firing me?”

“I’m giving you the afternoon off to think about what you’ve done.”

“Oh.” She groans. “Oh, you did not just say that.”

Arthur folds his arms over his chest. “I’d advise that you make more of an effort with your job performance from now on.”

Cora snorts. “Whatever, dude, the whole

point

is that you don’t have to make an effort here. You think any of us work here because we’ve got a real

passion for arts supplies?”

Kristy practically jumps over the counter. For such a happy little pixie, she’s ready to sacrifice herself in a heartbeat if the cause is worthy. She’s
Joan of Arc with a really bouncy ponytail. “I like—”

“Kristy has a passion for the lint you scrape off the laundry screen,” Cora cuts in. “Kristy doesn’t count.”

I feel a surge of protectiveness, of ‘nobody’s burning my lady coworker at the stake!’ Luckily, it’s overpowered by many, many surges of unholy
terror. I’m realistic enough to understand my chances, should I choose to take on a girl with a lip ring.

“I was just joking about that,” Kristy says, after a few seconds of stricken silence. “It’s nice that it’s fluffy. It’s my second favorite part about doing
laundry.”

Another surge of protectiveness courses through me, this one stronger. I gotta do something. And the best thing I can think to do right now is ask,
as conversationally as I can, “Is it really called a laundry screen?”

Wrong move. Instead of everybody weighing in on this fun hip new conversation topic, Cora turns her wrath on me. Fucking damn diggity. “What
about Howie? You think Howie’s really bouncing up and down to sell yarn?”

“Ya know, buds, I really don’t think I’m the issue here,” I hurry to say. “I’ve never even

been

to Holly’s, and I’m not planning on—”

Arthur talks over me. Thanks, dude. Respect. “Howie’s managed to keep his behavior professional—”

Cora barks out a laugh. “Oh, please, you guys make out in the storage closet! I get it if that’s gonna get him preferential treatment or whatever, but
don’t pretend he’s Mr. Bobby Craft Store.”

I get that I like this person. I mean, I fear this person. I cower before this person. I am haunted by the memory of this person endeavoring to chow
down on my ear. But still. Overall, at the end of the line, when it all comes down to what it all comes down to, I like this person.

I look at Arthur, and I look at Kristy – who looks more crushed than ever, like she’s of the devout belief that our poorly hidden storage closet
makeout romps are sacred and should be used only for good – and I have a really hard time remembering I feel anything towards Cora besides
bright filthy hatred.

At least she seems to realize it. After the tensest, most miserable ten seconds in the history of mankind, she mutters, “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Kristy says, weakly and unconvincingly.

I can’t quite agree with her on that one. Neither, by the look of him, can Arthur.

“Just admit that we’re fucked, Arthur,” Cora finally says. “Just get your head out of your ass and admit it so I don’t have to be mad at you.” By Cora
standards, it’s kinda sweet.

He looks at her for a long time. His face is perfectly, frighteningly blank.

Then he turns around and leaves.

“Fucker,” Cora mutters as we listen to him climb the stairs.

“Um,” I say, “thanks for that, Brutus. That was really just phenomenal.”

“Oh, shut up,” Cora scowls.

“Maybe you should go talk to him,” Kristy suggests gently.

Which, okay, real brilliant idea, I’m sure what the world really needs right now is

another

touching Arthur-and-Cora heart-to-heart—

And then I realize she means me.

Well.

Damn it.

“I dunno—”

But Kristy looks heartbroken, all shining big blue eyes. It’s easy to tell that even Cora feels like shit and she’s trying not to show it.

“Yeah, okay,” I reply, figuring I can go hide in the storage closet for fifteen minutes and spend the time making up a story about Arthur’s and my so-
not-gonna-happen chat. It’ll be real rousing stuff.

And then Kristy pecks me on the cheek. “Thanks, Howie.”

She sounds so flippin’ earnest.

Goddammit.

“Come in,” Arthur says brusquely in response to my knock – the softest, reluctantest, unknockiest knock in the history of that long complicated
relationship betwixt doors and knuckles.

Well, fuck. Call me an incorrigible optimist, but I was kinda hoping he’d be grumpy enough to refuse to see anybody. Just, like, lock the door and
drown his pain by listening to some angry Beethoven. I’ve got this perception of Beethoven where he’s just, like, really pissed all the time. Yeah, ol’
Ludwig, he had a lot to pound on the piano bitterly about.

I’m Germannnn! I’m deaffff! I’m bliiiind! My name is Ludwigggg!

Was he blind? I’m pretty sure.

Or, wait, maybe that was Helen Keller.

Was he even German?

Was

she

German?

Is Ludwig a name?

I’m starting to worry I’m just making shit up.

“Come in,” Arthur calls again, more pointedly this time.

‘Til we meet again in the recesses of my crazy-ass brain, Maybe-Ludwig Helen von Keller Beethoven, Deaf Blind Sorry German (?) Bastard.

I take a breath, then push the door open and walk into Arthur’s office. He’s sitting at his desk, shuffling through papers. I get the sense that the
papers aren’t as important as the shuffling, with its convenient suggestion of busyness.

“Yo, boss,” I say, all jaunty. “What’s shakin’?”

“Sorting through some papers.” His voice is extra-brisk. It freaks me out. “I’m sure you’re not interested.”

“You know me. I hate papers.”

“Right.”

“Reading, efficiency … me, I just like to say no.”

“Of course.” Well, this sucks. “Does this visit have a point, Howie?”

“The ladies sent me up to talk you down.”

“Talk me down?”

“Off the ledge. The metaphorical ledge. Or, I dunno, somethin’. Bitches. Who knows what they’re talking about, right? I’m sure glad I switched sides
on that one.” Jesus.

“Well, rest assured, I’m not contemplating ledges,” he replies, rapping the stack of papers against the desk and then setting them aside. He looks
up at me and gives me this flat, run-of-the-mill smile, this plain generic smile that he’d give to anybody. A random dude on the street, a pain-in-the-
ass customer. Don’t I feel special. “Metaphorical or otherwise. Cora has always been troublesome.”

“Listen, she’s really sorry,” I say, feeling weirdly obligated. “I can tell she feels shitty about it.”

“I’d certainly hope so,” Arthur replies crisply. He glances over at his computer screen.

Man, he is bumming me out, old school style. I almost expect him to accuse me of trying to fistbump him.

“Maybe we aren’t doomed.” Oh, God, I can’t believe I’m being forced to be the voice of hope. Where’s Kristy when you need her? Oh, yeah, that’s
right – downstairs feeling unduly guilty about her adoration of laundry lint. “I mean, sure, it looks bad, but … it’s not like we’re totally screwed yet,
right? Something good could still happen. Holly’s could … burn down, or something.”

Arthur lifts his eyebrows.

“I’m not gonna burn down Holly’s,” I hurry to add.

He keeps on staring.

“Ya know, unless you really want me to.”

Goddammit, man,

react

“That was a joke,” I explain helpfully. “Arson, not really my dealio.”

“You know,” Arthur says, “it’s probably a good idea that you suggested we take a break.”

That’s it. I’m never coming upstairs because Kristy tells me to ever again.

“Oh yeah?” I ask, so cool. “Why’s that?”

“Well, Cora brought up a good point, in spite of her less-than-lovely demeanor. It is very unprofessional, and I’ve never made a habit of being
unprofessional.”

“Yeah,” I say, “I get that.”

I’m lying. I get

nothing

“I’ve always worked very hard at running this place,” he continues. All I hear is ‘blah blah blah I find you secretly repulsive.’ “It may not exactly be my
chosen field, or what I envisioned I’d be doing right now, but I’ve got responsibilities to my family and to this business, and just because the odds
are against us doesn’t mean that I’m going to simply—”

BLAH BLAH HATE BLAH.

“You know what,” I interrupt, “I think I hear Kristy calling from downstairs.”

“I’m sure you do,” Arthur replies smoothly.

“So I will just … catch you later, hombre.” And then, because there’s something in me, some virile impulse to snark in the face of getting shot down, I
add, “Sorry. Was that unprofessional? Catch you later, boss.

Sir.

”

“You don’t have to call me sir.” Motherfucker’s still perfectly composed. How does he

that?

“Got it,” I mutter.

I make it to the door, then stop instead of going out. It’s inopportune, but I’m sort of intrigued. He’s never really talked to me about his family before.
He’s never really talked to me about himself before, period. I never thought about it so much. I’ve been kind of preoccupied by the whole secretly-
into-a-guy thing and what it meant for me. I still don’t really have that figured out, but hell, maybe it’s not going to matter anymore.

“What would be your chosen field?” I ask. “Like, your dream job or whatever?”

For a second, I think he’s not gonna say anything back. Then: “Practical or ridiculous?”

Easy. “Ridiculous.”

“Concert pianist.” His mouth twists into a bitter little smirk.

“Huh.” I almost feel bad for him, and something about him smirking like that makes me want to tell him it’s all gonna be okay or whatever, but – well,
but he was just a total pain-in-the-ass son of a bitch to me. He maybe dumped me, and the worst part is that I can’t exactly get upset, seeing as how
I started it.

So I don’t say anything, and I go back downstairs.

That night, Amber and Dennis and Emily and I go out for pizza. I know Amber’s nervous because she sent me seven grammatically immaculate text
messages about how she’d see to it I was castrated if I ditched her, but it’s impossible to detect said nervousness once we’re all together.

“What are you, a satyr?” Amber asks Dennis as soon as we’re inside the pizza place. She points at The Goatee.

“Sure, if by satyr, you mean sex bomb.”

“Still totally deluded, I see.”

Dennis grins big and pulls her into a hug. “Long time no see, Amber May.” (He remains the only person allowed to invoke the power of her much-
hated middle name, ClarkRents included. The fact that he doesn’t read anything into this? Kinda worrying. Come on, man.)

“It’s been awhile,” she agrees, squeezing him tight. “How’s doctor school? Are you really important yet?”

“You even need to ask? Seriously? Amber. C’mon.”

“Yeah, you see, I’m just not getting really important vibes yet.” She’s so smiley and sarcastic and normal and

Amber

. It simultaneously freaks me out

and makes me kind of jealous.

“One day you’ll stop hating on me. And on that day, I’ll be so awesome – nay, so

awesomely important

– that you’ll feel bad for ever hating in the

first place. I’m just saying. I’m just warning you.”

“Yeah, that’s cute how you think that.”

Emily looks back and forth between the pair of them with mild, quaint puzzlement, like they’re speaking a language she doesn’t know.

“And this,” Dennis finishes, slinging an affectionate arm around her, “is my girl Emily. Who’s always nice to me, may I just point out.”

“Aw, Emily,” Amber says, shaking her hand. “How unfortunate for you.”

“Not really,” Emily replies, so far out of the rapport they’ve got going that she might as well be in a different country. Frickinweirdodonia. “I find him
easy to be nice to.”

“That makes one of us,” Amber says, smirking at Dennis as we sit down. She and Dennis wind up next to each other, which means I’m next to
Emily. Joy, joyness. Our table’s right by a window, though, and I’ve got a prime view out of it. I figure that if I throw in a random remark every five
minutes, I’ll be good. Amber’s too busy being secretly in love with Dennis, Dennis is too busy a) not noticing, and b) justifying his relationship with
Emily as something that should exist, and Emily is … Emily. She’s probably daydreaming of running around fields with dead piggy Gilbert while
Enya beatifically

la-la-la

s in the background.

“Amber, do you have a boyfriend?” Emily asks.

Or not.

“Nope,” Amber replies, totally untroubled. “I am doomed to spinsterhood.”

“Yeah riiiighhht,” Dennis jumps in immediately, rolling his eyes.

“You’re questioning the spinsterhood, Doctor Jenkins? Really?”

“She always says that, but come on, look at her,” Dennis says to Emily. “Ya know, I’m of the theory that she’s had dozens of secret boyfriends over

the years and she’s just not telling us. The whole spinster thing? Total charade.”

“I’ll never tell,” Amber replies, elegant and smirky.

“You know, I often used to think that I was bound for spinsterhood,” says Emily. “I never dated anyone before Dennis.”

“Oh yeah?” Amber whacks Dennis lightly on the arm. “Bastard, you’re not supposed to go around stealing my sisters in spinsterhood.”

“Didn’t mean to,” Dennis replies, grinning at Emily. “Couldn’t help it.”

He reaches for Emily’s hand across the table and kisses it. For split-second, pain flickers across Amber’s face.

“Anyway, if the parents had their way, it’d be Amber and Howie,” Dennis continues, smiling at me.

Emily’s eyes widen a little bit.

Damn it, Dennis, why’d you have to go there?

“Yeah,” Amber says, “not gonna happen.”

“I didn’t think so,” Emily agrees.

“Why didn’t you think so?” Dennis asks.

Shit.

“

think it could happen,” I leap in. I have no choice. “Whaddya say, Amber? If in, say, ten years, you’re still single, I’m still single—”

“You’re romcom-propositioning me.”

“Maybe a little.”

“Don’t. Ever.”

“Check,” I mumble.

“I’m sure there’s someone very good out there for both of you,” Emily says placidly. She pauses just long enough, then adds, “Maybe you’ve even
met them already.”

I try to look a whole lot like I don’t have a secret (ex?) good-for-me person out there anywhere, especially not one that’s a dude. Amber doesn’t look
at Dennis.

“I’m starved,” Dennis says, happily oblivious. “Let’s get us some pizza.”

“Yes please,” Amber says.

“Good by me,” I say.

“Would anyone mind terribly if we didn’t have pepperoni?” Emily asks demurely.

We eat and Amber and Dennis chat about TV and occasionally try to include Emily and me in the conversation. I switch back and forth between
staring out the window and watching Emily carefully chop up her pizza into tiny bites and eat it with a fork.

Man, I wish I wasn’t here. I don’t know where I wish I was instead. Not with Arthur, hell to the no, not if he’s gonna be all distant and spurny. If I wanted
that, I’d just try to win the affections of hot, out-of-my-league ladies. I’ve got years of being-spurned practice there.

The worst part is that I can’t shake the feeling that it’s my fault. I’m the one who started it. And I felt so damn good about it, too, for about five
seconds. Now it’s just like … I dunno, I wish I hadn’t. I wish I’d sat down and made a friggin’ chart or a snazzy Venn diagram, puzzled out some way
to balance the whole two-lives deal without having to ditch one of them.

But, well, seems like I’m too late now. I should just get over it. Move on. Quit worrying about—

“Arthur,” Emily says out of nowhere.

Oh, God, she’s got magic neo-Druidic powers of mind-reading.

“

What

?” I say. Maybe I snap it. “How the hell is he relevant to anything?”

“He’s not, necessarily,” Emily replies. “It’s just that he’s right there.” She points out the window.

Sure enough, there’s Arthur across the street. He’s scarved and peacoated, stepping out of a substantially fancier restaurant. And it’s not like it’s
some sprawling metropolis we’ve got here, but it’s still weird that he’d be in the restaurant right across the street from the restaurant that I’m in at the
exact same time. That’s a thing, right? Like a sign or something.

“I wonder who that is with him,” Emily adds mildly.

Because – I realize in one horrible, guts-lurching instant – there is somebody with him.

The other guy is tall and dark haired, with glasses that make him look GQ instead of nerdy. He’s got a nice coat and a scarf too. Don’t they just
make a delightful fuckin’ pair. I look at him, and for some reason, I just know. I know with a sick, deep knowing.

“Douchey Patrick,” I mutter.

“Huh?” says Dennis.

“You know the guy?” asks Amber. And then she gasps. “Hey – is he gay? Arthur?”

“It looks dately,” Dennis determines.

Dately. Dately. It looks

dately

Amber, predictably, freaks. “Oh my God!!! Howie, holy crap, is Arthur gay and you didn’t tell me?? Some best buddy you are, you have deprived me
of like a straight month of joy, asshole.” She throws a breadstick at me. I don’t even feel it. And not because it’s just a breadstick, and therefore
doesn’t hurt so bad. No, it’s because I’m numb. Numb to all feeling.

Instead of moving along, Arthur and Douchey Patrick are just standing there, talking.

TALKING.

I hope that maybe it will somehow turn into a

fistfight, but no such luck. Instead, Arthur laughs.

Laughs.

“Is he gay?” Amber asks again.

“I dunno,” I force myself to answer. “How would I know that?”

“They’re walking mighty close,” Dennis determines.

“This is so badass,” Amber rhapsodizes.

There’s a screechy, jerking sound, chair legs against floor. I don’t realize until I’m looking down at everybody that it’s because I stood up.

“Uh,” Amber says, “okay.”

“I’m gonna go say hi,” I tell them. My voice sounds weird. Loud and kind of shaky.

Amber says, “What?”

Dennis says, “Don’t go out, man, it’s freezing.”

Amber says, “Howie, so help me God, if you bust up his adorable gay date—”

“I think,” Emily says, “it would be nice of you to say hello.”

“Thanks, Emily,” I reply, oddly touched. “That’s just what I’m gonna do.”

And so, hands clenched into fists, I head outside.

“Seriously,” I can hear Dennis saying back at the table, “he gets that it’s cold, right? And wait – doesn’t he hate that guy?”

“It’s complicated, I think,” Emily says sagely.

Chapter Nineteen

Turns out, Dennis is right. It’s fucking cold out here.

I half-jog across the street, feeling like a grade-A moron all the while, and come to a stop right next to Arthur and his douchetastic dinner
companion. They both stare at me, bewildered. Arthur’s bewildered face is an expression that I’m good buddies with by this point, but when
Douchey Patrick does it, it’s just offensive. They look so friggin’ well-matched.

“Um,” I say, “yo.”

“Howie,” Arthur says slowly, “what are you doing here?”

“Dinner with the bro and some hos back there. No big deal.”

WHO AM I.

“You?”

“The same,” Arthur replies. “Minus the hos.”

“You sure about that?” Oh, shit. It just slips out.

Douchey Patrick stares at me.

“Ahaha,” I throw in, real cool. “Just kidding, man.” I slug his shoulder. Hard.

“Great to meet you, Howie,” Douchey Patrick says, rubbing his shoulder.

“You too, D—Patrick.”

Douchey Patrick looks over at Arthur. “He knows my name?”

Uh,

he’

s right here. Douche.

“I’m a good guesser,” I reply, all suck-on-

that

, before Arthur has a chance to answer. “When in doubt pick C.”

“I’m C,” Douchey Patrick says wryly.

“Well, you sure ain’t A.” From whence comes this drivel? “Ahahaha. Seriously, bro. Just jokes.”

Douchey Patrick turns to Arthur. Guess he can’t handle this. Yeah, that’s right,

ya douche

. “You told him about me?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Arthur says, frowning.

Oh. Right. I’m not even supposed to know about Douchey Patrick in the first place. Friggin’ life of secrecy. “Kristy said some stuff,” I explain, a little
lamely. Whatever. I’m two shakes from hypothermia. I got an excuse.

“Ahhh,” Douchey Patrick says, “Kristy.”

He makes a face. The sort of face I imagine Emily might make when forced to eat asparagus.

You do not

asparagus

Kristy Quincy.

“Oh, that’s right,” Douchey Patrick says. “You’re the new employee. I knew ‘Howie’ sounded familiar.”

“You told him about me?” I ask Arthur, trying not to sound too smug. Failing a little.

“Once or twice, maybe,” Arthur replies absently.

Underwhelming.

“And he wound up hiring you after all,” Douchey Patrick marvels with a laugh that makes me want to punch him right in the sexy glasses. “How about
that.”

“Howie’s been a perfectly decent employee,” Arthur says.

A perfectly decent employee.

A perfectly decent employee?

That’s it?

“You must be freezing,” Arthur says to me, finally wrenching his eyes from Douchey Patrick.

“Ehh,” I say, attempting an unaffected shrug. It’s not easy when your shoulders have frozen into place. I persevere. “Y’know. Whatever.”

“Howie, go back inside,” Arthur instructs, his voice softening. It’s a relief to hear it do that. It’s like – like he still remembers who I am, or something.
Perfectly decent employee my ass.

But the fact remains that he’s out consorting with Douchey Patrick, and he’s telling me to go away.

Play it cool, Jenkins. Play it so cool. “’kay, sure, whatevs. I’ll just leave you fellows to your late night man strolling. Whatever it is you’re up to. The two
of you.” Should

anybody

stand that close together? It just seems fuckin’ invasive. “I’ll see you …”

“Tomorrow at work, I imagine,” Arthur finishes smoothly.

“Righto,” I agree, feeling a little slapped. “’Cause that’s where you see me.”

“Yes,” Arthur says. He gives me this look, this ‘duh, ya weirdo, where else would I see you?’ look, and I realize – like,

realize-

realize – that he

doesn’t want Douchey Patrick to know about me. Not in the storage closet sense.

My stomach lurches. I try to blame the pizza. The cold. Something.

“It was riveting chatting with you, Howie,” Douchey Patrick says, all douchey and Patricklike.

“Yeah, you too, motherfucker,” I shoot back. “Ahahaha. Just messin’.”

This is the worst. The freezing, awkward, I-am-a-dumbass worst.

“Bye, Howie,” Arthur says. He reaches over and touches my arm briefly.

“Bye, Arthur,” I reply. Then I glance at Douchey Patrick, who’s still looking quietly amused and like the worst human that’s ever lived. Something
about that look, it gets to me. And so I reach over, and I touch Arthur’s arm back.

My hands are so cold I can barely bend my fingers, and the fabric of his coat is cold, but there’s the tiniest hint of warmth underneath. Damn it, I just
want him to warm me up. I like him. I so just fuckin’ like this guy. I fucked it up. I know I fucked it up.

“Bye,” I say again.

“Bye,” Arthur says.

“Bye,” Douchey Patrick throws in. Ahaha, isn’t he

hilarious

I take my hand away and let them go.

When I get back inside, Amber and Dennis are both gaping at me. Emily is considerate enough to stare with great interest at the napkin dispenser.

“What the hell was the point of that?” Amber asks.

“I just don’t like that guy,” I reply, settling back into my chair.

Dennis joins in. “So you went out in the freezing cold to see him because …”

“He’s my sworn enemy,” I say. “Gotta pester him at every turn. Crash his date. You know.”

“So it was a date,” Amber says excitedly. “You got confirmation.”

“Oh yeah,” I deadpan. “Actually, they were just telling me about all the sex they’re on their way home to have.”

It’s a joke. It must be a special joke, though, because most jokes don’t make me nauseous.

“Really?” She’s gonna start scribbling fanfiction on a napkin any second.

“I think he’s joking, Amber,” Emily says. All of a sudden, I’m glad she’s around.

“Yeah, thanks, Em,” Amber drawls.

“You know what?” I decide. “I gotta go.”

“What?” Amber asks.

Okay. Maybe that was a little abrupt. Not to mention that now she’s giving me a Don’t You Dare Leave Me look of the highest order. And I

know

. I

get it. The rules of best budhood so decree that you don’t leave said best bud with her longtime love and his girlfriend. But there’s Arthur, and
there’s Douchey Patrick, and if we’re being realistic, odds are they’re probably ArthurandDoucheyPatrick, and it’s … I gotta know. I gotta know or I’ll
fucking puke my own heart out.

And so I look from Amber to Dennis, and I say, “Yeah, Kristy just texted me. She, uh, needs me to stop by.”

“Kristy? Kristy from work?” Amber says. Hey, grave. It’s just great digging you.

“Yeah,” I lie. “She and her boyfriend got into this huge-ass fight, and her roommate’s out of town, and she’s freaking out and I guess she really just
needs someone to talk to—”

“

You

? You’re seriously her best option?”

“I dunno, Amber,” I say, silently vowing to sprint out of here if this doesn’t end in the next ten seconds. “She seemed really upset.”

“What, no exclamation points in the text message?”

“It’s cool,” Dennis interrupts. “Amber, you should come over, we’ll watch a movie.”

“Dennis tells me I have to see Monty Python and the Holy Grail,” Emily says.

Amber looks a little hesitant. Which is a feat, considering I’m pretty sure she feels like her brain’s gonna explode from dread and fury. “I—”

“Amber,” Dennis says gravely, “Monty Python. Come on. Howie’s okay and everything, but

Monty Python

.”

Finally: “Yeah. Okay. Sure.”

“Great.” I stand up. “See, you guys won’t even miss me.”

I don’t look at Amber. I’m the worst person alive. I can’t bring myself to care.

Kristy opens the door. She’s wearing her pajamas already. I can hear something peppy blaring from the TV.

“Howie?”

“Um,” I say, “is Arthur here?”

“He just got back.” I can tell that warning bells are going off in her head – or the Kristy equivalent, which are probably, like, sparkly fairy noises.

“Is he alone?” I sound desperate. Crazy. I’d cringe, except the capacity for shame has been frozen out of me.

Kristy looks like she wants to give me a hug, and the only thing that’s stopping her is the fear that I might snap at any moment. “Of course he is.”

This is where the relief should sink in. Maybe it does, and I’m just too totally wrecked to feel it. All my visions of Arthur and Douchey Patrick
partaking in some elaborate mating ritual that involves, like, the sexy removal of scarves and Banana Republic clothing – gone! It doesn’t help. I still
feel terrible.

“Oh. Uh. Okay. Well, that’s …”

Kristy’s eyes get very bright. “Actually, Nikki and I were just leaving.”

I look at her. Pajamas. Her hair’s pulled up in a clip, all sloppy. She’s not wearing makeup anymore.

“Uh,” I say.

“Yep, we’re going out!” She is the worst liar in the world. “We’ve got plans! Fun plans! Nik!” she calls. “Come on, time to go!”

Nikki shuffles into the entryway. She’s walking weird, and I realize that it’s because her toenails are newly painted. She’s got those little white
divider thingies between her toes.

“Going where?” she grunts.

“Just out!” Kristy chirps. She’s pulling both their coats out of the closet. She throws Nikki’s at her. It falls on the floor. Nikki stares at it. “You know
what, let’s bring the movie over to Reddy’s, he hasn’t seen this one.”

“Would he want to?” Nikki asks blankly.

“What are you talking about? He

loves

Hugh Grant!” Kristy shoots a hasty glance my way, like she’s checking to see whether I’m falling for her

elaborate scheme.

“But didn’t he just say he didn’t want to come over to watch it—”

“Arthur, we’re taking your car!” Kristy yells. “We’re taking his car,” she adds in explanation to me. “Ooh! Better go get his keys! I bet they’re on the
kitchen counter!”

Kristy darts out of the entryway. Nikki and I stare at each other.

“What?” I hear Arthur call. The sound of his voice sends a jolt through me.

Kristy breezes back in, jangling the keys triumphantly. “They werrreeee! They were on the counter! He won’t mind if we take the car! He doesn’t
need to go anywhere! And hey, if he really does, I bet you could drive him, Howie! I’m not the best driver but I think we’ll be fine. It’s just over to
Reddy’s house! How much that’s bad can really happen, right? Right! Nikki, put your coat on, oh my

gosh

! Take forever much?”

“But my toenails—”

“Oh! Your toenails!” Kristy frowns, forehead scrunching thoughtfully. “You know what, it’s not a problem! We’ll be outside for like two seconds, your
feet won’t get too cold! Howie, you can carry her downstairs to the car, right?”

“Uh, yeah, okay.”

“Great!” Kristy waits ‘til Nikki’s got her coat on, then grabs one arm and drags her over to me. “Up up up! I’ll get the door!”

“I’m not actually—” I say, but then Nikki puts her arms around my neck, so I pick her up as best I can. Which, to be honest, is not super-well. It may
involve some ungallant hoisting.

This is not lost on Nikki. “Don’t drop me.”

“I’m not gonna

drop

you!” I scoff, like the idea’s ridiculous. Which it is. Probably.

We make it down the stairs. I don’t drop her, for the record. I put her in the car safe and sound. Sure, there might have been a stumble or two, but
there’s no problem with that, right? Keeps life interesting.

Kristy gives me a wave. Nikki does not. Then Arthur’s car peels out onto the road with a screechy turn.

For a little while, I stand down at the bottom of the stairs, looking at nothing. It’s getting close to pitch black out, and it’s really damn cold. I don’t
really know why I’m freezing myself out here. Going upstairs just seems … well, not like the brightest of ideas, at this point. All I really wanted to find
out was whether or not Arthur and Douchey Patrick were doin’ it like gay bunnies, and I did. I even got the answer I wanted. Mission accomplished.

But I don’t exactly feel better. Just because they’re not together doesn’t mean they’re not

together

. They looked mighty cozy standing next to each

other, and it’s not even that it was in such an obvious way. It’s more like … like they spent years together, and they’ve still got that thing. That couple
thing, that vibe. Douchey Patrick might be a douche named Patrick, but he knows Arthur way better than I know Arthur. He knows all the trivial stuff,
the stuff that’s important because it’s unimportant. Favorite books, family members, broken bones.

Not to mention that Arthur must care about him way more than he cares about me. That one hits me all of a sudden, hard.

He has to, right? Like, it’s not even a question. He might be the only one I’ve got. Arthur, he’s not in a category with Heather Grimsby and Lindsay.
Arthur, he gets his own category. But me, it’s not like

I’m

something epic and novel to him. He’s got the gay thing down. There’s some guy out there

in the world, existing, who was to him what he is to me. Maybe it’s Douchey Patrick. Maybe it’s some entirely different douchey dude.

The point is I don’t exactly

matter

, in the grand Arthur Kraft scheme of things. There are two and a half year relationships, and there are storage

closet rendezvoux.

I’m suddenly so jealous of Douchey fuckin’ Patrick that I can feel it, like, everywhere. It freaks me out a little bit to hate him as much as I do right now.
It’s in my nerves and the pit of my stomach, and for some reason I can’t remember feeling something this hard since my dad died. That just makes
me even madder. It’s not the same at all. Douchey Patrick might be a douche and a menace, but whatever, he’s just a person whose existence
inconveniences me. The same could be said about Arthur, even. Like, in the grand scheme of things, none of this is exactly monumental. I wish I
didn’t feel it so fucking much.

I climb the stairs slow, then step back through the front door, which got left open. It’s chilly in the entryway. Arthur’s standing there waiting for me,
light confusion on his face. He’s wearing a pair of blue checkered pajama pants and a gray t-shirt. The fact that he’s in his pajamas makes things
weirder for some reason. I’ve never seen him in normal human, non-Arthur clothes. His shirt doesn’t have any buttons. It’s alarming.

“Kristy and Nikki went out,” I inform him. My teeth are chattering as I close the door behind me. It makes me feel like a dumbass. Dumbassery, kind
of my specialty.

“I thought they were staying in for the evening.”

“Yeah, well. They’re out.”

“I see that.”

I wonder whether I should get rid of my shoes and my coat. There’s not exactly a

sit down and stay awhile!

warmth in the air.

“What are you doing here?” Arthur asks, which doesn’t help me with my shoe dilemma.

“Oh, ya know.” It’s all I can come up with.

“Weren’t you out with your brother?”

“I was,” I reply. Brilliantly. “Now I’m here.”

“Yes,” he agrees, “you are.”

There’s a pause. A really, really excruciating pause.

“Would you like some tea?” Arthur asks then.

“Sure, tea’s good.”

He heads into the kitchen without waiting for me. It’s not encouraging, but I doggedly follow after him. He’s putting the teakettle on the stove when I
get there. I sit down at the table and watch him as he opens the cabinet.

“World’s Best Grandma or Garfield?” he asks, holding up two mugs.

“Whatever.”

He puts Garfield back, leaving me World’s Best Grandma.

“What kind of tea would you like? Not chamomile.”

The fact that he remembers that I don’t dig chamomile – it makes me feel better. It’s like this shot of all’s-right-in-the-world. Then I feel like a moron
for caring so much.

“Whatever you have’s good.”

“Peppermint?”

“Yeah, sure.”

He puts a teabag in the cup, then stands there at the stove and waits for the water to boil. It’s just barely hissing now.

The movie’s still on in the living room. Kristy forgot it in her mad dash. Too bad for Cliff the Hugh Grant Fan. I’m sure he’ll be crushed.

“Amber hates this movie,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else and the silence is terrible.

“Amber seems to hate a lot of things,” Arthur replies crisply.

There’s something about the way he says it that makes me want to defend her honor. “Not really. She likes stuff. Peach sorbet. Buying shoes. My
brother. Jane Austen—”

“I believe you,” Arthur interrupts. “I don’t need a list.”

He says it nicely, but it still sort of pisses me off.

“You want me to turn this off?” I ask, gesturing to the TV.

“Sure.”

I go over and turn the TV off. It leaves the room horribly silent. Okay, that decision lacked foresight. I’m not exactly crazy for ol’ Hugh or anything, but
if it’s a choice between his droll British tones and awkward silence, boy oh boy do I pick the former.

I take my coat off – the zipper is some freak of zippery nature, the loudest of all zippers – and drape it over the back of my chair. Then I sit back
down and stare at Arthur some more. It should be illegal to feel this awkward around someone once you’ve had their spit in your mouth.

The teakettle finally whistles. Arthur pours one cup, then brings it over to me.

“Aren’t you having any?” I ask. The idea that he’s not prompts this uncomfortable twinge in my brain.

“No,” he replies, sitting down next to me. “I just brushed my teeth.”

I stare down into the golden depths of the granny mug. “Well, now I feel like a jackass.”

“Because you’re the only one drinking tea?” Arthur asks. He makes it sound like this is weird and pathetic reasoning for feeling like a jackass.

“No,” I say. “I dunno. Yeah.”

He gives me a slight smile. I simultaneously want to, like, build shrines to it and punch it off his face. It’s complicated. “I promise, I won’t judge you
too harshly.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

I try a sip of the tea, but it’s too hot; I can tell even before it touches my lips. Burnt tongue, avoided. At least there’s that. My life is full of tiny
highlights.

Arthur watches me. Neither of us says anything. It’s riveting.

Apparently, our awkward silence tolerance is the same, because at the exact second that he starts asking, “Would you like sugar, or honey—”, I
say, “Are you back with Douchey Patrick?”

“Douchey Patrick?”

I am overcome with a sense of ‘DAMN IT’ that’s promptly followed by a sense of ‘WHATEVER.’ It doesn’t matter at this point. “It’s what I call him in
my head. It’s stupid. Whatever. He seems like a douche. He’s probably not, if you like him so much or whatever, with his sexy glasses, but he just
seems like one. So that’s what I call him.”

“In your head.”

“In my head.”

He’s quiet for a long time. Probably trying to determine why he ever got involved with such a crazy-ass motherfucker. I’m trying to determine how I
ever became one, so. Aren’t we a damn pair.

“No, I’m not back with Douchey Patrick,” he says at last. “That is very done.”

“You sure? ‘Cause you looked chummy.”

“Yes, I’m sure. We were just discussing what to do with the apartment over dinner.”

“Oh.”

“He’s moving to Seattle for work. It looks like I’m going to keep it.”

“Oh. Congrats, man.”

“Thank you.”

There goes Douchey Patrick. Just like that. I feel sort of annoyed that I wasted all that torment on nothing.

“You’re gonna miss him, I bet.” It sounds like taunting when I say it. I don’t even know

why

I say it, other than that I’m mad. I’m just mad at this whole

fucking stupid situation.

“A little, I suppose,” Arthur agrees.

I stare angrily down into my stupid tea. Fuck you, tea. Fuck you, awkward silence. I ask, and so hate myself for asking, “Why didn’t you want him to
know about me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on, man. You told him I was a

perfectly decent employee

.”

“I wasn’t aware that was a bad thing.”

“Yeah, sure, that’s peachy, but—”

“And besides,” he interrupts loftily, “you don’t seem to want anyone to know about me.”

“Yeah, but that’s different.”

“Is it?”

“No fucking duh it is.” (Eloquence.) “You’re gay. I’m—”

“Not?” He arches an eyebrow.

I want to punch him in that eyebrow.

“Well. Fuck. I don’t know. Whatever. You’re

out

. It’s not like this big secret. So why didn’t you just—”

“Just tell him a month after we broke up that I’m having a fling with my much younger, sexually confused employee who says ‘yo’?”

“I don’t

mean

it when I say ‘yo,’” I say, hating oh hating him. “I’m fucking kidding, it’s fucking

ironic

, okay. And I’m not

much

younger. I’m not fucking

twelve

or something.”

“Fine, slightly younger. You’re right, that makes it sound much better.”

“What’s so

bad

about it?”

“It doesn’t exactly put me in the best of lights.”

My stomach twists. “What do you mean?”

Arthur takes a sharp breath in and steeples his fingertips. “Quite frankly, I wouldn’t want him to think I’m having some sort of rebound relationship.
It’s uncharacteristic of me, to say the least, and I don’t want to deal with how he would react.”

“Rebound relationship,” I repeat blankly.

“Well. To an extent, I think. If you want me to be truthful.”

I want to hurl the World’s Best Grandma mug at him. A whole new kind of mugging, a

better

kind of mugging. “Wow. That’s fantastic. Thanks for

sharing. That’s just fuckin’ adorable.”

“Howie—”

“No, really. Thanks for fucking up my whole fucking life so you could get your rebound on. You, sir, are a man among men. You should have your own
holiday. They ought to christen nations after you—”

“Howie, come on.”

“You’re a fucking asshole.”

He sighs. “I’m not saying I don’t care about you. Obviously I do.”

“Oh, obviously,” I mock.

“I don’t think that was adequately expressed,” he says, frustrated. “I—”

He looks at me, then looks at the mug of tea. Then he reaches over and grabs it, pushing it to the opposite side of the table.

“What the fuck was that?” I demand.

“You were going to throw it at me.”

“I wasn’t gonna

throw

it at you. I’m not a hyperactive five year old.”

“You had a look.”

“So what if I had a look? That doesn’t mean I was gonna—”

“You might have.”

“Maybe I was gonna drink it.”

“I don’t think you were going to drink it.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t know everything.” I pause. “And if I was gonna throw it, you earned it.”

“I suppose that sounds fair.”

“You say that now that it’s out of my reach.”

He gets this weird little look on his face. It’s like he can’t decide whether to smile or just be horribly confused. “I do like you,” he says at last. “I very
much like you. I don’t quite know what to do with how much I like you most of the time. It isn’t something I planned to do—”

“You usually plan out liking people?”

“Well, yes.” His brow rumples. “Sort of.”

Of course he does. I shake my head. “Man, do I know how to pick ‘em.”

“Patrick and I went very well together on paper,” he continues, a little brisker.

Oh, just what I wanna hear. “I hate that expression. On paper. What paper? The paper of

what

?”

“The figurative paper of would-you-please-let-me-endeavor-to-explain this.”

“That’s some pretty dumbass paper,” I grumble. “I know: let’s get some and sell it for a jillion dollars a pack. Look out, Holly’s.”

Arthur rolls his eyes at me.

“Sorry,” I say. “Whatever. Keep talking. I guess.”

“He and I were very similar. Maybe too similar. I guess it was inevitable that we would eventually get bored and frustrated with one another. Still, we
had a life together, and I found it hard to let go of that. I still find it hard to let go of that. I like … I like the idea of planning things, planning them once
and … and getting it right, and always having that there as something fixed, and certain. And it goes without saying that I’m unsatisfied with the
course my life has taken professionally. I suppose that with Patrick, that was the one area in which I could do things right. And I didn’t.”

“Well, I’m sure he helped to fuck it up,” I say. I’m pretty sure it’s because I’m feeling at least some level of sympathy, which is kind of annoying. “That
guy’s a douche.”

Arthur laughs. It’s just a short quasi-bitter laugh, but it helps to break the ice a little. After a few seconds, he slides the mug of tea back over to me.

“My tea privileges are reinstated?”

“For now. I’d tread carefully if I were you.”

“Got it. You don’t need to worry about me. As the world’s best grandma, I’ve got certified skills.”

He laughs again. This one’s a little less bitter.

“You know why I hired you?” he says then.

“Because Kristy forced you to so she could matchmake us to her heart’s content?”

“There were a few other applicants,” he says, looking thoughtful. “All young women. All typical store material. All much more qualified than you.

You

obviously didn’t like me, and you were obviously full of shit.”

“So why’d you hire me?”

He pauses, like he’s figuring out how to say it. Whatever it is. “I was quite frustrated with everything. I wanted to do something different. And a little
stupid.”

“You’re just lovely,” I say. “You know that, right?”

“I believe I may have a lot of subconscious bitterness toward the store. I think I wanted to inflict you upon it.”

“Seriously. Lovely.” I take a sip of my tea, which is finally cool enough to drink. It’s okay. It’s tea.

I look back up to see that Arthur’s staring at me.

“What?” I ask.

“You’re funny and quick and interesting and aggravating and attractive. It’s such a wonderful relief to be with you.” He says it fast, like he’s not used
to saying stuff he really means. It sounds like reading off a grocery list, more than anything, but I can’t help liking it.

“Yeah,” I say, “why’s that?”

A little wonderingly, he says, “You’re exactly who I never would have picked out for myself.”

“Yeah, well.” I snort. “Right back atcha.”

“And it’s easy to tell you’re unhappy.”

“Really?” I ask, and this awkward laugh slips out. “I always thought I hid it real well.”

“Did you?”

“That’s where most of the funny comes from.” It feels a little uncomfortable saying that out loud. It’s not like it’s a deeply hidden truth, or anything, but
no one really

wants

to admit that the reason they make everything in their existence a joke is that otherwise the bleakness of it all would eat them

alive.

“That makes sense,” Arthur says. “I’m not exactly delirious with contentment myself.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I figured.”

“Believe it or not, I’m not precisely living the dream. I didn’t go to Berklee with the intention of spending my life running an overpriced, failing arts and
crafts store.”

“You went to Berklee?” It strikes me as the sort of thing I should have known.

“I went to Berklee,” he confirms, like it’s this morbidly funny joke.

“Wow.” Lamely, I ask, “Why are you here?”

“My older sister was supposed to take over the store. It’s what had always been intended. But then she got married, and her husband didn’t want to
stay here. My father’s health got bad, and he wanted to retire, and, well. I had to come home and help out.”

“Had to?”

“My family’s on the conservative side of things,” he explains, meeting my eyes. “I don’t think it was precisely a joy for them to find out they had a gay
son. They’ve always been accepting, but, well. It would take more delusion than I can muster to pretend they’re truly happy with it.”

“So you’re, what, making it up to them?”

“I suppose so,” he says. He keeps his voice unaffected, but something about his face changes a little.

I feel a flicker of – I don’t even know what. Some variation of gratitude, but guiltier and heavier. It’s just, my mom would never do that to me, and I
know it. My dad might have been another story, but it’s not like that matters now. My mom? Never, never, never, plain and simple. I could probably
be into goats, sexy style, and she still wouldn’t use it against me. She’d want me to achieve whatever goat-wooing dreams I set my mind to. Bring
Mrs. Goat home for the holidays.

It makes me feel worse, in a way, because that doesn’t change the fact that I’m still as stuck as Arthur is.

“I got into USC,” I tell the tabletop. “In California. I mostly just wanted to move somewhere without winter, see what that was like. But my dad died in
a car wreck. My mom was driving and made it out with a broken arm and some scratches, and she thinks she killed him, or whatever. She’s still not
really doing so well. I don’t think she’s ever really gonna– so I thought I should maybe stay with her. So that’s why I … stayed with her.” I look up at
him. He looks sort of like he just got hit, even though it’s a small town and there’s no way he didn’t know it already. I guess it must be different,
hearing it firsthand.

“Fuckin’ unhealthy dads, huh?” I throw in, trying to lighten the mood. “Although I guess mine’s got yours beat.”

“Howie,” Arthur says, sounding pained.

I shrug it off. I’m real good at shrugging it off. They should give out medals. “It’s okay. Or. It’s not okay. Whatever. But it is. It just … is. It’s how things
are. No point in getting upset over it.”

“I’m here if you ever need someone to talk to.” It’s the standard line, but I believe him when he says it.

“Thanks,” I reply automatically. Then, because somehow honesty’s become the theme of the evening, I add, “I never talk to anyone.”

He gives me a wry smile. “Me either.”

Lindsay and I dated – hooked up, whatever – for like six months, but when I think back to the time I spent with her, I always remember it as summer.
There was this one afternoon where it was crazy hot, this muggy sticky heat that seems impossible when you think about it in the wintertime. We
went to the movies so we could make out somewhere with air conditioning. I can’t remember what the movie was, which either means it was pretty
crappy or the making out was pretty spectacular. To be honest, the movie probably sucked.

Afterward, we walked around town, rocking that useless teenage summer lethargy. We held hands, not because we were so wild about each other
we couldn’t stand not to be up in each other’s metacarpal business, but just because … I dunno. We were supposed to. Her hand was hot and
sweaty and I’m sure mine wasn’t exactly a cool, silky paradise either. I wasn’t over the moon or anything. I wasn’t even happy, I guess. But I
remember every time a car would pass or someone would walk by us or whatever, I’d get this lame, almost proud feeling. This sense of, ‘Yeah,
that’s right. Look at me. Check me out, not walking alone.’

We were in the middle of some uninteresting conversation – she was never much with the wit or the wordplay, Lindsay, and I figured out real fast not
to bother with it around her because it’d just make her confused – when all of a sudden, she stopped. She took her hand out of mine, and she
reached up and rested her fingers really gently on my cheek. She looked up at me with this deep concentration. And even though we didn’t have
anything in common, and we didn’t even really like each other that much, in that second, I really think I loved her. Just for bothering to look at me like
that.

“You’ve got something on your face,” she said then, wrinkling her nose. “Like, mustard. Did you eat a hotdog?”

Then she started trying to wipe it off with her thumb.

For some reason I tell Arthur about this. By the time I do, we’ve been talking for a long time. Hours, maybe. Not about anything that special or
profound. Just random stuff. Life stuff. He tells me about breaking his arm when he was nine, his mom’s chocolate chip cookies, his family’s first
dog, the time Jesse Gould kissed him in the deserted chemistry lab in tenth grade and then never looked him in the eyes again. (“No way,” I say,
“Jesse Gould? The Jesse Gould who dated Bridget Allen for like all of high school?” “You,” Arthur says, “are the first person I’ve ever spilled this
information to. Use it well.” “Jesse fucking Gould,” I say, shaking my head in wonder.) The time Dylan Faber kissed him at a party during the first
week of college and then called him the next morning. How good that felt. How bad it felt to move back here afterwards and run into Jesse at the
grocery store. He tells me he’s read

The Remains of the Day

thirteen times since he came back to this town, and it always guts him because he

knows he’s wasting his life here. He confesses a great and inexplicable love for Garbage, a band he discovered via yelling at Cora for playing one
of their albums constantly at work. There isn’t much about “Sex Never Goes Out Of Fashion,” he says, that matches the arts and crafts store
atmosphere. He isn’t nearly as serious as people think he is, but he put that mask on a long time ago and doesn’t know how to take it off.

“I don’t think you’re so serious,” I tell him. We’re sitting on the futon, leaning against each other.

“Yes, well,” he says, “most people haven’t been fondled by me in a supply closet.”

“Sucks to be most people,” I declare, and he laughs.

I tell him that Jurassic Park is my favorite movie of all time but I have always told people it’s Scarface, because I wanted to watch it when I was
twelve and my parents wouldn’t let me and this is my obscure and lasting revenge. I tell him about the fact that whenever Dennis and I played
Jurassic Park, I had to be the dinosaur and he got to be Sam Neill, and he always, always wound up killing me even though as a dinosaur, that was
kind of supposed to be my job. He never even let velociraptor-me win. I tell him about my dad’s string of “So, Howard, got a girlfriend yet?” jokes
that weren’t jokes, how that started in seventh grade and just kept going. I tell him about trying pot and hating it; getting drunk and hating it; being
glad that Amber was my best friend, because having to prove myself to her didn’t mean doing a bunch of dumb shit, it meant reading

Lord of the

Flies

for English class instead of watching the movie version. I tell him about the girls I liked – liked with grand, futile, faraway passion – and how I

always wanted to back away on the rare occasion that they got close. But him, I want him close. He’s the only person who hasn’t made me feel like
I’m off, or built wrong; meant only for the futile and faraway. We’re both raspy-voiced now, spent on talking. He looks at me like he wants to be
kissing me; I beat him to it and kiss him first.

We’re the greatest kind of mess, kissing and laughing at nothing in particular, hands trying to be everywhere all at once, hard and happy against
each other. I remember, in the dim corner of my brain that hasn’t been switched off yet by Arthur’s touch, this poem I had to read for a class ages
ago, one I liked the concept of, something about liking your body with someone else’s body because suddenly it’s so new a thing. I can’t believe I’m
thinking about poems right now. Then again, maybe these are the moments that poems are for.

“There’s one last thing I should tell you,” I say. “I got this job to get laid.”

He laughs.

“No,” I say, but I’m laughing too, because it’s the world’s stupidest idea and because somehow, somehow, it looks like it worked anyway, “seriously.
That was my master plan. I don’t really—ohh—” Hands in good places, “—I don’t really care so much about arts and crafts supplies.”

“No,” he says in mock-disbelief, breathing the word into my neck.

“Shocking but true!”

“That’s a horrible plan,” Arthur says, “on so many levels.” He kisses me, his hands sneaking up my shirt. “But well done. Congratulations.”

“I didn’t think it would be you,” I say, a little Arthur-drunk, not pausing to wonder whether this is the best of confessions.

He pulls back to look at me. “Disappointed?”

“Hell no,” I say, eloquent beyond measure. But God, do I mean it. I put my hand on his face. He turns his head to kiss my palm.

“Are you – are you ready for this?” he asks, suddenly serious. It seems like the most unnecessary question in the history of earth, especially from
someone who’s lying on top of me; I feel like my readiness is pretty fucking obvious. But the fact that he bothers to ask, when I can tell that he’s not
exactly unready himself – the guy’s a prince. I’ll never get used to being this lucky.

“Not at all,” I reply. Never has sarcasm been quite

sarcastic. “And I’d really appreciate it if you’d quit trying to steal my virtue.”

He looks so earnestly concerned. “Really?”

“No,” I say, kissing his jaw, “not really. Not really, y’know,

at all

.”

“Well,” he says; a smile curves his mouth, promising wonderful acts of misbehavior, “in that case—”

And, well.

I like my body when it’s with his body.

Chapter Twenty

I get woken up by a dim buzzing sound. After a few seconds, I realize it’s my phone going off.

It buzzes again.

“Nuisance,” Arthur grumbles.

Trust him to get even fancier in his word choice when he’s sleeping.

“On it, buddy,” I promise, kissing him on the shoulder. He makes an inarticulate, happy little moaning noise that I most definitely do not hate. I get up,
then scan the room for my boxers and get them on. There’s just some inherent wrongness to me walking around Kristy’s living space naked. Then I
set off on a mighty search for my pants, which I eventually discover underneath the futon. Sorry, pants. You serve me well, by and large, but when you
gotta go, you gotta go.

I dig my phone out of my back pocket to find a text from Mitch. It’s a pleasant surprise, really. In that it’s not from Amber, and it hasn’t found a way to
work that character limit into a creatively gruesome description of my imminent doom.

Then I

read

said message from Mitch. And what it says is, ‘Ambers sleepin on me.’

Well. Fuck, fuck, fuckin’ fuckity fuck,

why

But maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe it’s perfectly innocent – like Amber developed some shiny new narcolepsy while she was out on a brisk
morning stroll (in this totally plausible scenario, Amber is a secret brisk morning stroller), and Mitch just happened to be there to get conked out on.
That’s a thing, right? That’s totally possible. I’m pretty sure I saw that episode of House.

So I keep my cool, and I text back, ‘Where are you?’

La dee da. I wait. I glance around. I look at Arthur, who’s got his eyes obstinately squeezed shut.

My phone buzzes again.

“Really quite irritating,” mumbles Arthur.

“Sorry, sorry,” I reply distractedly. Mitch’s message: ‘My room.’

Oh, shit. That’s it. I’m out of here. I have to get down there and—and – and—

And

what

? Fight Mitch for Amber’s honor? I can’t do that! He’s Mitchy! The Mitchman! We’re bros! Bros before hos. I can’t break that ancient creed.

Plagues with locusts would befall me.

But

Amber

. Jesus. I am struck by this sudden, frighteningly intense brotherly desire to pummel any swine who’d dare touch her.

Well, this is just inconvenient.

I gotta get over there. Right away. And – I dunno. Stop them? Turn back time? Fill them with shame for doing something so unholy? Something. I
gotta do something. I think the last one sounds good.

I put my pants on. Sure, I almost fall over in the process – Mitch! Amber! MitchandAmber, Biblically,

all the way

ly – but I persevere. I start scouting

around for my good buddy shirt, and discover that it’s lying a foot or so from Arthur’s head.

“What’re you doing?” Arthur asks, still sleepy-toned.

Oh, Artie. How little you can comprehend the depravity. “My best friends

did it

.”

“What?” he groans, opening his eyes.

“Amber. Mitch. They did it. They got their sexy on. Beast, two backs, the whole deal. And now she is sleeping on him, and I gotta go and—and—”
And

what

? “I gotta just – deal. With this.”

“All right,” Arthur says slowly, squinting up at me.

“Sorry,” I add, upon the realization that me taking off the instant he wakes up maybe isn’t the most ideal of mornings after. “Love ‘em and leave ‘em.
Kind of my deal.”

“Mmm. Adorable.”

“That I am.” I squat down on the floor to kiss him. “Thanks for noticing.”

“It’s a bit of a chore,” he says with perfect seriousness, “but someone has to, I suppose.”

I happen to like Mitch’s apartment. It’s got a kind of admirable purity. Which is to say: it is, on every level, absolutely friggin’ disgusting. Every
square inch of it is a shrine to the deepest pitfalls of slovenly man-being. Once, on a search for a clean cup, I found dirty socks in the dishwasher.
And this wasn’t simple messiness; no, there was logic there. Mitch figured that since he didn’t have a washing machine and he really needed some
clean socks, not to mention some clean dishes – well, two birds. One stone.

They were still dirty ‘cause he forgot to actually run the dishwasher.

He eats Cheetos for breakfast. He has Transformers sheets. He buys new underwear instead of doing laundry. The dishwasher thing was an
uncommon instance of domestic initiative. Mitchell is a parentless man (in a moved-out way, not a Dickens orphan way), and he never wastes an
opportunity to reap the benefits.

It’s nasty, but it’s kinda badass too.

Amber’s been there a handful of times to watch movies and stuff. She’s always a graceful little lady, but in the presence of such squalor, she gets
goddamn queenly. She always sits up really straight on the couch with her legs crossed, like she’s trying to touch as little of the surrounding filth as
possible. Then she exclaims disgustedly about it all the way home.

The fact that she’s not only come here voluntarily, but ventured into Mitch’s

bedroom

—

Oh, Jesus Christ, it’s so bad.

And her car’s in the driveway. Either it’s true, or the Mitchman went to some seriously great lengths to sell this prank.

Considering he couldn’t even follow through with the dishwasher thing …

I ring the doorbell, not really sure whether there’s any point to doing it. Mitch can’t be

too

busy with Amber, right? He did take the time to text me. So

obviously they’re not too wrapped up in – stuff – Oh, God,

stuff

, Mitch and Amber and stuff—

The door swings open, and I feel a powerful surge of relief. Ha! He’s out of the bedroom. Maybe I’ll tie him to something so he can’t go back—

But it’s not Mitch. It’s his roommate, Rudy, a guy whose life motto so decrees that just because it’s ten in the morning, that doesn’t mean it’s not
time for beer pong. Thankfully, it’s only like seven right now, so that’s not a concern quite yet. (A few shame-drenched instances were enough to
prove that I’m not made of the stuff of beer pong champions.) Rudy’s about a foot taller than me, heavyset, very bearded, and, at the present
moment, wearing nothing but boxers. Oh, my ceaseless luck.

“Heyyyy hey heyyy, Howie!” He lets out a booming laugh and claps me on the shoulder. I don’t fall over. It’s a hard enough slap that my not falling
over seems notable. Respect, bitches.

“Morning, Rudy,” I reply as pleasantly as I can. As soon as I step inside, my eyes land on Mitch’s bedroom door. It’s shut. “How’s it goin’?”

“Oh, ya know, ya know.” Rudy tends to say the same stuff over and over again. It is, I suppose, easier than having to think up a bunch of new words.
“This is Ashley.”

I look over to see a sleepy-looking blonde in a tight t-shirt and panties sauntering into the room.

“Er. Hi, Ashley.”

“Hey,” she drawls, not bothering to look at me, as she comes over and slips her arms around Rudy. She starts massaging his awkwardly,
tremendously bare chest. It’s something I feel like I shouldn’t be witnessing.

“You lookin’ for Mitchy?” Rudy asks, tearing his eyes away from his lady friend.

“Yes indeed.”

“Dude’s still in his room, but hey, I don’t know if I’d go a-knockin’, you know what I mean. He’s got a chick in there.”

Hearing Amber referred to as a chick –

a chick

– threatens to boil my blood.

“It’s that chick you guys are friends with, actually. The pissed off one!” He chortles. “Maybe she’s a little less pissed off now, since she got a little

EeEE-ErrR-EEEE-ERRRR

!” As if this squeaky, abstract sexonym isn’t enough, he also includes a helpful hand gesture. Adorable.

“Wow, that’s great, bud. Listen, I really gotta … get in there.”

“Why? You late for your threesome?” Rudy bursts into booming laughter at his own irresistible wit, and Ashley joins in with a vacant, honking sound
just a smidge less ladylike than a donkey bray.

“Yeah, actually,” I say. “You called that one, Rudes.”

“Ha ha ha,” Rudy chuckles to himself. “Threesome. That’s sick.”

No doubt one of the greatest minds of our time. Nay – all time.

I navigate my way across the living room. At one point, I step in a bowl of Fruit Loops, but I trek bravely on. When I reach Mitch’s door, I take a
moment to prepare myself for the horrors that await me on the other side. Then I knock.

“Howie?”

“Yeah, man,” I say. I sound nervous. It’s allowed. I

fucking nervous.

“Uh. Come in?” Such hesitancy.

Oh, shit, they’re naked, aren’t they?

I fight back the urge to squeeze my eyes shut, and I push the door open.

It’s horrendous! It’s appalling! It’s—

… not actually so bad.

Sure, they’re on Mitch’s bed, but they’re clothed.

Thank you, Jesus. We should hang out more.

Not only that, but they just don’t look very … snuggly. Amber is fast asleep, her head burrowed into Mitch’s shoulder. She’s got one arm draped
across his chest, but it doesn’t seem, like, deliberate, or amorous. She hasn’t been taking lessons from Ashley in chest-fondling.

Mitch is perhaps the most reassuring sight of all. He’s sitting up really straight – like, somebody put a leather-bound tome on his head, because this
guy’s posture is ace. He looks almost frozen, like Amber’s a bomb instead of an Amber and she’ll burst into Ambereens (a little-known smithereen-
variant) if he moves a muscle. He’s staring down at her like he’s not really sure what to do.

At the sound of me walking in, he looks up.

“SHHH,” he whispers. It is perhaps the most exaggerated and ineffectual of all whispers. “SHE’S SLEEPING.”

He very carefully points at Amber.

“Yeah,” I say, just a shade quieter than my normal voice. “I noticed.”

“DUDE.” Oh, this whisper. This whisper needs to be knighted for hilariousness. “SHE’S

SLEEPING

.”

“She can sleep through anything,” I inform him. “You could push her off the bed and she’d probably, like, turn over and yawn.”

Mitch frowns. “OH.”

He stares thoughtfully down at Amber again.

“Well,” he concludes, disposing of Sir Hilarious Whisper, “it’s okay. This isn’t that bad.”

“How long have you been sitting like this?”

“Uh.” He glances around the room before finally fixating on the dresser. The drawers are all open, barfing out random articles of clothing. “Alarm
clock’s in the second drawer down, I think. Unless I moved it to the bathroom—”

“It’s like seven.”

“Oh.” Mitch ponders. “I dunno, like nine hours, then.”

I stare at him. “Nine hours? You’ve been sitting like that for nine hours?”

“I sorta fell asleep for awhile,” he says. “It was totally cool, man.”

Uh. “Why the hell did you let Amber sleep on you for nine hours?”

“Well, she was really bummed out.”

Ahh, welcome home, horrible sinking feeling of guilt. Seriously, man, it’s been too long. You don’t call, you don’t write—

“Oh yeah?” I ask, striving to seem casual. “Why’s that?”

Mitch gives me a stern look. It’s so out of place on him that my first impulse is to laugh. Except then I realize just how dire a force it would take to
drive Mitch to make

that

face, and all the funny evaporates. It leaves a lot of dark, foreboding feelings.

“Okay,” I sigh. “Me.”

“Yeah,” Mitch agrees, frowning. “You left her alone with Dennis and Emily!

Uncool

.”

“I had something to—” Okay, him going this long without looking goofily happy, it’s just wrong. It’s freaking me out so much I can’t even rock an
excuse right. “What did she say?”

“I dunno,” Mitch says, going suddenly cryptic. “Stuff.”

“She told you about Dennis and Emily,” I surmise.

“Well,” Mitch says, all reluctant, “yeah.”

“And …?” I press.

It’s quiet for a really long time. Amber sighs faintly and buries her head a little deeper in Mitch’s shoulder.

“I don’t think I can tell you, man,” Mitch says at last.

That just seems weird. Incorrect. Mitch and Amber have never exactly been a special twosome. They’re friends because I’m friends with both of
them. They don’t actually have anything in common. Sure, they’ve been together sans me lots of times in the past, but, like, not in a way where they
were actual, legit

friends

They’re not actual, legit friends, are they?

“She would have told me anyway,” I try to reason with him. Surely he’ll see the light. He’s a little on the doofy side, Mitchy, but he’s not

stupid

. “So

you might as well—”

“She couldn’t tell you, though,” Mitch points out, still frowny. “’Cause you went off with Kristy.”

I groan. “Dude—”

“She talked to me about some stuff. And I listened to her. And then she fell asleep on me. That’s pretty much it, man.”

I look down at Amber. The fact that Mitch seems to think he has to protect her from me, it doesn’t make me feel bright and shiny with delight. She’s
my best friend, for Christ’s sake.

“How much does she hate me?” I ask.

“I dunno,” Mitch replies. “Like … seven?”

“Seven out of what?”

“Just seven.”

“Swell,” I grumble.

“You should talk to her yourself,” Mitch advises sagely. “It sounds like you guys need to hug it out.”

“I guess,” I reply lamely. I can’t really muster much enthusiasm, considering how fast I managed to backpedal on our last hugging-out.

“It’s cool. I tried to stick up for you a little. Said you weren’t that bad.”

It’s hard to imagine that did much. “Thanks, buddy.”

“No problem. Hey, would you do something for me?”

I attempt to reel my brain back out of the Amber-hates-me abyss it’s threatening to fall into. “Yeah, sure.”

“Could you find the pants I wore a couple days ago?”

“Uh,” I say, and take in the sight of the ghastly swamp of clothes surrounding me. I’m not sure whether I’ve ever seen the floor.

“I left some Twizzlers in there,” he explains. “I’m sort of starving, dude. I haven’t eaten for like

ever

.”

“Twizzlers for breakfast?” Oh, jeez. I’m a mom.

“Yeah,” Mitch says, totally oblivious. “Listen, I don’t think I can hold them, because that means I’d have to move my arm, but if you could like feed
them to me—”

I love the guy, but no. “Why don’t you just get something from the kitchen?”

Mitch stares down at Amber like she’s made of porcelain. “I don’t think I should—”

“Dude,” I say, “just set her down.”

“But she’s so

sleepy

,” Mitch protests. He’s still looking at her. He says it the way you’d talk about, like, an adorable kid, or a puppy.

“Yeah, exactly. So just put her down on the bed, and she won’t mind.”

He looks torn.

I maybe get a little evil. “Whaddya have out in the kitchen, Mitchy?”

“Captain Crunch,” Mitch replies, not without some yearning. “A box of moon pies.” His eyes brighten. “Corndogs.”

Bingo.

“A corndog sounds good,” I say, truthfully. There’s never a time when corndogs aren’t good. “I could use a corndog.”

Mitch gazes in the direction of the kitchen. Twitches a little.

“We could put them in the oven,” I suggest, drawing the words out, “so they’re all crispy.”

“Okay,” Mitch says. “I guess I can leave her here.”

Triumph!

I watch as he very carefully sets the Amber bomb down onto his bed, making sure her head’s rested on the pillow. It seems a little excessive to me,
but whatever. Then he picks a blanket up off the floor and puts it on top of her.

“Mmm,” Amber breathes, not opening her eyes as she stretches out on the bed. “Thanks.”

“Sure, Ambie,” Mitch replies, getting this little smile on his face. He reaches down and very lightly brushes his fingers against her hair.

Oh, jeez, time to go.

“Let’s roll, partner,” I order him, and drag him out of there.

Turns out, we can’t bake the corndogs in the oven, because that’s where they keep the towels.

“The towel closet’s got all this other crap in it already,” Mitch says. “I don’t even really know what most of it is. But it’s okay, this is a pretty sweet
deal! You know how warm towels are the best? So sometimes in the morning while you’re in the shower, you just turn the oven on real low, and then
when you get out of the shower, you can run out here and grab a towel—”

That strikes me as … really wrong to do, but I don’t push it. I think that, should she ever allow me to speak to her again, I might mention it to Amber,
though. That’s exactly the kind of problem her righteous fury skills exist to solve.

Anyway, in terms of corndogs, the microwave works too.

“I like it when you cook them a little too long,” Mitch says, with the air of a true connoisseur, “like a minute and thirty seconds, right? Because then
they explode a little. And it doesn’t

look

great, but it gives ‘em an extra something.”

My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Arthur.

‘Everything all right?’ it reads.

‘False alarm,’ I text back. ‘We’re about to settle in for a nice hearty corndog breakfast.’

Just about lightning-fast – which is pretty impressive, considering he’s got the texting abilities of someone from my mom’s generation – I get hit
back with: ‘Oh, dear God.’

I laugh out loud.

“You okay, man?” Mitch asks.

“Yeah,” I reply, shoving my phone back into my pocket. “I’m okay.”

“I thought so.” Mitch stares at me. I try my best to be inconspicuous. “You seem different.”

“Yeah?” I ask, uber cool. “I don’t know why that’d be.”

“You do,” Mitch says decisively. “You seem all … chill.”

“Huh.”

I’m so used to feeling like I’m gonna be found out at every turn that it kinda weirds me out when Mitch doesn’t press the subject. Instead he turns his
attentions to the microwave and, after a few seconds, asks, “Did your mom ever tell you not to stand too close to the microwave?”

And that is why Mitch rules.

“All the time.”

“Yeah, me too.” He frowns thoughtfully. “I wonder if this is too close.”

“It’s too close,” comes the sleep-tinged but ever-authoritative voice of Miss Amber Clark. Mitch obediently backs up a couple feet and drags me
along with him. Amber walks into the kitchen looking dazed and ashamed of herself, the way a normal person would after a one-night stand with … I
dunno, Rudy. She’s using one hand to run her fingers through her tangled hair, and in the other one she’s holding—

“Mitchell,” she says, with great poise, “can you explain to me why I woke up to find a Caprisun under the pillow?”

It doesn’t shake him even a little. “Uh huh! It’s ‘cause sometimes I wake up and I’m really thirsty, but you know when you first wake up and getting out
of bed just

sucks

? That way, I don’t hafta get out of bed, but I don’t die of dehydration either.” He grins.

“Ah,” Amber says faintly. She hasn’t really looked at me yet. I feel kind of nauseous, which just isn’t a way anyone wants to feel when they’ve got the
promise of a delicious corndog before them.

Mitch explains mightily on: “And it’s okay to sleep on, ‘cause they’re in those pouches, so they’re kinda squishy. You couldn’t sleep on, like, a Sobe,
that’d be like,

ouch

.”

“You’ve tried, haven’t you?” Amber asks wearily.

Mitch conveniently doesn’t hear that. “You can have it, if you want,” he adds generously.

Amber stares down at the Caprisun.

Under normal circumstances, here’s where I would let out a ‘Dude, really?’ I don’t. I don’t really feel like I’m entitled to speak in her presence ‘til she
gives me permission.

To my surprise, she looks down at the Caprisun and says, “Okay. Thank you.”

“Sure,” Mitch beams. “You want a corndog? We’re microwaving them extra long, so they get extra tastylicious.”

Amber shifts her eyes to the ceiling, like she’s imploring some higher power to help her decide whether to hold onto the last vestiges of her dignity.
“Fine,” she says at last with an I’ve-already-lost-everything-else shrug. “Why the hell not?”

“Yesssss!” Mitch punches the air in delight.

I, meanwhile, start pretending I’m not here. Not Here suddenly seems like a damn badass place to be.

“Morning,” Amber says then, coming over and leaning against the counter next to me.

“Hi … there … you,” I respond, with such total grace and dignity.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she says. “I’m not mad at you.”

Wow. This just seems … wrong. Traplike. It must be a trap. Complicated lady wiles at work.

“I’m

not

,” she persists, rolling her eyes. “I’m sick of being mad at you, it’s exhausting. Hanging out with them wasn’t that bad last night. I’m over it

now. Everything’s good.”

“I don’t believe you,” I say suspiciously.

“Shut up, moron,” she orders, shoving me. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Yeah, okay,” I agree. What can I say? It’s good advice if I ever heard it.

“Is Kristy okay?” she adds, without even a trace of bitterness.

“Yeah,” I say. Not technically a lie. “Everything’s good.” Also the truth.

Everything stops being good about ten minutes later when Rudy tromps on into the kitchen, totally bare-ass naked. “Dudes, it’s cool, it’s cool, it’s
cool – yo, Howie, man, could you pass me a towel?”

I’m corndog-breakfasted, showered, changed, and to work by nine. Mom, Dennis, and Emily were all a little baffled by my night-long
disappearance, but I just fed them a story about Kristy being really upset. As far as they know, I spent all night holding her hand and handing her
tissues and feeding her fruit snacks until, at three thirty, a heartfelt phone call rendered all things right and lovey-dovey in Kristy-and-Cliff land again.

The fruit snacks detail was a little random, but hey. Authenticity. At least I stopped myself before I claimed that they were shaped like Disney
princesses or tractors. They always say that too much detail is the thing that messes a lie up. Me, I know how to rock the exact right amount of
detail.

I’m getting pretty good at this whole lying thing.

Honestly, it’s not the most encouraging realization. It’s not like it can go on forever. My family, my friends, they’re not going anywhere. Arthur’s not
going anywhere either. Sooner or later, they’re gonna have to exist in the same realm. And hell, in the event of that unpretty collision, the fact that I
lied about fruit snacks probably won’t help my case.

But whatever. I’m pushing the thought out of my mind for now. Goddammit, I’m gonna feel good for a couple of seconds.

And so it’s good that I feel as I make my way into the store. Kristy’s there already, counting the money out into the cash register. Arthur just so
happens to be there too. I suppress a smile at the sight of him.

“Good morning, Howie,” Arthur says, all brisk and professional. He’s a little smiley around the edges, though.

“Morning, boss.”

“How are you?”

“Can’t complain.” I am ever-so-casual. “You?”

“Can’t complain,” Arthur echoes. His mouth curves slightly.

I look over at Kristy. She’s staring really, really hard at the stack of fives in her hand and practically twitching with suppressed delight.

And then the bells on the front door ring, and in comes … some stranger. At first glance.

Further glances go on to prove that it’s none other than Cora Caldwell, Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts Rebel and Saboteur. But it’s Cora like I’ve never
seen her before. Like nobody’s ever seen her before. She takes off her coat – gray, nondescript, yak-free – to reveal a pair of khakis and a pale
pink button-up shirt. Her crazy explosion of hair is pulled back into a ponytail. All of her piercings are gone.

“Whaaaaaaat,” I say.

Kristy’s jaw drops. “Cora!

Look

at you!”

She ignores both of us and marches right up to Arthur.

“One week,” she says bluntly. “You get one week of Cora Caldwell, Model Employee, okay? Then I go back to normal. I’m sorry, I’m sucking up,
there. Now can you please not be a prig about this?”

Arthur’s quiet for a long time.

“Pink suits you,” he finally says, with the most miniscule of smirks.

“Fuck off,” Cora drones, turning around and waltzing away from him.

“What was that?” he calls after her.

“Thank you, Mr. Kraft,” she says in syrupy tones.

Arthur smiles. “I must say, I don’t hate that at all.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cora scowls.

“I love your shirt, it’s so cute!” Kristy squeals. “Where’d you get it?? I would totally love to have one just like that.”

“Ugh,” Cora groans, throwing herself over the counter in woe. “Don’t make it worse.” She stops mid-moan and fixes her eyes on me. “What’s up
with you?”

“What do you mean?” I ask innocently.

“You look different.”

“Oh yeah? How?”

She squints thoughtfully at me.

She can’t

tell

. There’s no way anybody can

tell

“You glow the lazy sated glow of a man who finally,

finally

got laid,” she declares.

The hell?

Cora switches her attention to Arthur. “Hey, you’ve got it too.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I hurry to say.

“I totally thought so too!!!” Kristy exclaims. “But I didn’t want to say anything!”

“Ohhhhh!” Cora grins broadly at us. Despite the Kristy costume, she’s never looked more Cora than she does in this moment. “Well, damn, boys.
Somebody’s been naughty. High five.”

When I don’t immediately reach up to high five her, she grabs my wrist with her free hand and slaps our palms together. Non-consensual high-fivery
– a low blow, but unsurprising from her.

Then she starts growling out “Sexual Healing” while Kristy laughs her ass off. This progresses real quick into a full-out dance party.

“Ladies,” Arthur says.

Cora just keeps on growlin’. Marvin Gaye probably would have blushed at this shameless display.

“Ladies,” Arthur says again, more steely-toned. “Both of whom are

model employees

.”

Cora stops reluctantly. Kristy chokes her giggle back with a high, squeaky hiccup sound.

“Thank you,” Arthur says.

“Better go get my apron on, boss!” Cora chirps, and bounces on back to the kitchen. Kristy follows her, looking like she has a whole lot of trouble
staying straight-faced. The second that they’re out of the room, the sound of giggling explodes from the kitchen.

“Relentless,” Arthur mutters, but he smiles a little. He grabs a piece of paper off the counter and heads over toward the front window. “So, things did
turn out all right with Mitch and Amber, then?”

“Yeah,” I reply. It still seems surreal that I spent a pleasant morning chowing down on corndogs and imbibing Caprisuns (Mitchy, good man, had a
whole box under his bed), rather than, like, being murdered by Amber, or at least driven to feel like shit in yet another fun new different way. “Yeah,

everything’s spiffy.”

He stares at me. He looks unusually serious as he does it, too. I’m just starting to worry that he thinks I’m lying, or something, when – “Did you really
have corndogs for breakfast?”

“Arthur,” I say, “you’re smothering me.”

“Listen. There’s a grapefruit in the fridge. I brought it for you. And I think you should eat it.”

Oh,

snap

. This guy. “You brought me a grapefruit.”

“It can’t

undo

the fact that you had a corndog for breakfast,” he says, with an actual honest-to-God shudder. “But I expect it can at least balance it

out a little.”

I let out a gleeful laugh. I can’t help it. His pain is so delightful. “Youuu are such an old man.”

“No, but I’ll probably live to be one, which certainly isn’t something that everyone in this room can boast at this rate.”

“A grapefruit. One lone grapefruit, burdened with the solemn mission to save me from my vile eating habits—”

“Go on, mock, mock. I’m not yielding.”

I kiss him. “Thanks, weirdo.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies, “and disgusting.”

“Yeah, yeah, you know you dig it.” I watch as he sets to work taping said mystery paper on the window. “What’s that?”

“A flyer for the annual middle school choir holiday concert. Very important affair. They asked me to put one up. I meant to do it yesterday, but the
little interlude with Cora caused it to slip my mind.”

“You’re still your middle school music teacher’s bitch? Yowch.”

“I’m providing the piano accompaniment.”

Well, now, this is interesting. “For real?”

“It’s a very big deal,” he deadpans. “Don’t get too starstruck, if you can help it.”

“We’re coming,” I abruptly decide.

“What?”

“The ol’ gang. We have to. Moral support for our concert pianist.” I pat him on the shoulder.

He looks like he just got offered a breakfast corndog. “That is so absolutely beyond unnecessary.”

“Nope. We’re going. Does Kristy know about this?”

“N—”

“Hey, KQ!” I yell. “Did you know Arthur’s playing piano for the middle school Christmas concert?”

There’s a faraway squeak, followed by the pitter-patter of footsteps. Kristy bounces into the room and doesn’t stop ‘til she’s right next to us. “

What

Arthur! You told me you were just helping them rehearse a little! You mean you’re actually going to be on the stage? That’s

amazing

! We all have to

go! We’re going! Oh, gosh, you know what would be so fun? To make a poster, like all the girls hold up in the audience on American Idol—”

“No,” Arthur says, quickly and desperately. “Nothing that relates in any way to American Idol—”

“—and then of course we’re going to have to bring you flowers. Gosh, I never get sick of bringing people flowers! What’s your favorite kind of
flower? No, wait, I bet I can guess! Plus, you’d probably want to be surprised, right? Hey, is it weird to clap for the piano player, like, individually?
Does your applause count for them too at the end of the song? I bet it must, because hello, what would the song be without the piano player? But
still! Maybe it’ll get quiet at some point and we can clap for you special! Ha ha ha, I bet you would be sooo embarrassed. Okay, don’t worry, we
won’t! But, gosh, that’s so

cool

, I’m going to be so

proud

of you! Do you think maybe they’ll let you do a little solo piece or something? Sure, you’re

not a middle schooler, but you’re a total music genius, so I think it should be allowed—”

“Thank you,” Arthur mutters into my ear, “so very much.”

I grin at him. “Any time, boss man.”

He sighs.

“—and hey, maybe you could actually write your own song to perform! I know you can write songs, so don’t even pretend you can’t! It probably has
to be about Christmas, though! It can’t be about, like, Howie or something. I bet it would be hard to write a Christmas song! There are so many
already that are so good. And what would you write it about? Maybe Christmas tree ornaments? I know that there’s already a song about Christmas
trees, of course, but I always thought it was kind of sad that there wasn’t one about the

ornaments

, because they’re a very special part of the

holiday season too, and …”

At the end of the day, I’m the one who gets saddled with washing the pile of dishes that’s gradually accumulated by the sink. As is the universal law

of dishwashing, as soon as I’m done rinsing the last glass, something falls with a sinister plop into the soapy water.

I pull it out to discover it’s Cora’s favorite mug, the one that sports the charming combination of that The Scream painting and the words ‘BUSH
AGAIN?’. It’s kinda cute to see some old school political distress.

“Gee,” I say, “thanks for that.”

She smirks at me. “Maybe I just like watchin’ the way you move, dish boy.”

“A well-dressed young lady prude like you? No way.”

“Oh, suck it.” She grabs a box of Hot Tamales out of her purse and starts shoving handfuls into her mouth. “Kristy wants to take me shopping. I think
she’s convinced she can get me to throw out my whole wardrobe and start over.”

“I dunno, I wouldn’t write off the possibility. You look

adorable

.”

“Oh hurrah,” she drawls, “you’re just as great as Arthur.”

“Well, he

the boss of me,” I remind her as I finish up the dishes. I dry my hands on a paper towel, then start over to grab my coat from the rack. But

before I can get there, Cora steps in front of me. I stare down at her.

“Uh,” I say, “move? Possibly?”

But she doesn’t move. Instead, she lifts up her arms. I’m scared for like a fraction of a second (you can’t blame a brotha for that when you’ve been
through what I’ve been through), but then – she hugs me.

It’s a nice hug, too. No slamming me against the wall. No biting involved.

When she finally pulls away, I ask, “What the hell was that?”

“I’m just happy for you,” she replies with a shrug. “That’s all.”

I stare at her. I’m not really sure what to say to that.

“I’m allowed to feel happiness for others, Jenkins,” she adds sardonically. “Having a tongue ring doesn’t revoke your privileges.”

I feel sort of … well, touched, honestly. But I can’t really figure out what to do with that, so instead what I do is tug on her pink, pink sleeve and say,
“Sure, you can feel happiness

now

, fairy princess.”

She laughs and backs off. “Fuck you, loser.”

I watch her as she opens the fridge and shoves the rest of her lunch into her bag, along with a couple of Kristy’s yogurts and an iced tea that I know
is Arthur’s. You can take the yak coat off the girl, but you can’t take that wild, unchecked yak spirit from her heart.

I think back to our fearsome disaster of a night together, with the Old Yeller and the awkward and her pretty much jumping me in an alley. And then
her pretty much jumping me in the car. Me pretty much wanting to jump out of my whole existence. And suddenly, I feel really grateful for that whole
crazy-ass experience. I’m not sure where I’d be if it hadn’t happened, but … chances are it wouldn’t be here. It’s not like I know where stuff’s going
to go from this point. Probably more difficult, scary, confusing, stressful-as-all places. But I’ve got a crazy old bastard trying to force-feed me citrus
in the name of my own health, and that? That’s not something I’d trade.

“Thanks, Cora,” I say.

“Yeah,” she replies, with this little smile that’s almost gentle, “sure.”

As we walk out together, she gives me a handful of Hot Tamales. It’s a gesture I appreciate. A growing boy can’t live on grapefruit and grapefruit
alone.

Chapter Twenty-One

On the eve of the concert I come home from work and change into a Radiohead t-shirt, upon the grounds that Radiohead makes music, music is
the theme of the evening, and therefore, I’m pretty much dressed for the occasion. God, I am one dapper son of a bitch.

Dennis and Emily are staying in to make cookies and decorate the Christmas tree. We’ve been pretty slack on the whole happy holidays thing over
the past couple years, and getting that Christmas groove back has been a little clunky. My dad used to drag us all out into the woods to go genuine
hardcore tree-hunting, a timeless adventure that he loved, Dennis valiantly pretended to love, and Mom and I pissed and moaned about year after
year. When he died, we got a fake tree instead. A really, really crappy fake tree. The bottom third of it is so loose it spins in circles every time
someone comes within a foot of it without tiptoeing. It never really struck me as a very big deal. In my opinion, Christmas just don’t got that swing
once the whole Santa myth gets busted.

We didn’t even bother to drag ol’

pinus fakus

downstairs this year ‘til Emily offhandedly remarked upon how unusual it was that Christmas was only

a handful of days away and we still didn’t have a tree. Real quick after that Mom forced Dennis and me to lug it down, along with all the boxes of
Christmas lights and crap.

Considering Mom’s continued mission to convince Emily we’re the most functional of families, this seemed like a pretty sloppy move. I’m starting to

think that her less-than-love for Emily is quelling her overall motivation in that department. For awhile, we kinda just let the tree stand there in the
living room, all crooked and neglected. But Emily – oh, Emily – took a long look at it this morning, then finally pronounced, “I think we could make
this look very nice.”

To which my mom wasted no time in replying, “Well, sweetie, I think you could too.”

My mom, for the record, claims she’s gotta go have dinner with a coworker tonight, but I’m pretty sure that’s code for kidnapping someone and
forcing them to hang out with her so she doesn’t have to spend an evening untangling garlands with Emily.

I kind of wish she’d warm up to her, to be honest. Sure, Emily’s a weirdo, but you know who else was probably a weirdo? Jesus. ‘Tis the season.

I come downstairs to find Dennis and Emily immersed in the business of cookie baking. They’re both wearing aprons; Emily somehow wound up
with the plain red-and-white striped one, while Dennis got saddled with the frilly, flowery masterpiece Nana Jenkins bestowed upon us many a year
ago. He’s rocking it with dignity. He’s also steadily trying to sneak pieces of cookie dough. Emily is just as steadily swatting him away.

“Hey,” he says as I get my coat on, “don’t you get too crazy down there. If some eighth graders start getting fresh, or passing out drugs or
something, just say no.”

“You kidding? Eighth graders have all the best crack.”

“Eighth graders don’t have crack, do they?” Emily asks, looking concerned.

“Most of them don’t,” Dennis replies, patting her on the shoulder.

“I suppose that’s comforting,” she says with a little frown.

“In eighth grade,” I say, “Pixy Stix were my drug of choice.”

“How you’ve grown,” Dennis deadpans.

“Hey. I’m a Laffy Taffy man now.”

My mom comes in, looking pretty damn fancy. Skirt, hair curled, the whole deal. I get the sense that it’s because the longer she spends holed up
getting ready, the less time she has to spend around Emily.

“All right, you two,” my mom says, “don’t burn the house down.”

“We’ll try not to,” Emily replies with perfect sincerity.

My mom stares at her for a couple seconds too long. “I appreciate that,” she finally says.

“Ehh, don’t worry, Mom,” Dennis adds, throwing an arm around Emily’s shoulders. He’s the tiniest bit too jovial. “She’ll keep me in line.”

“Thank goodness for that.” Mom turns to me. “You ready for your rock show, delinquent child?”

“Oh, I am ready for rockin’.”

We walk out to the driveway together. Mom’s wearing heels, so she’s pretty slow-moving. She pauses next to my car. The passenger’s seat is
sporting the bouquet of flowers Kristy, Cora, and I went in on earlier.

“Flowers?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“For Arthur,” I explain. And then, since that alone sounds a little too because-I-am-his-lovetoy for me to be comfortable with, I throw in, “It was Kristy’s
idea.”

“And you got entrusted with flower duty? You?”

“Hey,” I say, lifting my hands. “You can’t see it through the gloves, but these thumbs is green, sista.”

“Oh, my baby boy, you’re fooling no one.” The love around here, it’s unstoppable. “This is very sweet of you, supporting him at his gig.”

My immediate compulsion is to start professing my hatred for him, stat. ‘Actually, he’s making us go, otherwise he’ll fire us all, because he’s a sick
sorry nasty weird lame-o who doesn’t have any friends to support him, he’s paying us overtime, he makes me want to kill myself, Arthur, ew, gross.’
It all blossoms in my brain, finely honed instinct at work. But I fight it back. That’s not how I want to do this anymore.

“The ladies wanted to go,” I say instead. And then, a feat of tremendous bravery: “Besides, he’s not so bad.”

“You two are getting along again?” She sounds so calm and oblivious.

“Yeah,” I reply. “We’re buddies.”

She smirks at me. “He’s not atrocious anymore?”

“Not so much.” It sounds so obvious in my head, so P.S. I Love Him, but then it comes out and sounds like ordinary conversation. I know I should be
frustrated, and I kind of am. She’s gonna have to figure it out sooner or later. But I’m also really relieved.

“That’s good. I think you could use a friend like him.”

“Yeah. I guess. So. What poor unfortunate colleague did you force to hang out with you?”

“Professor Herrick and I have to discuss how to adapt to some changes in the English department faculty this next semester. Pressing business
that, much as I wanted to stay in for a lovely cozy evening at home, needs to be attended to immediately.”

“Ahh, Herrick.” I bust out my nastiest of sneers. “Tell him I want my five points on that Shakespeare paper.”

“A two ninety five out of three hundred is still something to be perfectly proud of,” Mom says, patronizing and loving it.

“You don’t write ‘very good’ in all the categories on the grading rubric and then take five random points off anyway. That’s unfair. That’s

sick

. Those,

Mother mine, are what I like to call

shenanigans

.”

Her mouth quirks in a smile, and she pats me on the head. “My little overachiever.”

“Oh yeah,” I say, “that’s me.”

I didn’t really mean anything by it. It’s just – well, ‘overachiever’ isn’t exactly a label that gets slapped on me left and right. If there’s a way to be more
under than an underachiever, then I’m that. Plus some extra. This is basic knowledge.

But after I say it my mom looks sort of thoughtful and sad. I force myself to smile. No teeth or anything, just lifting the corners of my mouth up. Maybe I
could’ve tried a little harder on that one, to communicate that I am actually ecstatic and content in every area of my existence. See? We’ve got
some high-class underachieving going on right here, right now.

“Behave yourself, kid,” she finally says, and brushes her gloved hand briefly against my cheek.

I bust out a grin for her, teeth and all, so she won’t worry. “You too, Mamacita.”

I meet up with Kristy and Cora in the high school auditorium parking lot. The yak coat is back, marking the end of Cora’s week of pink-clad
penitence. Kristy’s bouncing up and down. Presumably it’s to keep herself from freezing to death, but with Kristy, you never know.

“Ooh, you brought the flowers! Arthur’s going to like them so much! Do you think the show will be very long? I hope they don’t wilt. They probably
won’t wilt. And, okay, I know he told us not to do this, but I couldn’t resist, so – look!”

She unfurls a bright red banner. It looks like about half the contents in the store went into making it: it’s shiny, it’s beady, it’s ribbony, it’s glitter-glue-
tastic. In the middle of a mad frenzy of stars and candy canes and musical notes are the words ‘WE LOVE YOU, ARTHUR!’ As she unrolls it all the
way, sequins flurry off of it and drift down onto the pavement.

“Isn’t it the best?” Cora says, pleased. “He’s gonna be so pissed off.”

“So pissed off,” I grin.

“We won’t hold it up too much,” Kristy says firmly. “We’ll just show it to him afterwards. I think it’s nice! He’ll get that it’s nice.” After a moment’s
consideration, she adds, “Maybe we should just tell him that Howie made it.”

“Yeah,” I say, “there’s no way he’s gonna believe I made that.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Kristy agrees. She eyes the banner fondly and giggles to herself, then starts to roll it back up.

“Hey,” come some familiar tones, and we look over to see Amber approaching us. Her sister April’s one of the pre-teen superstars that’ll be rockin’
it onstage, so we agreed to meet up here. She’s got her hands in her pockets and she looks a little bit nervous. For some reason, that makes me
nervous.

Said nervousness can be blamed for me greeting her thus: “Ambie!”

“I will murder you for real, Howard,” she replies. And lo, I am heartened. It’s like magic.

“You brought a sign?” she asks, gaping at Kristy’s creation.

“Yep! We weren’t supposed to, but we couldn’t help it. Howie told me your sister’s in it, too, so I thought I’d …” She turns the poster around to reveal
that on the back, it says, ‘AND APRIL.’

“Oh wow,” Amber says, taken aback.

“It just says ‘And April,’” Cora points out. “That could mean anything.”

“No, she’ll think it’s cool,” Amber says. It’s obvious she’s trying to be nice. “She pretty much loves anything that sparkles.”

Kristy beams.

“Why do you have flowers?” Amber asks me as we move inside.

“Kristy thought it’d be nice for Arthur.”

“Ooh, it’s Arthur’s lucky night. Is his boyfriend coming?”

I got this,

I think.

It’s no biggie,

I think.

Except by the time that I open my mouth to answer, Kristy and Cora have already got it taken care of. Kind of.

“They broke up, actually,” Cora says. “Arthur doesn’t have a boyfriend now.”

“Nope!” Kristy agrees. “No boyfriend for Arthur.”

“He’s a single, lonely little old man,” Cora says.

“Well, not little,” Kristy says considerately. “He’s tall.”

“He’s pretty tall,” Cora allows.

“Huh,” Amber says, looking confused. Understandably so. “That’s … too bad.”

“Oh, I think he’s better off,” Kristy replies quickly. “This way, he can find somebody who really appreciates him! If there’s somebody like that out
there somewhere. Which I don’t know for sure, because I haven’t really met anybody who’d go well with him. But I bet there is someone!
Somewhere!” She very carefully doesn’t look at me. In a way where she sneaks a glance every couple of seconds and then forces her gaze up to

the ceiling to compensate.

“Or maybe not,” Cora throws in, “because Arthur’s a pain in the ass.”

“That too!” Kristy chirps.

“Poor Arthur,” says Amber.

We sit in the front row. Arthur is gonna love that. The room is full of people, most of them parent-shaped. All the kids start filing onto the stage and
sloppily making their way onto the risers. There’s lots of stumbling and giggling and awkward twitching – ah, to be young and devoid of stage
presence. Mrs. Fitzgerald, who’s been the music teacher ever since I was in school, comes onstage wielding a baton. That strikes me as
irrationally optimistic, but I guess I’ll let it go. Last is Arthur, who inconspicuously sits himself down at the piano in the right corner of the stage. He’s
wearing a red sweater. Kristy waves furiously at him, beaming. She starts to reach for the poster; I catch her wrist. She makes a sheepish face.

I grin up at Arthur. I can’t help it. He smiles back down at me for a couple of seconds.

Then he turns back to his epic duties and starts shuffling through the music on the piano. He gets everything in order, Mrs. Fitzgerald waves a hand
in his direction, the kids look varying degrees of excited, nervous, and bored, and he starts playing.

Cora shouts, “DO ME, PIANO MAN!”

And then a teacher swoops down and kicks us out.

We stand out in the lobby and stare at each other.

“Oh no,” Kristy says at last, miserably. “Arthur’s going to be so disappointed.”

“Arthur’s going to fuck your shit up,” I tell Cora. “Stickler boss style.”

“I didn’t mean to,” she protests, but her eyes are bright and it’s easy to tell she’s trying real hard not to laugh. “His red sweater made me do it. It was
too much sexy. I couldn’t take it.”

Kristy stares forlornly down at the rolled up poster in her hand. It’s been trailing glitter all the way out.

I’m still holding the stupid bouquet of flowers. Considering I’m surrounded by

three

girls who could do it without looking like a huge tool, well, it just

all seems kind of mean.

“You want these?” I ask Amber.

“No,” she says.

“Figures,” I mumble.

“I can’t believe you got me in trouble,” Amber says, disoriented. “You run with a dangerous crowd.”

I shake my head ruefully. “Don’t I know it.”

Cora stares at all of us. Kristy lets out a pitiful little sigh.

“Okay,” she says abruptly. “Get ready to enter the belly of the beast, kiddos.”

She grabs my arm and starts dragging. Kristy and Amber trail after, although Amber kinda looks like she’s ruing having ever sat with us in the first
place. We go through a door with a ‘DO NOT ENTER’ sign on it.

“But it says—” Kristy starts.

“If it’s not locked, then they don’t really mean it,” Cora replies bluntly.

She leads us through a long, narrow hallway. After a couple minutes, we reach another door. Cora pushes it open, and we step out into darkness. I
realize that we’re in one of the wings.

“Welcome backstage, bitches,” she whispers smugly.

Backstage passes at a middle school choir concert. I hang with a crew who knows how to live.

We hover at the side of the stage. Arthur looks up and catches sight of us at one point in between songs. He heaves a slight sigh, like he can’t really
bring himself to be surprised. We wave back.

The concert goes on for about forty minutes. We get to bear witness to a Charlie Brown Christmas medley, Frosty the Snowman, Rudolph the

Rednosed Reindeer (Cora, Kristy, and Amber all laugh at me during this one; even Arthur throws a smirk across the stage), and, in one of those
tragic but inevitable middle school choir attempts to be hip, a snappy little ditty called We Text U A Merry Xmas. That one even has dance moves,
which mostly consist of the kids miming texting. It’s grim stuff. There’s a background track on that one, so Arthur just sits at the piano and looks
vaguely sickened. They finish off with a jaunty Joy to the World, and then it’s the end.

There’s a lot of bustling around, and Mrs. Fitzgerald makes an announcement about everybody congregating in the cafeteria for a reception.
Amidst all the confusion, Arthur slips backstage. I head over to meet him.

“Now, was that really worth all the hype?” he asks, beleaguered.

I grin at him. “Fuck yeah.”

“No,” he corrects, “would be the right answer.”

“Do me, piano man.”

He smirks. “Get in line.”

“Wow. That badass red sweater sure makes you sassy.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I just learned from the—”

“Best?”

“Most annoying, I was going to say.”

“Yeah,” I say, smiling, “sure you were.”

“I was—”

“Arthuuurrr!” Kristy exclaims, and we step like a foot apart. She and Cora are moseying over holding the poster in all its sparkly glory. Amber, I see,
has been relegated to flower duty. Ha ha ha.

“Oh, Lord,” Arthur says.

“You’ve got quite the fan following, Arthur,” Mrs. Fitzgerald says, coming over.

“I can’t dispute that,” Arthur replies, smiling.

“Thank you again for doing this, you did such a wonderful job,” Mrs. Fitzgerald praises. I feel a little surge of pride. “Oh, look, we have some familiar
faces here. Dennis?”

“Howie,” I correct, trying not to radiate lameness.

“Oh, of course. The other twin. You never were in band, were you?”

“I tried the tuba,” I reply oh so winningly. “For … a week.”

“Right,” she says, clearly not remembering at all. Which is probably the best for all of us. Including the tuba. “Amber, how are you?”

“Not much with the flute playing these days,” Amber replies, smiling. “But I’m well.”

She and Mrs. Fitzgerald spiral off into small talk.

Meanwhile, Arthur shakes his head in mock dismay. (Or at least, I think it’s mock.) “Band quitter.”

I stare at him. “It was the

tuba

.”

After a few seconds, he relents. “Yes, all right.”

“Cora Caldwell,” Mrs. Fitzgerald says then, registering her presence.

“Hiya, Mrs. F,” Cora replies, positively dulcet-toned. “It’s been awhile.”

Mrs. Fitzgerald crosses her arms. “I can’t help suspecting that you were responsible for that bout of enthusiastic shouting right before the concert.”

“I’m pretty sure that was the people behind us,” Cora says smoothly.

“You mean Mr. and Mrs. Holland and their new baby?”

“Kids say the darndest things, right?”

And

that

is how we get wrangled into moving every damn chair, instrument, speaker, and prop off the stage and downstairs.

Somehow, it becomes just me, Kristy, and Amber. Arthur does one round before Mrs. Fitzgerald whisks him away to the reception with her. Cora
gets hungry and sneaks off to it, because she is the devil’s tiny much-pierced mistress.

The auditorium’s deserted by the time we finish. That’s not exactly surprising. The reception has cookies. The auditorium has heavy lifting. You do
the math.

We’re about to finally set off, triumphant and maybe a little wheezy. Achy. Okay, fine, maybe I’m the one who’s wheezy and achy. Since when are
dainty females so tough, huh?

“Wait,” Kristy says, her eyes drifting back to the stage. “What about him?”

I follow her gaze to see … oh, Christ. It’s this huge, hideous five-foot-tall statue of a Christmas elf. It’s got big, vacant elf eyes and a dopey elf grin. A
jaunty little elf cap. It’s frozen mid-skip. It’s just there in the corner of the stage, hangin’ out.

It stares at us. Mocking us.

“I don’t think it really matters,” I say.

“I don’t know,” Amber says. “Mrs. F seemed pretty upset.”

“Yeah, well, Mrs. F can go missus eff herself, because I—”

But I can’t even tack a quippy ending onto the sentence, because Kristy and Amber are already off to move the stupid thing. And, well, it’s huge.
Clearly not a two-lady operation.

Curse my man-being.

We fight the elf into the prop elevator. It is maybe the hardest thing I’ve ever have to do. There’s swearing, there’s clumsiness, there’s feet nearly
being crushed into fine powder. Finally, we get him in there and we get the elevator shut. I press the button and sink down onto the floor as we start
moving. Just, ya know. Quick rest.

And then, out of nowhere, there’s this horrible grinding sound and a lurch that shakes the whole elevator. Elfy McElferson crashes to the floor and
misses me by like six inches.

“FUCK!”

Then I realize we’re not moving anymore.

Amber groans. “Are you kidding me?”

I get up, my legs kinda shaky. I press the button. Nothing. I press it about eight more times just to make sure.

We are so not moving.

“Oh, you guys,” Kristy says, with boundless optimism, “we’re not

trapped

.”

We’re trapped.

“Well, let’s just call somebody,” Amber says reasonably.

“Yeah!” I say, relieved. This girl, there’s a reason she’s like my own personal genius. “Yeah, let’s.”

We all stare at each other. For a really long time.

“My phone’s in my purse,” Kristy finally says.

“Mine too,” Amber says.

“Mine’s in my coat,” I contribute.

Not a great turn of events, considering all three of those things just so happen to be tossed on a chair backstage.

“We could call the old fashioned way,” I finally say. “Like, shout. Someone’s gotta be around.”

“Yeah, okay!”

So we shout.

Nobody’s around.

“It’s totally okay, you guys! Someone’ll realize we’re gone soon. Like Arthur. There’s noooo way Arthur won’t come looking for us. I bet he’ll even
bring us some cookies and punch from the reception! It’s okay. It’s good.”

It is apparently the longest reception of all time. Arthur is dead to me.

Somehow, in a twist of fate that defies logic and science, the glitter from Kristy’s Arthur (and April) poster got into my hair. She starts trying to brush
it out with her fingers, and I laugh a little, and she laughs a lot, and then I realize that there’s one person in this elevator who’s not laughing.

For the first time all night, I remember that Amber thought I ditched her to go spend all night with Kristy. It’s like getting hit with a hammer. Or having
a humongous elf statue fall on you.

Shit. Shit. Please don’t mention it, Amber. Please, please, please don’t mention it.

“You have a boyfriend, right, Kristy?” Amber asks.

Goddamn. It’s like she’s psychic, and using said powers for evil.

“Yeah,” Kristy replies, getting all smiley. “Reddy! Well. Clifford.”

She is so not a portrait of a lady in a recently jeopardized relationship. Damn it. Damn it.

“How is he?” Amber continues. There’s this edge to her tone that makes it really clear that this ain’t just friendly girl chat. Incredibly, Kristy isn’t
picking up on it.

“He’s great! He’s going to come back home with me for Christmas, and I’m so excited. My parents really really love him, and my little brothers just
think he’s like the greatest. There’s this great hill by my house and we’re going to go sledding, like, all day every day.”

Amber looks at me. I look at our collapsed elf friend.

“You know, actually, I was meaning to bring him up to you!” Kristy continues. “You see, he’s got this friend from his band, John, who’s been sort of
down in the dumps lately because he broke up with his girlfriend awhile ago, and Reddy and me decided it’d probably be best if he just started
dating again, and Howie told me that you were single, so I was thinking that maybe if you ever wanted to do a double date sometime, that would be
so—”

WHY. WHY.

“I don’t think so,” Amber interrupts.

“Oh.” Kristy’s face falls a little. “Howie said you’d say that.”

Shit.

“He did?” Amber asks, narrowing her eyes.

No. No. Oh no oh no oh no.

“Yeah,” Kristy replies, missing every one of my spastic facial tics that mean ‘STOP TALKING.’ “And I get that it is totally weird and nerve-racking,
but John is such a nice guy! And he’s really smart, and I think you two would hit it off. Sometimes it’s fun to try new things! Who knows, it might really
help to get your mind off stuff.”

Shit. Why did I tell her about Dennis? What was I thinking?

“What stuff?” Amber asks, deathly.

Kristy finally catches on. “Like … other … boys, or something. I don’t know. Just stuff!”

Amber doesn’t say anything.

Maybe it’s because she’s just not that bothered about the whole thing.

“You told her,” she says at last, her voice totally flat. She stares at me.

I think I’m supposed to say something back. Fuck. What do I say back to that?

? Amber’ll see right through that with her friggin’ bullshit x-ray

vision.

I just stare back at her. It’s pathetic.

“You

told her

?” she says then. This time, inflection comes out to play. “Howie,

nobody

knows that.

Mitch

didn’t even know that.”

“I—”

“I’m sorry!” Kristy jumps in immediately, wincing. “Gosh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just – it’s not bad, or anything! He was just worried about
you and he needed to talk.”

“Worried about me,” Amber says flatly.

“Well, yeah!” It’s painful to watch her like this. “I think it helps a lot when you’ve got a problem like that to talk to someone who doesn’t know the other
person, because that way, you get an outside perspective, and that’s really—”

But as far as Amber’s concerned, Kristy might as well not even be talking. All her attention’s on me. “Jesus, Howie, it’s one thing if you’re ditching
me for them left and right. Like, I get it, far be it from me to deny you your harem of crafts store hotties, I’m sure I’m really boring to you in
comparison, whatever. But you don’t get to just go talk to

strangers

about my private—”

“It’s not like that!” Kristy protests.

“Kristy,” I groan. “Don’t—”

“What do you mean?” Amber asks. Oh, God.

“He’s going through a lot of stuff, you know!” Kristy says. She sounds so goddamn sincere. “And he feels like he can’t tell you about it! He’s not
hanging out with us because you’re boring! And we’re definitely not his

harem—

”

Amber lets out a dark, disbelieving laugh. “Um, wow, okay, Pollyanna, color me chastised. You definitely, definitely know him better than I do.”

“I’m not saying that! It’s just that there’s this one thing that—”

“Kristy,” I say, panicking, “seriously, fucking

don’t

—”

“Yeah, yes, what a brilliant, romantic, mysterious secret. ‘Cause I definitely can’t figure out on my own that he’s sleeping with Cora, or with you, or,
hell, both of you, taking turns—”

Kristy’s jaw drops. “Oh my gosh, what are you talking about?? He’s

not

.”

“Yeah, okay, sure he’s not. He’s absolutely not.”

“You know what, I think it’s terrible that he feels like he has to hide this from you,” Kristy declares, with the tiniest bit of bite, “and I didn’t even
understand why he was at first. I thought you were his best friend, so you’d want him to be happy no matter what. But now I’m totally starting to get
why—”

“Oh, yeah, you’ve got him all figured out,” Amber snaps.

“He’s a wonderful person.”

Oh, Jesus Christ.

“Oh, yeah, he’s Prince Charming, he’s absolutely goddamn wonderful! Do you even know why he took this job?”

“I know it was to meet girls. He told me.”

“To meet girls?” Amber snorts. “Wow, that’s adorable. He took it because he wanted to fuck you.”

It’s awful. It’s so fucking awful. I can’t remember the last time I heard Amber swear, really swear. I realize that’s probably because it was never.

“Meet girls,” Kristy says again, obstinately, like she can’t comprehend what Amber’s just said.

“No, not so much. He hatched this really fine, really genius idea that it’d be great to work in an arts ‘n crafts store because it’d mean he was
surrounded by girls all the time. And apparently these girls would, I dunno, have nothing better to do than have sex with him twenty-four seven?
Personally, I thought the plan was flawed, but him, he really believed in it. He went in there for the interview, and he met you, and he decided, ‘Damn,
she’s fine, better tap that ass!’ ‘Tap that like a spine,’ I believe, was the exact phrasing. Poetry, right? Keatsian splendor. And so he got the job, and
he said everything he said to you, because he figured you were into him and you were the easiest thing he could get.”

Kristy looks at me. I feel totally numb. For some stupid reason all that really registers in my brain is how blue her eyes are.

After what feels like forever, she looks back at Amber. “He might have said that to you—”

“He

did

say that to me.”

“—but it doesn’t matter how he felt about me when we met, anyway. We’re friends now.” She lifts her head higher, tilts her chin up.

I feel like my heart might collapse. It doesn’t even make any sense, but it’s just – it’s like if she does one more thing, one more thing to prove what a
good person she is, how much I don’t deserve to even know her, it’ll be the fucking end of me.

“Oh, yeah,” Amber agrees scornfully. “You’re best buddies. And the reason he’s still hanging out with you is because he’d like nothing more from
you than a whole bunch of fun, hearty, pure, platonic friendship. He’s definitely not waiting around ‘til the one day when your boyfriend slips up and
you decide—”

“Amber—” I croak, just wanting her to shut up.

It’s searingly quiet for a few seconds.

“I feel really sorry for you,” Kristy says.

“That’s touching,” Amber spits. “Thank you.”

Kristy swallows. “I mean it. It must be really hard to love somebody so much for so long and have it not matter.”

I think I’m going to pass out. Whatever Amber’s gonna say back to this, I can’t handle it, I just can’t. I look at her, and there’s something new coloring

her whole face. I can’t begin to predict what it’s gonna turn into.

And then – holy fucking miracle – there’s a clanging from outside, an unfamiliar voice. “Hey, somebody in there?”

“Yeah,” I yell, coming to my senses a little. “Yeah, we’re stuck.”

It’s the janitorial staff, and they get us out somehow. I’m a little fuzzy on the details even as they’re happening. I feel like I’m about to die or
something. I’m so shaken in every centimeter of my body, like I can’t even remember what it’s like to feel steady. Amber and Kristy both stare
straight ahead at nothing.

As soon as the doors open, Kristy bolts.

We don’t move. Just stand there next to each other.

“Amber,” I finally say, “what the fuck?”

I expect her to go off on me again, but she doesn’t. All of the venom’s out of her. She sounds nothing besides tired. “I just want you to stop lying to
me. Jesus, Howie. Just – tell me if it’s Cora, or if it’s Kristy, or what the hell ever. I just want to know the truth, okay.”

“It’s Arthur,” I say.

She lets out this quiet, disgusted noise. “Don’t mess with me, Howie.”

“I’m not,” I say, louder. “It’s Arthur.”

She laughs a little. A profoundly unamused laugh. “What?”

Then she meets my eyes, and the mean laughter leaves her face.

“I know,” I say. I think I might pass out, I feel so fucking lightheaded. But, I don’t know, I’m saying it and it’s like it doesn’t even matter right now. “But –
it is. It’s Arthur. I’m with Arthur, okay?”

Amber just stares at me. I watch it dawn in her eyes, on her face.

“Howie—” she says.

“I gotta go catch Kristy,” I tell her.

I jog out, up the aisle and out into the lobby, then through the glass doors outside. It’s freezing out. I left my coat inside. It’s a quiet, pitch black night.
The parking lot is draped in light from the lampposts. It’s snowing gently.

Kristy’s not too far away. She’s standing in that space where the sidewalk meets the parking lot. She must have called Cliff, and now she’s waiting
for him to come get her.

I take some time just to look at her. Then I take a deep breath.

“Kristy,” I say when I come up behind her, “listen, thank you for being so—”

She turns around. And she slaps me.

It’s a doozy, too. Every single thought leaves my head and for a few almost blissful seconds there’s nothing besides the sting on my cheek and a
faint ringing in my ears. It’s just

OW, OW, OW, OW

“Ow,” I finally say out loud. My voice is all raspy.

Her face immediately melts into worry. “Oh, God, was that really bad? I’m sorry.” She reaches up and presses her fingers really lightly against my
cheek.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say impatiently. My well-being isn’t exactly the priority right now. “Kristy—”

Then she seems to realize what she’s doing. She pulls her hand back quick, like it suddenly burns her to touch me.

“I can’t believe you would do something like that,” she says, her voice quavering. “You were always so nice to me. I always thought you were so
nice.”

“I

. Or, I’m not, but – Kristy, come on, listen—”

“God, Howie,” she says. The words come out sounding all watery. She bites her lip, and I can tell she’s about to cry.

I’ve never hated myself like I do right now.

“There’s Reddy,” she says, and I turn to see the dull orange headlights across the lot. They seem soft and surreal through the snow.

“He’s all the way across the parking lot,” I point out. “It’s icy—”

“I can walk,” she interrupts firmly. I just stand there like a dumbass and watch her as she carefully treks her way across the parking lot.

Even after they pull out of the lot, I don’t move. I can’t quite register what just happened. She was never the one who was supposed to get hurt. I
mean, it’s not like it was ever gonna be fun and happy times if anybody got upset over this mess, but never for a second did I think that Kristy would
wind up feeling bad because of something I did.

I remember going into the store on that first day and trying to think all that dumb shit about wanting to get with her.

“There you are. Where’s your coat?” I turn around to see Arthur coming cheerfully towards me. “It would really put a damper on the evening if you
succumbed to the elements—”

He gets close enough to see the look on my face, I guess, and he stops talking right away.

“What happened?” he asks, looking anxious.

And wouldn’t you know, try as I might, I can’t really concoct a succinct little response.

“Uh,” is all I got.

He comes up to me and rests a hand on my arm. “Howie?”

“Oh, holy shit,” I say, and I kind of just sink into him, burying my face in his shoulder. “Holy shit, man.”

“Hey,” he says real soft, rubbing my back. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

I don’t know how long we stay like that. A long time.

Chapter Twenty-Two

By the time I get home I’m feeling a little more alive. Arthur took me back inside and we stole leftover cookies from the reception under the guise of
helping clean up. Then we sat out in the stairwell for half an hour with a plate of said cookies, and I told him a garbled version of what went down. He
was all nice and practical about it, reminding me that Kristy is literally incapable of staying mad at anyone for longer than twenty-four hours. He also
pointed out that Amber has no problem with homosexuality, and loves me a whole lot besides, and it seems like her rogue bitch attack stemmed
from the fact that she wanted to know the truth – which, now, she does.

All in all, it helped talk me down a lot.

Plus, cookies.

I still feel weird stepping into the house, though: this bizarre feeling like everything’s changed and I don’t live here anymore. It’s completely quiet. I
drop my coat a few times while I’m trying to hang it up. If this is an indicator of how I’m gonna function on a basic level from hereon out, well, damn it.

I go into the living room to discover Dennis asleep in the armchair and Emily on the couch, still awake and hard at work. She’s got a bag of
microwave popcorn on the coffeetable and she’s diligently stringing it together. Some old black and white movie’s on TV. The volume’s turned
down and the closed captioning is on. She’s absently mouthing along with the words.

Suddenly, I can’t help but feel like it must be really, really freakin’ wonderful to be Emily.

She looks up at the sight of me.

“Oh,” she says. She’s so naturally soft-spoken that she doesn’t really have to whisper. “Hello, Howie.”

“Hey.”

“I thought you might be your mother.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, I see. How was the concert?”

“They did a song called We Text U A Merry Xmas,” I tell her, “and then I got trapped in an elevator, I made the nicest girl in the world hate me by
being a former sick sorry-ass pervert, and I told Amber about me and Arthur.”

Her brow creases in lightest concern.

“You should sit down,” she decides. She moves the popcorn garland out of the way, then daintily pats the couch cushion next to her.

I don’t have the energy to pass up on the invitation. I sink down on the couch next to her, letting out a long and long-suffering sigh.

“What did Amber say?”

“I dunno. I kinda just bolted.”

“Oh.” She’s quiet long enough for it to be awkward. Then she helpfully adds, “I’m sure she would have been kind about it if you’d stayed.”

“Yeah,” I say, starting to feel that oh-so-delightful sick numbness again. “I guess.”

“She seemed so enthusiastic about gay people,” Emily continues thoughtfully. “I’m sure she’d like one of her own.”

“Thanks, Em.”

“Of course.”

We sit in silence. She reaches for the popcorn – to keep on designing our very special Victorian Christmas, I figure. But then she tilts the bag
toward me. I grab a handful.

She sets the bag down on the coffeetable and gets back to work. I eat the pieces of popcorn one by one. Without meaning to, I start reading the
subtitles on the TV. Looks like this chick and this dude have a pet leopard by accident. Now, that’s zany hijinks at their finest.

“When I started to date Dennis,” Emily says suddenly, surprising me, “I was very nervous about it. I’d never had a boyfriend, like I said before. I’ve

always felt like I know love stories very well, because of all the books I read, but when it’s there staring you in the face in real life, it seems terribly
different. I’d liked a couple of boys, but they didn’t show any interest back, so I didn’t want to bother them by letting them know. I thought it would
make them uncomfortable. I tend to do that to people sometimes. Dennis was dating my roommate first, you know. She always took a very long
time to get ready to go out, and I’m usually at home. And we’d talk while he waited for her. He was so genuine and interested. It was so different
from talking to most other people. I liked him very much right away, but I didn’t even want to acknowledge it to myself, really. He was Rebecca’s
boyfriend. It seemed awfully tawdry of me.

“I’ve never been a very lonely person. I’m very good at being on my own. But after I met him, I lost a bit of that. It was like he helped me find some
whole new section of my heart, one I didn’t even know existed before. One for just him to fill. And when he wasn’t there to do it, I felt his absence so
keenly. I suppose this sounds very cliché and silly,” she adds. She doesn’t sound all that abashed about it.

“Sure,” I say, and don’t throw in the part where I’m starting to get how that feeling works.

“It’s not that I didn’t want to fall in love someday. I did. I’m quite romantic, although I don’t know if it shows very much. But it seemed like such an
abstract idea before. And something of an impossible one. And then I met him, and he was real, and it was all so unsettling and wonderful. But it’s
still very hard business to really

let

yourself fall, I think. Especially when you’ve come to feel like it’s something you aren’t cut out for.”

“Huh,” I offer, so noncommittal.

“It was so frightening when he began to like me too.” She gives a little sigh. “Isn’t that funny? You wouldn’t think so, but it was. I didn’t know what to
do with it at all. It would have been much easier to turn him down. Much less scary, I mean.” I look over at her. She isn’t looking at me anymore;
she’s staring at the TV, looking and sounding a thousand miles away. From the side, in the almost-dark, she’s kind of beautiful. She’s got this
dainty little nose that slopes perfectly upward; she reminds me of Amber’s favorite necklace, one of those cameo ones. The light from the TV
reflects in her glasses, flashing a little. Even that seems weirdly lovely. “But he was very patient with me, and I just really, really did love him.
Eventually it came to seem worth all of the struggle.” She pauses, delicately impales one more piece of popcorn. “You know, I don’t think it’s worth it
to deny yourself happiness just so you can stay faithful to the person you think you’ve become.”

For a little while, I just let myself take that in. It feels good to hear it. For all her assorted weirdnesses, it’s starting to dawn on me that this girl is very
wise.

She doesn’t look at me. If she wants to check and see whether she drove the message home, well, her self-restraint is mighty great. She keeps her
eyes trained on the television. After a little while, her lips start to move along with the subtitles again.

“I do get that you’re being all relevant on purpose,” I inform her, trying to sound jaunty and unmoved. “You can’t sneak nothin’ past me.”

“Mmm,” she replies serenely.

We sit in silence some more.

“All done, I think,” she announces at last, holding out the popcorn garland. “Would you like to help me hang this?”

“Yeah,” I say, “sure.”

She hands one end of it to me, and we start over toward the tree. The lights are strung up already, but that’s it. Quite frankly, it’s looking pretty sad
and sorry. It’s really decent of Emily to bother with any of this. One might even say exceptionally decent. It’s like, how many people are gonna come
into your home, be treated like some kind of psychopath by pretty much everybody, and still decorate your damn Christmas tree?

Looking down, I realize that she’s meticulously unpacked and organized all the Christmas ornaments, grouping them on different areas of floor. My
eye catches one of the ones in the Elementary School Art Project Works of Magnificence pile: it’s covered in gobs of glitter and shaped like a
gingerbread man. One of his eyes is way bigger than the other one, but damned if the little fucker isn’t rocking a broad glittery grin. Scrawled
across his belly in my finest seven year old scrawl is “

FOR MY DAD MARRY XMAS LOVE YOUR SON HOWIE.

” I don’t really expect the rush of

feeling that comes along with looking at it, so I shift my attention real quick to a different section: a little army of delicately folded white paper angels.
All Emily originals, I presume.

“These are cool,” I remark.

Being conventional in the ways of conversation, I expect a ‘thank you.’ Instead what I get is, “You have a very dear heart, Howie.”

I look at her. She stares earnestly back.

“You too,” I reply honestly.

She gives me a quiet smile, and together we set to work decorating the tree.

I have a hard time falling asleep. I lie in the dark and stare at the ceiling. I think about Amber, saying all that awful stuff, eyes hard, voice brittle. I think
about the long, long conversation we’re doomed to have, because she knows, because I told her. It’s exhausting, it makes me feel like eighty years
old just to think about it, but even that’s not enough to help me keep my eyes shut.

I think about Kristy. I don’t know how to make it up to her. I don’t want to win her back, exactly. I don’t want to charm her with my supreme good
guyness or whatever. I’m not a good guy. In fact, I’m fairly certain I’m a horrible guy. I don’t deserve to be forgiven by her. The feeling that hits me
when I think about what she looked like all teary-eyed – I earned that. I should just get used to that. Suffer, jackass.

I think about Arthur, too, in accidental little snatches in between all the guilt. Him smiling at me from across the stage. This is the part, I think, where I

should want to give up, because stuff’s awful and I’m tired.

Here’s the thing: I’ve been hanging out with myself pretty regularly for the past twenty-two years, and in that time, I’ve figured out a thing or two about
me. One of the most important being: when stuff gets hard like this, I give up.

Earlier, sitting in the stairwell with Arthur, I shoved one of the cookies into his mouth, and he laughed and got all fake-pissed about it, and for the
smallest fraction of a second I forgot about everything just enough to feel okay. It was this dumb unexceptional little nothing moment, but it was with
him, so hell, I want to hang onto it. I want to hang on to all of those.

It’s about twelve thirty when I hear the front door open. I listen to the click of heels on the kitchen floor, the dropping of keys on the counter: all those
coming-home sounds.

I should just tell her,

I think, and am immediately scared as hell of my own brain.

I listen to my mom humming as she walks past my bedroom door. She falls silent, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Sure enough, she pushes my door
open just a crack, stares in at me for a little while. I pretend to sleep, and ponder a world where maybe, just maybe (a mind-boggling notion), I could
stop pretending at her all the time.

“This sucks,” I say.

“Hey, now, kid. Don’t knock it. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep.”

“The woods are cold and cold and cold. Besides, we already have a tree. With popcorn, and angels. Emily and me, we totally took care of it. Well.
Mostly Emily.”

“It’s not about the tree, Howard. It’s about the quest.”

“Could I at least go back and get some shoes?” I’m not wearing any. The snow’s not so bad – it’s more like walking through powdered sugar – but
still, I can recognize that this is wrong. You don’t walk around the woods on a cold winter’s eve sans footwear.

“Shoes,” my dad chuckles, and strides mightily on. I struggle to keep up.

“How are we even going to chop it down?”

“I’m dead, son. I have powers.”

Pfft. Typical.

“Anything interesting happen at school today?” Dad asks, conversational, as we trek past tree after tree after tree. All of them have white paper
angels in them.

“I made a girl cry.”

“Bad move.”

“Yeah.” I look down at my feet. They should be cold, right? Just once, I would really love to do something right for a change. “I’m really sick of lying to
everybody.”

Dad throws a glance at me over his shoulder. “So don’t.”

“I dunno,” I say. “It’s not supposed to be that easy, is it?”

“It’s a quest. Of course it’s not easy.”

We keep walking in silence. In the distance I can hear carolers. They’re singing We Text U A Merry Xmas.

My dad must slow down, because I find myself catching up to him. Once we’re side by side, I say, “Do you like Arthur?”

“Do you?” Dad asks, not looking back at me.

“Well, yeah. That’s sort of the problem.”

“Liking somebody, that’s not a problem. Your toes are turning black. Now, that’s a problem.”

I look down. My feet are a discouraging shade of purple, bordering on black. Shit. Shit. This is going to be such a pain in the ass. The worst part,
somehow, is that I still can’t feel it at all. I can recognize that this is an alarming situation, but it just ain’t hittin’ home.

“We should go back,” I suggest.

“Forward’s better,” Dad replies bluntly. “I like forward.”

And so we go forward. I look at the moon for awhile. It’s a deep spooky yellow, low in the navy sky. I feel like I should be saying the important things,
asking the important questions. “Doesn’t it bug you? About me?”

“No,” he says simply. “Ah. Here we go.”

I look up to see that there’s a door. It’s not attached to anything. The forest stretches on and on behind it, on either side of it. It’s just a door hanging
out in the middle of the woods. I think that’s kind of questionable, personally, but Dad twists the handle and heads right on through, and doesn’t
seem to be worried at all. So I follow him.

We’re in the auditorium. It’s kind of a pain-in-the-ass discovery, considering I’m pretty sure I never wanted to come back here after everything that
happened. It’s empty, which makes it seem huge. Cavernous.

Kristy’s sitting in the middle of the stage, crying. Amber’s behind her in the spotlight. She’s staring up into the light, looking cold and sad and
beautiful, and talking, but silently. It’s just her lips moving. I wonder what she’s saying. Off to the side, Arthur’s sitting at the piano, playing something
melancholy. It’s quietly raining glitter.

“You know what you have to do,” my dad says, clapping me on the shoulder.

“Shouldn’t I have bigger problems to deal with?” I ask. “Like, say, my shiny new case of frostbite?”

“Ehh, you don’t need feet. Just love.”

“For real?” I say. “That? That’s what they teach you at the Glowy Afterlife School of Omniscience?”

“Don’t knock it,” Dad orders. “Jane Austen told me that.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Tell your mom she says hi.”

“Will do.”

“She really liked Mansfield Spark.”

“Sick.”

“Totally.”

We watch the stage for a little while. Amber moves her hands in eerie, eloquent gestures in time to the words I can’t hear. The sound of Kristy’s
crying is amplified, though, precise as a pin drop in an empty room. Arthur keeps his head bent down, his hands moving reverently over the keys. I
realize that it’s a song I know, but I can’t quite figure out what.

“He’s talented, this guy,” Dad observes.

“Yeah,” I say. “He’s sort of like … I don’t know, this thoroughly awesome human being.” And then, just because I still can’t quite tell whether he gets
it, I add, “He kissed me in the fake flower aisle.”

“Good for him.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure,” Dad says easily. “Somebody had to.”

“Huh,” I say.

Dad heads over to the nearest row of seats, takes a load off. He props his legs up on the seat in front of him. They never like you to do that, but I
guess it’s not really a big deal considering there’s no one here but us.

I don’t know if I’m supposed to sit down next to him or not. Instead, I keep standing. It’s like this a lot of the time with him. I guess I started to forget
that part.

“Better get off those feet, bud,” he says, an invitation.

I accept, sitting next to him. The chair creaks as I sit down. I can’t quite bring myself to prop my feet up the way he did with his. I don’t really want to
look at them.

“Amber’s very good,” Dad says, keeping his eyes trained on the stage.

“I don’t really get what she’s doing,” I admit.

I watch a smirk curve at his mouth. “The trick to women,” he says, jokily all-knowing, “is—” He trails off abruptly.

“What?”

“Never mind,” he says. “Forgot. I’m not supposed to tell. It’s the rules. Although,” he adds, chuckling, “I guess it doesn’t matter so much in your case,
does it, kiddo? Not exactly essential knowledge.”

Here we go. This, I’ve been waiting for. “So you get it.”

“Yeah, I get it,” he says. He still hasn’t looked at me. “’Course I get it.”

“That your son’s a faggot.”

“Hey,” he says, turning to look at me. He’s got really blue eyes, my dad, but my mom’s are brown, so that’s what Dennis and I got. “Shut your mouth.”

“I just thought you should know,” I say, but I feel stupid and good all at once. Like I called this wrong to start with.

He looks back at the stage, and he crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Nobody talks like that about my son.”

“Yes, sir,” I say quietly.

Arthur stops playing, and for a second, there’s just silence. Then he starts up something else, something a little sweeter.

“What are you going to do?” Dad asks.

“I don’t know.”

He laughs, which I didn’t expect. “It’s great, isn’t it?”

“No,” I say, with my own laugh, though it’s more in the incredulous vein of None of This Is Funny. “It’s friggin’ terrifying.”

“Hold onto that, though,” Dad advises. He seems so all-knowing. I feel five all over again. “That’s a good feeling. Knowing it could go any which

way.” He sighs. “Possibility.”

My mom walks out onto the stage, which seems like good timing to me. Her hair’s down loose and she’s wearing a white nightgown. She hovers
awkwardly around, glancing out into the audience like she’s expecting someone who hasn’t shown. I realize that none of them can see us. The
stage lights must be too bright, so for them it’s just looking out into a whole lot of nothing.

“Miranda,” my dad murmurs. I figure he must miss saying her name.

“I think she’s looking for you,” I point out.

“Is that what she’s doing,” he replies, not quite making it a question.

“You should ask her to dance,” I suggest.

“Kiddo,” he says, “I’m dead.”

“Well, yeah,” I say, a little frustrated. “But—”

“No buts,” he interrupts. “I’m just dead.”

I know and everything, but it still hurts to hear it. “That sucks.”

“Not really,” he answers, kind of serene. “It makes everything clear.”

“Shouldn’t we get back to the quest?” I ask. “The tree?”

“There’s already a tree,” he reminds me. “With angels. And popcorn.”

I think I knew that somewhere in the back of my head, but still, it’s confusing. “Then what are we doing here?”

He smiles a little. He doesn’t say anything, and so neither do I. I sink back into my seat. We watch.

I wake up in the morning. I get out of bed and I look down at my feet. Still there, still flesh-colored. Excellent. Weird dream.

What are you going to do

I reach for my phone on the bedside table, and I call Arthur.

“How is everything?” he asks right away. I feel a surge of gratitude.

“Better. Except for the part where the texty Christmas song actually, no lie, haunted my dreams last night.”

“You were the one who insisted on coming. I can’t quite bring myself to lament you suffering the consequences.”

“You’re a sick bastard, you know that?”

“Yep.” I’m pretty sure I can hear him smiling. Magnificent super-hearing. It’s a thing.

“I dreamed about you, too,” I add.

“You did?”

“I did.”

“What was I doing?”

“Playing the piano.”

“Hmm.” I remember I used to really hate how he’d do that, the ‘hmm’-ing and ‘mmm’-ing and noises that aren’t technically words. Oh, past Howie.
You foolish, foolish soul.

“How’s Kristy?” I can’t help asking.

“She went to Cliff’s for the weekend.”

“Oh.” I try not to let myself get consumed by a sudden sinking feeling.

“It’ll be all right, Howie,” Arthur says gently. “A little time apart will do both of you good.”

I can’t quite bring myself to agree; it sounds dangerously optimistic. Instead, I decide to soldier forth to the point. “What are you doing for
Christmas?”

“Sitting around this apartment alone, I imagine. My family will be in Hawaii, but it seems supremely impractical for me to—”

“You want to come over to my house?”

“Really?” He sounds like I just asked if he wanted to spend all day at a farmer’s market.

“Yeah,” I say. “I wanna show you off, you motherfucking rockstar.”

“Well, when you put it like that, how can I refuse?” Sarcasm present and accounted for, but there’s warmth in his voice, this most excellent warmth.

“I’m pretty sure the right answer to that one is ‘you can’t.’”

“I can’t,” he agrees.

And he doesn’t. And this, this would be moving forward.

“I had a dream about Dad last night,” I tell my mom later in the kitchen. I feel a little jittery saying it. We don’t talk about him a whole lot. I watch her
back, nervous, but when she turns around from the fridge, carton of milk in hand, she’s smiling.

“Oh yeah?” she asks, pouring some milk into her coffee. “What were you two up to?”

“Looking for a damn Christmas tree.”

“Ah. Lucky boy. I know how you love that.”

“Barefoot. My feet froze off.”

“He didn’t even check to make sure you were wearing shoes first?” She shakes her head. “Oh, Graham.”

“Aside from that, it was kinda cool. I mean, I know it was just my brain going haywire from excess cookie consumption, or whatever, but … I dunno.
When I woke up, I felt like I’d really been with him.”

Her smirk softens into a real smile. “That’s good.”

“Yeah,” I agree.

The fact that we’re actually talking about him seems to sink in for both of us at once, because she starts stirring her coffee with more focus than
necessary. I shove a huge spoonful of Corn Pops into my mouth. Chew, swallow. More Corn Pops. The thing is, I have to tell her. I get the feeling
that it won’t exactly be the best Christmas ever if Arthur randomly shows up on the doorstep. Besides, I want to tell her. It’s just a weird, special kind
of wanting, the kind that likes to hang out with all-consuming terror.

Three more bites of cereal, and I muster up my courage.

“Hey, Mom, about Christmas—” I say, and at the exact same time, she goes, “Hon, I actually wanted to talk to you about Christmas—”

What are the odds of that?

“You go,” I say.

“No, you.”

“Seriously. Mom. You go.”

“All right.” She looks nervous. This is distinctly bizarre. “I invited a boy. Um. A man. Well. David. Professor Herrick. Is coming over.”

The hell?

That’s all I got.

The hell?

“What?”

“Last night at dinner, I happened to—”

“Dinner. Wait.” Things suddenly start to come together. I’d really, really much rather they didn’t. At all. “Business meeting. I thought that was a
business meeting.”

“Well, we

are

coworkers. And we did spend a portion of the time talking about school, so I’m sure that—” She stops herself, with great restraint.

Then, very gravely, she says, “A date. It was a date.”

“You lied.”

“Accidentally.”

“He took five points off my perfect paper.” It seems very important at this moment. “He is a fundamentally crappy person.”

“Oh, Howie, he was just trying to push you to be better!”

“How do you kn—did you

talk

about me? Mom! Jesus!”

“Well, people do talk about their children, Howie! As parents, it tends to be most of what we have going for us. Besides, he told me in great detail
about his daughter’s breakup with her boyfriend, so really, it could have been worse for you—”

“You’re, like, dating?”

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” Mom says, sighing and bringing a hand to her temple. “But he’s just been through a divorce, and he had no other
holiday plans, and so I invited him. Thoughtlessly, but … there you are.”

I don’t really know what to say. Instead, I just sit. Sitting is good. My Corn Pops are getting soggy.

“I just scarred you for life, didn’t I?” Mom says anxiously.

“I can’t really tell yet,” I reply blankly.

She sighs, and looks kind of lost. I stare at her. Finally, looking down at the table, she says, “I love your dad, Howie. He’s still my best friend, and
believe me, I’m aware of the several levels of dysfunction and insanity inside that statement. Lord knows spending time with him isn’t precisely
easy, considering the circumstances. But I’ve begun to feel like if I just keep missing him forever, I’ll – well, God only knows what I’ll do. But I don’t
think I can—”

Who are you to give her crap about this, Dater of Arthur?

my brain questions inconveniently. And so, while I am many levels of freaked out, I try to

get my cool back.

“It’s okay,” I interrupt. “You don’t need to explain it to me.”

“We can talk about it,” she insists. “I don’t want you to feel like I was keeping secrets from you and Dennis, or – or betraying you, or your father.
None of that was my intention. I’ve just been lonely lately, and David’s been a good friend to me.”

I try to discern whether friend means friend or friend means, like, sex buddy, in which case I would have to murder him and then chop out my own
brain, oh God, oh God, okay, we are not going there, there is a place we are not going to go.

“Nah,” I say, summoning as much composure as I can. “We’re okay.”

“Okay,” she agrees, although she still seems pretty reluctant. “What did you want to tell me?”

Oh, right. That. In a way, it’s a relief. Now, this doesn’t seem like such a big deal. “I invited a boy. Too. Also.”

“Oh,” she says. I can tell it strikes her as anticlimactic.

“Arthur,” I add. “He hasn’t got anybody to hang out with on Christmas either.”

“Well, that’s just fine,” my mom says. She’s got her Extra Momly voice going, like she’s trying to score back maternal points. “It’s nice of you to
reach out to a friend like that, and I wouldn’t mind getting to know him better. I’m glad that the two of you seem to have—”

“Mom, I’m in love with him.”

Well, whoa, shit, bam. I did not see that one coming.

My mom falls totally silent. Goodbye, Extra Momly voice. Her eyes get huge. Like,

huge

. Her mouth is still open.

“W-what?” she finally sputters.

In love with him? In

love with him

? Really, brain? Really, mouth? What sappy nonsense is that?

“Or – I dunno.” Backtracking. I am backtracking to the max. “That came out sort of strong. I don’t know if I – I mean, he’s cool, but it’s not like I’m,
like, writing him sonnets in my head all the time or whatever. I just –” But, okay, no, we are not doing that, we are not moving backward here;
forward,

forward damn it!

“—he’s like my boyfriend though. We’re together. In a sexy way.” Oh, fuck, why, WHY. “Or, uh – romantic. Way. Fuck.” I

stare down at the table. My stomach is friggin’ French braiding itself. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

“Don’t throw up,” my mom orders.

“I—”

“Howie Andrew, if you throw up on this tablecloth, you’re grounded until the end of time.”

“Okay,” I say, and take a deep breath. “Okay.”

I stare down into my soggy Corn Pops. They’re so soggy. I want to go swimming in them. Percy Bysshe Shelley style.

“What about Amber?”

“Amber?”

“I always thought you two would—”

Oh, God. The end of an era. Goodbye, misconception that has followed me my whole life. “We’re buddies, Mom. Bestest buddies. But that’s … ya
know, it.”

“Oh,” she says faintly. “I thought otherwise.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”

“Oops.”

I stare down into my cereal. She stares at me. I continue to not throw up, which is the best thing I can say about this moment.

“How long have you known?” she finally asks. “You were …?”

“Not so long,” I say, deciding it’s best to leave certain prom nights buried. “He sort of made me realize.”

“Oh,” she says again.

“I’m sorry,” I say helplessly. To my soggy Corn Pops.

“What?” She sounds so sharp that I actually look up.

“I don’t know. First you get Dennis dating Emily, and now me and a

dude

. This must be the worst—”

“Don’t,” she interrupts, so fiercely it would be hilarious under different circumstances. “Don’t you dare. I’m all right with this.”

“You are?” It is not exactly easy to buy. “You look sort of messed up.”

“I’m processing. But acceptingly. Supportively.”

“Okay.”

Silence again. Oh, Jesus. Who or what made me decide this was a good idea? It was probably Dream Dad’s fault, that bastard. Damn it, Dream

Dad. Damn it, subconscious.

“Well, then, I’m going to have to get to work around here,” Mom says very crisply all of a sudden. “We’ll have to straight – er, clean things—”

“Did you seriously just avoid the word ‘straight’? Mom, seriously, you don’t have to—”

“

Processing

.”

“Right.”

“We’ll have to

clean

things up around here. He seems very neat. Is he very neat? Oh, God, the last thing I need is for this boy to think we live in

some sort of hellhole. Those hotdogs, those ancient hotdogs, are they still in the fridge?”

“Nah, Mitch took care of those.”

“All right. Well—” She stands up, stares around the kitchen, and then, at a loss, sits back down again. I haven’t seen her this flustered in – possibly,
literally ever. She takes a very abrupt sip of her coffee, swallows, and looks right at me. I force myself to look right back.

“You have a boyfriend,” she says, very steadily.

“So do you,” I say back, without quite thinking first.

She laughs. “Touché.”

“Sorry.”

“No, no. That was good. That was fair.” She stares at me for a long time again. I don’t really like it. It’s like she’s trying to figure out how she’s
supposed to look at me now, or how she could have missed it, or – something weird. I try my damndest to deal. “Are you happy?” she finally asks,
which surprises me.

“It’s complicated,” I reply awkwardly.

“How?”

“I’ve spent the past two months lying like crazy to just about everyone I know. Last night I made Kristy Quincy slap me.”

“Kristy? But she’s such a nice girl.”

“Exactly. But–” I consider it. “I think maybe if everyone knew, and stuff settled down … then yeah. I’d be happy. I’m a lot closer to happy than I have
been in a really long time.”

“Arthur makes you happy,” she surmises.

“Yeah,” I reply. And then, because that doesn’t quite seem to communicate it all the way: “Definitely yeah.”

For a second, it seems like she might cry. She smiles and then her whole face sort of crumples, her eyes turning bright. “Oh, thank God.”

“What?”

“I know you’ve been miserable here,” she says, blinking a lot. To which I say, keep on blinking. I so cannot handle Mom tears on the top of
everything else. “I’m not blind. I’ve spent the past few years feeling awful for doing this to you—”

“Mom,” I hurry to say, because that’s exactly what I haven’t wanted her to think for the past

ever,

“I chose to stay here, it’s not like—”

“Shhh,” she orders, reaching across the table and pressing her finger against my lips. “This is Mommy’s Lifetime monologue.”

“Sorry,” I say, shutting up accordingly.

“There is nothing as terrible as a mother feeling like she’s hurting her child. Holding them back. And if you’ve found someone here that makes you
happy, then there is nothing,

nothing

in the world more important to me than that.”

“Even if it’s a guy?”

“Oh, especially if it’s a guy,” she says, and lets out a watery laugh. “Howie, you had such terrible taste in girls.”

I wonder whether I should attempt to defend the honor of Heather Grimsby and Lindsay, but I can’t bring myself to go there. Maybe chivalry really is
dead.

“Have you told Dennis?” Mom asks.

“No,” I say. “Not yet.” Still scary territory.

“Well, that makes two of us,” she says, with a wry smile.

“Poor dude.”

“He wrought Emily upon us. Let’s call this balance restoring its place in the universe.”

I’m going to let that one fly, but then, well, honesty seems like an okay alternative. It’s kind of the theme of the morning. “Mom, I really like Emily. I
mean, yeah, she’s weird, but she’s also pretty great. She totally pimped out our Christmas tree. So maybe if you could just … go easier on her, or
try to like her—”

“Oh, Howie, it’s not that I don’t like her.”

I stare at her.

“Well,” she admits, “maybe it’s like that. But it’s been mostly stress and surprise, honestly. She just isn’t what I expected, and wasn’t exactly the
easiest of houseguests at first. And it’s very odd to think that my son was once the kind of boy who only dated potential supermodels, and now he’s
been so far away for so long that he’s become the kind of person who can fall in love with a girl like Emily, and I know nothing about what made him
become that. I’ll try harder.”

“Good,” I say, smiling at her. She smiles back.

“Tell me about Arthur,” she says, leaning forward on one elbow.

“I don’t know,” I say, at a loss. “He’s Arthur. He’s pretty self-explanatory.”

“I’m looking forward to getting to know him better,” she says. I believe her when she says it. How’s that for surreal – my mom and Arthur, they’re
going to get to know each other. This has been a really frigging eventful twenty-four hours. “Oh! We’ll have to get him a Christmas present! What
does he like? Wine? We could get him a nice bottle of wine. Or – bath products? Maybe one of those nice baskets— Or does that seem too—”

“Gay?”

“No,” she says swiftly.

I can sense a new favorite hobby forming. “You know what, I think this is going to be fun.”

“Be quiet. I’m adjusting.”

“You know what you should get him? A mesh shirt. ABBA Gold. Xanadu on DVD.”

“How do you even know what Xanadu

?”

“I’m very cultured, Mom. I’ve watched all the I Love The’s on VH1.”

“Of course you have.” She smiles at me. “I love you, kid.”

“You too,” I say, smiling back. I still feel like I might throw up on the tablecloth, and the sight of the soggy Corn Pops isn’t exactly helping. But I feel
good too. Good in this really basic, really pure way. That went okay.

That went okay.

“Maybe,” she says thoughtfully, “I’ll give him the Josh Groban CD.”

I jog over to Amber’s house. I was freaked at the idea of talking to her before, but well, now, now I’m on a roll. Besides, I feel – I dunno, happy, and
light, and it’s the kind of thing that I want to share with my best friend. Sure, she might still be pissed at me. Sure, I should probably still be pissed at
her. But right now, I just want to work this out.

I ring the doorbell. Maybe a couple times. Or like five.

“Oh my God, stop ringing the doorbell!” comes April’s screech, and then she swings the door open.

“Hey, kiddo.”

“I knew it was you. Nobody else would do that. Did you like my concert?”

“Sure, it was spiffy. I—”

I fall silent as Amber comes up behind her. She approaches slowly, looking at me like she’s not sure what to expect. I so get the feeling.

“I just told my mom,” I say.

Her expression softens. She steps past April, ‘til she’s out on the doorstep with me.

“She knows now,” I elaborate. Really brilliantly. “As do you.”

A smile ghosts across her face, and then – wouldn’t you know – she wraps her arms tight around me. I hug her back, shutting my eyes, enjoying the
comfortable familiarity of her.

“If you guys make out, I’m telling Mom and Dad!” April informs us.

“I just told my mom,” I say again, because I’m still kind of coming to terms with that weird truth.

“Told your mom what?” April demands. “That you guys made out? Oh my gosh! Amberrr—”

“Oh, screw off, April,” Amber snaps. “Go watch Hannah Montana.”

“Hannah Montana’s not

today, stupid—”

Amber reaches back with one arm and slams the door shut, then hugs me tight again.

“I’m proud of you, Howie,” she says softly.

“Last night fucking sucked,” I say into her hair. “But all of a sudden it’s like … stuff could work out.”

“Good,” she murmurs.

We pull apart.

“If you want to talk,” I say, “I’m good for it. I can do that.”

“Sure,” she says kindly. “I’m listening.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Turns out, honesty’s a good thing. Who knew? Driving to work on Monday, I’m feeling so different it’s creeping me out a little bit – but the good kind
of creepy. I got so used to lying about everything that I never really stopped to consider how the alternative, this funky little notion called Not Lying,
might feel. And it feels good.

I’m gonna work things out with Kristy somehow. I can feel it. It probably won’t be easy. It will probably involve groveling. Some none-too-manly
weeping. (On my part, I mean. Her weeping is never anything less than manly.) But it’ll be worth it, and it can be done. Stuff is capable of being
good, and working out. I am beginning to subscribe to this belief.

An additional source of cheer? Arthur called while I was in the shower and is, according to my mother’s message, locked out of the store because
he forgot his keys, and could I bring mine, please? Mwa ha ha. Jenkins to the rescue.

Sure enough, when I pull into the pitch-blackish parking lot, it’s pretty much deserted – just a few cars in front of the hair and nails place and a
shadowy figure lurking outside the store. I step out of the car and into the cold pretty cheerfully, because if there’s one thing that’s better than Arthur
first thing in the morning, it’s an Arthur first thing in the morning who’s made some minor error that I can mock him ceaselessly for.

“Gotta say, Mr. Kraft,” I proclaim merrily, brandishing my key, “I expected be—”

But then Arthur turns around, and it’s not Arthur. It’s –

“Cliff?”

“Yeah,” Mr. Kristy Quincy himself says, taking a few steps forward so he’s illuminated by the streetlamps. He’s looking dapper as ever, and holding
a Starbucks coffee. “That’s right. Cliff.”

“Oh.” I am officially confused. “Uh, hey man. What … are you doing here? And, uh, have you seen Arthur? He called and said that he needed me to
come down here—”

“That wasn’t Arthur.” He takes another step forward. “That was me.”

“Oh. Uh. Okay. Yeah, my mom’s never met him, so I guess she just thought—”

“That,” Cliff says, and his mouth does this weird little twitch, “is just what I was counting on.”

His face suddenly looks really bare without a diabolical moustache to twirl.

“See,” he says, taking another step forward. There are only so many steps forward left before he’s gonna be standing on me. Also, this guy is tall.
Seriously tall. He’s got a good six inches on me. Why have I never paid attention to that before? “’Cause you’re all repressed and stuff. That’s like
the whole big deal. So I figured, your mom wouldn’t know Arthur, because you wouldn’t want her to meet Arthur. So if I called up and said I was him,
then she wouldn’t know any better, and she’d give you my message. The whole key thing. And then …”

“What if I had answered the phone?” I can’t help interrupting.

Cliff looks perplexed for a minute. But still tall. Finally he settles on, “But you didn’t.”

“No,” I admit, “I didn’t.”

“’Cause you seem lazy,” he continues, with a new flash of triumph, “So I figured you’d sleep in, and then you’d be too busy getting ready to answer
the phone.”

“Deftly handled, Sherlock.”

Cliff frowns. “Isn’t it supposed to be ‘No shit, Sherlock’?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not a rule.”

“Huh,” he muses.

We stand and look at each other for awhile. It’s awkward, and continues to be confusing. On the plus side, though, he’s not beating me up, so that
discounts my original theory re: what the hell he’s doing here.

“So, um, you’re here because … you wanted my key?”

“No,” he says. “You can keep your key.”

“Good,” I say, “I … will, then.” I put it into my pocket.

“Cool,” he says with a nod. He takes a sip of his coffee, and then his expression suddenly gets real serious. “No, I’m

here

because of what you did

to Kristy.”

Okay. Beating up, suddenly not seeming totally off the table. “She told you?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t actually take another step forward, but he leans in. It gets the job done.

Why so tall.

“She told me a lot of stuff.”

“And now you are going to … beat the shit out of me?”

“No shit, Sherlock,” he says, then stops, realizes, and smirks a little bit.

“Haha, nice.”

“Oh, whoa, that was totally by accident. I guess the phrase was just in my head.”

“It happens, man.”

He laughs. Then it sinks back into quiet. I’m having trouble deciding whether to be scared or – I dunno – socially uncomfortable. He takes a sip of
his coffee. This time it leaves some whipped cream on his face.

“You’ve got a little—” I point to my upper lip.

“Oh. Thanks.” He wipes it away with the back of his hand.

“Sure,” I mumble. I feel sort of lame, like maybe you’re not supposed to be that considerate to people who are about to end you. But, like, what is he
even

doing

? Caffeineing up first? At this rate, nothing’s gonna go down ‘til it’s bright outside. If he’s going to beat the shit out of me, I’d prefer the

cover of darkness.

“Uh. So,” I say, with that in mind. “Are you planning on, uh, doing it anytime soon?”

I expect to be answered by a punch in the face – really, it was pretty much an open invitation – but instead, what I get is a disgusted scowl.

“I can’t believe you, man,” Cliff says. He actually shakes his head in dismay. I am the worst. “I can’t believe you would mess with her like that. She
always really liked you.”

“I always really liked her too!” I realize how this sounds, and take new note of the fact that seriously, this dude is

tall

, and I quickly add, “But, you

know, not in a, like, awwww-shit-gotta-tap-that way.” Could have just said ‘romantic.’ ‘Romantic’ would have probably worked better. “Contrary to
popular belief. Including my … own … belief, for a little while, but – no big! That was really long ago. We’re talking … like … November. Pretty much
ancient history.”

“She cried,” Cliff quasi-growls, taking one step closer. “A

lot

. All through The Devil Wears Prada. So we had to watch it again.”

“Man, I am so very, very sorry. For lots of reasons.”

“I love Kristy.” The growling goes away with this. It’s more like witnessing a middle schooler rhapsodizing over his first girlfriend. He sounds so
earnest that I think, were Kristy to bear witness to it, she might actually perish of emotional overwhelmation. I even find myself feeling kindly toward
this guy, this guy who plans to, I can only suppose, beat me to a bloody pulp as soon as he’s done with his Starbucks.

“I,” I reply sincerely, “would never doubt that.”

“I just want her to be happy. All the time. You know what it’s like, to see her upset?”

“Yeah,” I say, because hi, been there. “It’s like being told that Santa isn’t real. Combined with how it felt to realize you were too old for fruit snacks.”
He looks surprised at the aptness of my description. “She cried in front of me, too,” I explain.

This apparently does the trick, because all of a sudden he’s close, way close! Goodbye, cruel world. “Because you

made

her cry.”

“Really, if we’re talking culpability,” I squawk, “I feel like Amber was at least as responsible—”

“Listen,” he snarls right into my face. I can smell the coffee on his breath – so well that I realize it’s actually hot chocolate. (Solid choice.) Oh God, it’s
the end of me.

But then he glances around us, lowers his voice, and tells me, “I don’t want to, because it’s not really my thing, and I …
I’veneverreallybeeninafightbefore,” (He mumbles that part to his shoes), “—but I just … listen, I have to hit you, man. Or

something

.”

My first impulse is to run to my car, lock all the doors, and blast Tori Amos until he flees in insurmountable terror, which is, I figure, anyone with a
dick’s response to Tori Amos.

But then I think back to Kristy, teary-eyed.

“You know what,” I say, inhaling steeply, “go for it.”

He stares at me. “What?”

“Go for it,” I say again. Each word is a tiny unsettling pain, like stepping on a thumbtack. “Hit me.”

Cliff looks at me. He seems disappointed.

“I don’t think it works like that,” he says.

“Like what?”

“You can’t … you can’t

surrender,

man. Then it’d be like I’m just beating you up.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

“I guess,” he says, “but that just seems so … mean.”

“I won’t lie: it does kinda give off that impression.”

“Damn it,” he mumbles. He takes another sip of his hot chocolate.

Whoo. Close one. Except – except, well, I don’t really

feel

like ‘whoo, close one.’ I feel more like I just craftily weaseled my way out of something that

I deserved. I don’t know how getting pain inflicted upon me is really going to help things with Kristy, but maybe it would help things with me. I still
can’t quite shake the notion that I am deserving of punishment.

“If it helps,” I say slowly, “The first time I saw her, I distinctly thought, ‘I wanna ride that more times than the Matterhorn at Disneyland.’”

Cliff stares thoughtfully at me. Then he does this curt little nod, very carefully sets his hot chocolate onto the ground, and lunges.

For all my talk of self-sacrifice, I guess I would make a sucky Jesus, because I bolt. I don’t mean to, but all of a sudden there’s this much bigger,

much fitter guy about to decimate me, and I can’t just stand there and let it happen.

However, unforeseen complication: it’s icy. Really, really icy. I make it like eight steps, and then I slip and fall. Hard.

“Ow! Fuck!”

“Eeeshhh!” Cliff freezes, hovering over me. “You okay, man?”

“I think so,” I say. He offers a hand to pull me up, and I take it. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, sure.” I’m just getting used to what it feels like to stand again when there is – oh shit – a fist heading straight for my face.

Bam!

Aaaand I’m down again.

“Ohhhh,” I groan. “Bad. Bad feeling.”

“Was that not a good time to do it?” Cliff asks, concerned.

“I’m dot sure any time would have beed a good tibe,” I reply, feeling a little dizzy. “But that was probably one of the worser tibes, yeah.”

“Ahhh, okay, uh, I just thought maybe it wouldn’t be as bad, since you just fell over, so you’re hurt

already

, so maybe it would kind of just – blend in –”

“

,” I say pointedly.

“Uh. Okay. Well. Sorry. And, uh – don’t be a jerk to my girlfriend. Please.”

“Fear dot, good sir. Dever again.”

“Here,” he says, leaning down. “I’ll help you for real this time.”

“I don’t beliebe you,” I moan, but I’m in too much pain to put up a fight as he reaches for my arm and starts to heave me up off the ground. Except
then all of a sudden

he’s

being yanked away from me—

“Asshole, I will pepperspray your

ass

, BACK OFF.”

The first thing I think is

Cora!

, even though it doesn’t sound like Cora. Then my brain makes the leap to

…. Amber?

, who is always hovering at the

top of my list of fierce ladies. This is succeeded, rather dazedly, by

Xena?, Buffy?, River Song?, Agent Scully?, Professor McGonagall?,

President Laura Roslin of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol?, Mad Wife In The Attic From Jane Austen Not Eyre No Wait Damn It Eyre Not
Austen?

, and just keeps going and going. What doesn’t even cross my mind, though, is the truth, and the truth is that it’s—

“Heather Grimsby?” I croak.

I look up at her. Her swooshy brown hair catches the light and seems to burn. She’s like an avenging angel. Or possibly the devil.

“Hey, Howie, what’s up,” she says in that inimitable uninterested Heather Grimsby drawl. Her attention switches to Cliff. “Seriously. You done here,
loser? Because I will friggin’ spray this, okay.” She brandishes the can in her hand.

“Don’t,” squeaks Cliff. “Please don’t spray it.”

“Please don’t spray it,” I throw in, because I get the sense that throwing pepperspray into the mix will make this fun for no one.

“Fine,” she says, lowering it slowly and putting it back into her bag. “But you deserved it, douche.”

“Sorry,” Cliff says, sounding properly ashamed. “I was just helping him up. Honest.”

“Right after you totally punched him in the face? Sure.”

“It’s pretty complicated,” Cliff mumbles, sheepish.

“Why the hell do you have pepperspray?” I can’t help asking. This is not exactly crime central.

“I don’t,” Heather replies. “It’s a sampler bottle of hairspray.”

“You mean you were gonna attack us with hairspray?” Cliff asks, starting to laugh. “Like, what, make our hair look really good?”

“Uh, did I give you chortle permission, doof?” Heather demands.

He stops laughing and stares sadly at the ground.

She tosses her hair over her shoulder.

I … don’t really know what to do.

Arthur’s car pulls into the lot. It’s still running when Kristy jumps out of the passenger’s seat and scurries over to the scene of the crime. “Reddy?
What’s going on??”

“Morning, Kristybee,” Cliff says, massaging his neck awkwardly. “Um. First remember that I love you. This, total act of love. And, uh, I did something
kind of stupid.”

While Cliff gets cracking on

that

explanation, Heather reaches down and helps me back on my feet. Considering the last time we engaged in

physical contact it was while she was puking on me, it makes things kind of weird.

“Uh,” I say, “thanks, I guess. For … saving me.”

She shrugs. “I owed you one.”

“Yeah,” I say, because I can’t quite dispute that. “You did.”

For a second, I wonder if she’s going to apologize. It’s gone quiet, the kind of quiet that usually preludes some grand proclamation. The sky is just
starting to brighten from black to dusky blue. It’d be downright symbolic.

“See you around,” she says.

“Yeah,” I agree, “See ya.”

I watch her walk away, disoriented. Who knew the day would come when her working next door would bring me anything besides anxiety and pain?

Arthur comes over. “Look at you.”

“Is it bad?”

“There’s blood,” he reports.

“Score,” I say.

He rummages in his pocket for a few seconds and retrieves—

“Oh, Artie. You’re handkerchiefing me?”

“It’s a Kleenex,” he protests.

“Still.” I grin at him. “You classy gent.”

He laughs softly as he lifts it to my nose. There’s a flash of pain at the contact, and I wince.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

“S’okay.”

“And I thought telling your mother about me was going to be the dramatic highlight of your week.”

“Please, boytoy mine. I live large. And fast. Always.”

“How ever will I keep up with you?” he deadpans.

“Ehhh.” I feign contemplation. “For you, I’ll slow down.”

He smiles, one of those slight quiet smiles that look really good on his mouth. “Much appreciated.”

“I just got saved from

Reddy

,” I recount, still feeling pretty dazed, “by Heather Grimsby, Ruiner of my Teenage Existence.”

“I think she owed you.”

“That’s what she said,” I reply. As soon as the words come out of my mouth, the world around us turns sparkly and bright. “Hey! Look at that. An
accidental ‘that’s what she said.’”

“I don’t think it counts,” Arthur says, “since the preceding statement wasn’t exactly ridden with innuendo—”

“Shhhh,” I interrupt, catching his wrist and temporarily ceasing his mission to mop up my blood. (That’s real affection.) “Don’t destroy the pristine,
ephemeral beauty of this perfect moment.”

He shuts up obediently. And rolls his eyes, but it’s in a way where I can tell he finds my shenanigans endearing.

I am so damn lucky. Standing in a parking lot with my second bloody nose ever seems nothing short of great, as long as he’s right there with his
goddamn Kleenex.

“Hey, Howie?”

I turn around. Cliff is standing there, looking contrite.

“You can have the rest of my hot chocolate, if you want.” He holds it out to me.

Wouldn’t you know, this zany debacle’s been good for something after all.

“Thanks, buddy,” I say, and get to work gulping it down.

As far as bloody noses go, mine is pretty unimpressive. It’s not even bleeding anymore, just red and grumpy-looking. I inspect my reflection in the
bathroom mirror. What is it about me, unwanted red noses, and this mirror?

“I got you ice.” I turn to see Kristy standing in the doorway, clutching a ziplock bag of ice cubes.

“You didn’t have to get me ice.”

“I wanted to,” she says, handing it to me. “I’m sorry he did that.”

“I’m not. I earned it. I more than earned it. He probably should have hit me with a moving van.”

“Nah,” she replies, with a pale imitation of her usual Kristy beam. After a few seconds, she slyly adds, “He’s a nervous driver. I don’t think he’d want
to operate a moving van.”

“Burnnnn.”

I press the ice pack gingerly against my nose, wincing a little at the sudden sting of the cold.

This is not lost on Kristy. “Isn’t it a shame sometimes that ice has to be so cold? I sort of wish they could invent hot ice. But that makes no sense,
does it? Like, you could probably just use a heating pad or something. Still. You know what else I think would be neat? A reverse microwave, you
know, in case you have something that’s too hot and you want it to cool down faster. Because the fridge just doesn’t work very fast! Even the freezer
doesn’t. I tried to tell Arthur about this one time, but he said it was scientifically impossible, which I thought was sort of unfair, because—” She stops
and bites her lip. “Sorry. I’m rambling.”

“I like it when you ramble,” I tell her. “Your rambling, milady, has been dearly missed by me.”

“It’s only been a few days,” she points out.

“Don’t care. Mine has been an empty life, KQ.”

She laughs a little, halfheartedly, and doesn’t say anything.

“I hate me for all the stuff Amber told you,” I say, because I can’t really handle not saying it. “You get that, right?”

A little hesitantly, she answers, “Reddy did say that you were going to let him hit you.”

“Yeah,” I say, and feel a flash of gratitude toward ol’ Reddy for not including the part where I also ran away.

“I know that a lot of the time boys pretend to like girls and care about what they say just so they can sleep with them,” she says, not looking at me. “I
do. But it made me really sad to think that you were one of them.”

“Hey, don’t. That was all – I dunno, denial, and me not being happy about a lot of stuff, and you just seemed like this really great cure.”

She gives me a sad smile. “I’m not a cure.”

“Yeah. But you’re nice, and you’re smart, and you’re fun, and you’re sweet. And if I was going to find any girl who would, I dunno, be the right one for
me, the one who was going to stop me from feeling like shit all the time or whatever, you would have been just like …

. You know?”

She doesn’t say anything, but she’s staring really intently at me. Make it count, Jenkins.

“And so, yeah, I got this job to get laid. Because I’m a guy, and I guess that’s how we stupid bastards think stuff’s gonna get fixed. But my problem
wasn’t really just like … oh, I’m horny, better find me a hot mama. Or, well, it was. Kinda. But it’s not like it was just about sex. It was like – an all-
consuming horniness. A horniness of the soul.”

That part gets a laugh out of her. “That’s gross.”

“It is somewhat gross,” I acknowledge. “It was supposed to be poetic. In a modern, hard-edged kinda way.”

She eyes me thoughtfully. “Are you still soul-horny?”

“No,” I report. “My soul’s getting some on a pretty regular basis.”

She giggles. A Kristy giggle! All in the world is right.

“But, you know,” I continue, heartened, “that’s not just Arthur. I mean, obviously there are – er – certain aspects of said horniness that he gets to take
care of. But it’s you, too. And Cora. Knowing you guys, all three of you, it’s made my life a lot better. It’s made me a hell of a lot better. And – and if
you can’t tell right now, which, I really can’t blame you, well … you’ll be able to soon. I’m getting better. Just in a general, human beingly way.”

She’s starting to smile.

“Oh, Howie,” she says. I feel so very, very much like I am on my way to better.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“I think,” Amber says, “I’m gonna go on a date.”

“Whoa huh what now?”

We’re sitting on the bleachers at the ice rink, because while exercise is well and good, bleacher-sitting has always been Amber’s and my area of
expertise. Meanwhile, Dennis, Emily, and Mitch are out skating it up, along with a handful of small children. While our zany companions are out
physically exerting themselves, we split a bag of barbeque potato chips and a thermos of apple cider.

And Amber drops unexpected bombshells.

“With Kristy’s boyfriend’s friend,” Amber elaborates. “That John guy.”

“Uh, okay. Why?”

“I don’t know.” She grabs the thermos from me and takes a sip. She seems a little embarrassed. “For one thing, I was terrible to Kristy and I feel
really bad about it. Maybe this would help to make it up to her, or something.”

“I can see that,” I admit. “But isn’t it a little … I dunno …”

Amber watches me expectantly.

“…

loose

?”

“Wow. Thank you.”

“Not by normal human standards!” I throw in quickly. “Just by you standards. The Amber May—”

“Ugh, no middle name.”

“—Clark Standards of Being Hella Proper, they don’t exactly involve going on dates with random scalawags, now do they?”

“Maybe he’s not a scalawag. Points for word choice, by the way.”

“Why, thank you. And oh, you know he’s a scalawag. He hangs out with

Cliff

. That guy did not hesitate to go all fisticuffs on my ass.”

“Scalawag, fisticuffs – you are

today.”

“It’s the apple cider. It makes me articulater.”

“Way more articulater. Also – he did hesitate, right? Wasn’t that the whole thing?”

“Well, okay, yeah. Maybe he hesitated. But then he full-on

beat me up

.”

“Please. You can’t even tell anybody hit you. And he gave you hot chocolate afterwards!”

“Still,” I mumble.

“Quit pouting,” she orders, and waves the bag of chips at me. I grab a few. “And – I don’t know, I just think maybe it would be good for me to try
something new. This is my year off before I throw myself back into the sweet mad academic hell that is grad school. And I’ve never really done the
living thing. I should do that, right?”

“Um,” I say. I know I should be supportive now that she’s suddenly empowered, but I can’t help it. It’s weird. If Amber starts going on dates, who
knows where that will end up? One night stands! Jello shots! Prostitution!

“I don’t mean like go all crazy.” She gives me this knowing, you-are-ridiculous look. “I mean … Do you know how many books I read in college?”

“Uh. No?”

“Five hundred and twenty-four. You know how I know? Because I kept a list.” She sighs. “But it’s not like I was totally Miss Weirdo Pariah Girl.”

“Pariah Carrey.”

“Thank you, Oscar Wilde.” I tip my imaginary hat at her. “I did make friends and everything. I went out sometimes. But – I dunno, I never met anybody
that I liked as much as you.” In spite of myself, I like the sound of that. It was hard to get left by Amber, to imagine that she was off having this great
new life while I was stuck here. It’s nice to know I left a hole.

“And,” she continues, looking out at the ice, “I never met anybody that I even thought about liking as much as Dennis.”

The Dennis in question is, at the moment, adjusting Emily’s amorphous lump of a hat for her. They’re both smiling.

“There was this one guy who was in a bunch of my classes, and he asked me out to coffee a few times,” Amber says. “And I would never go. It
seemed pointless. And sort of offensive.”

“That bastard.”

“That bastard,” she echoes wanly. Dennis and Emily get back to skating, hand-in-hand. “There’s this story by Edith Wharton.”

“Who?”

“Don’t make me hit you.”

“Oh, right, Edith Wharton. Or as I like to call her – EdieWhoa. Yeah. We’re tight.”

Amber rolls her eyes. “

Anyway

. It’s about this woman who’s in love with this man her whole life, but it doesn’t really matter, because he never looks

at her like that. And after he’s dead, this other man falls in love with her. Of course, it doesn’t go so well. And in the end, she writes the new guy this
letter. To explain why they can’t be together, and all that. And there’s this line – ‘It is because Vincent Rendle didn't love me that there is no hope for
you. I never had what I wanted, and never, never, never will I stoop to wanting anything else.’ I love that. I am so profoundly that. Never, never, never
will I stoop.”

She’s looking at Dennis and Emily. It feels like she’s not even talking to me.

“But maybe I should, like – I don’t know. Stoop. Being like this; it’s like I can actually feel it making me into a sucky human being. I was evil to Kristy,
who’s never been anything besides nice to me. I’ve been like this bitchy hell-hag of doom to you. I totally wrote Emily off right from the get-go even
though, the more I hear, the more she seems like exactly my type of person. I’m twenty-two. I’m not Miss Havisham. I should stoop.”

“You should try,” I correct. “I’m not saying ho it up all over the place. I’m not even saying let the scalawag come within a foot of you. But maybe you
should, like, try just enough to see if it’s worth it.”

“Yeah.” She smiles. “Check you out. You’re so wise.”

“I am that.”

“Making out with boys agrees with you.”

“Hey,” I say, because Mitch is making his way over to us. “Shhh, shhh, shhh.”

“Why don’t you tell him?”

“Because. It’s one thing if I’m telling ladies, but

is a fellow male. It’ll be freaky and awkward.”

“Oh, it’s Mitch. He won’t care. He cried at I Now Pronounce You Chuck & Larry.”

“There’s a distinct difference between bromance and romance, lady friend.”

“He won’t ca-are—”

“Shut u-up—”

“I can’t believe you guys aren’t skating!” Mitch exclaims, coming to a stop in front of us. “This is

awesome

.”

“We’re kind of having a conversation here, Mitchell,” Amber informs him.

Apparently he takes this as an invitation, because he hoists himself up onto the bleachers. “Oh yeah? What’re we talkin’ about?”

“Amber’s date.”

His eyes get really big. He looks at Amber. “You’re going on a date?”

“Maybe,” she replies. “Don’t start.”

“Who with?” he continues, sounding more interested than your average bear.

“A friend of Kristy’s boyfriend. I haven’t actually met him. I guess it would be like a blind date type of deal.”

“Oh,” Mitch says. “Cool.”

She laughs shortly. “We’ll see.”

It gets quiet. Mitch keeps on staring at Amber.

“What?” she asks at last. “Do I have something on my face?”

“Uhhhh,” he says. “Yeah! Some of that orange barbeque chip stuff.” As she starts to lift her hand to her face, he lunges forward. “Oh, hey, no, don’t
worry about it, I got it.” He pulls off his mitten, not seeming to care so much as it falls under the bleachers, and brushes his thumb over the left corner
of her mouth.

I try to ignore the part where I’m like 99% sure she didn’t have anything on her face. It makes things weird. I am retiring from weird.

Mitch, meanwhile, is being really thorough about the whole touching-the-side-of-her-mouth thing.

“Okay, man,” I can’t help but say. “I think you got it.”

“You dropped your mitten,” Amber tells him.

“Oh.” He actually, honest-to-God shakes his head, like he’s shaking his brain right out of the moment. “No big! I will just – go grab that—”

This involves having to take his skates off so he can go glove-hunting under the bleachers. Hopefully this will teach him a lesson or two about
random compulsions to touch Amber. He stands up, sock-clad, and prepares to set off.

“It’s freezing, Mitch, don’t wander around without any shoes on,” Amber says.

“No! I got this. It’s gonna be fine. It’ll be great. It’ll take like two seconds.”

“Fine,” Amber sighs.

“Unless,” he adds, “you want me to wear shoes. Then I will. If you want me to.”

“Um, okay,” she says. “Yes. Wear shoes.”

“’kay!” He puts on his shoes, gives us one last jaunty grin, salutes, and then embarks on his mission.

“He’s been acting sort of weird lately, don’t you think?” Amber says.

I, in the interest of abstaining from weirdness, say nothing.

“This,” Arthur observes, “is a Halloween gingerbread house kit.”

It is here, exactly here, that I feel like maybe I shouldn’t have gone along with our newest dissatisfied customer’s “Let me talk to your manager”
request.

“Yeah,” grunts said customer: a middle-aged, somewhat portly gentleman.

“It’s the end of December.”

“Yeah.”

“And you only realized that you were dissatisfied with this product now?”

“So?”

“You appear to have used it,” Arthur continues, inspecting the empty box.

“Yeah, it’s at home,” the customer says. “In the

trash

. But this is the box.”

“I’m afraid we can’t refund you a box.”

“But I bought the box.”

“Be that as it may,” Arthur says, his tone becoming strained, “the box isn’t exactly as important as the item that was inside of it—”

“Oh my God, man, can I just get my money back, please?”

Underneath the stoicism, I notice about fifteen complicated emotions flashing across Arthur’s face. Then he suddenly gets steely. He stands up
taller and says, very clearly, “No.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Fine,” Customer says, scowling. “Screw this. You know what, I came here to be good, support local business, whatever, but forget that. Next time
I’m just going to Holly’s.”

Arthur watches him walk out with a look of bitter resignation.

“Oh, Arthur,” Kristy says.

“Why the hell did that guy want a Halloween gingerbread house kit?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.

“This is thankless,” Arthur says to no one in particular. “Thankless.”

Kristy and I exchange looks.

The bells on the door jingle.

“Hey, losers!” Cora says cheerfully, striding in. “I forgot my book in the kitchen, I— who died?”

“We lost another one to the H-word,” I report.

“Oh yeah?” She has the decency, at least, to look concerned. “How’d that go down?”

“Someone wanted to return one of the Halloween gingerbread house kits,” Arthur says. “Now. In December.”

“Can’t blame them,” Cora says. “Those things were shittacular.”

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. “Thank you, Cora.”

She looks at all of us, taking in the sorry sight.

“Okay,” she says, very brisk, very argue-and-die. “I’m gonna go grab my book, and then we’re going on a field trip.”

“In case you’d failed to notice, Cora,” Arthur says, “we happen to be open—”

“So close for an hour. What’s gonna happen? We’ll be prevented from driving away yet more customers?” She fake-gasps. “Heavens no!”

Arthur stares at her for a long time. “Fine,” he finally says.

“Good. I’ll be back. You be ready.”

“Field trip!” Kristy whispers to me with a surreptitious bounce.

“Hells yeah,” I whisper back. This may or may not lead to some discreet high-fiving.

“I can’t see,” Arthur says, sounding like the most jaded of men, “how it can get any worse.”

Cora comes back out into the room. She’s striding with an air of supreme badass purpose, and she’s holding … the copy of A Little Princess that’s
been sitting on the kitchen table forever.

Unexpected.

“I thought that was Kristy’s,” I say.

“I thought that was Howie’s,” Kristy says.

“Uh, not that gay.”

“Sorry!”

“Enough, children,” Cora interrupts us. “Let’s roll.”

And so we all pile into Cora’s death trap of an automobile. We offer to award Arthur the shotgun position, but he says he’s already stressed out
enough without having to bear firsthand witness to how Cora drives. So Kristy gets upgraded to front-seat-hood, and Artie and I take the back. As
soon as the car gets turned on, the stereo starts blasting what sounds like a ritual sacrifice having hideously violent sex with a cello. Kristy screams.

“What the fuck is that??” I yelp.

“Rasputina, darling.”

“That’s … a pretty name,” offers Kristy.

Arthur looks like he may cave in on himself at any moment.

Cora seems to recognize this; she turns the volume way down and switches it to the radio.

“Taylor Swift!” Kristy screeches.

“Uh,” Cora replies, “may I just say that

barf

?”

Kristy is too busy singing along to get too bent out of shape.

“Hey,” I say to Arthur, “how you doin’, buddy?”

“Oh, magnificently,” he deadpans. “This may be the best day ever.”

I reach for his hand. He knots his fingers loosely with mine.

“Do we get to ask where we’re going,” Kristy says, “or is it like a guessing game thingie?”

“You all know where you’re going,” Cora replies sagely. “It’s where you’ve been headed all along.”

“You’re going to ax-murder us, aren’t you?” Arthur says. He doesn’t sound too broken up by the idea.

She takes us to Holly’s.

It’s not bad.

Afterwards, we don’t head straight back to work. Instead, we stop at McDonald’s. Kristy gets a Happy Meal. Cora gets like four pies, which doesn’t
exactly seem like a healthy, balanced meal to me, but she’s not exactly a healthy, balanced young lady. I get a couple of Big Macs and some fries.
Arthur stares at the menu the way a time-traveling seventeenth century Puritan would watch a Lady Gaga music video. Still, even in the face of
culinary depravity, he seems different. Lighter.

Finally, he goes with a bottle of water and those little apple slices.

“There must be so many preservatives in these,” he muses as we all sit down, poking at one of the apples. Then he shifts his attention to my tray.
“You got

two hamburgers

? And French fries?”

Now seems as good a time as any for a bathroom break.

When I step out of the stall, it’s to find Arthur standing there.

“Well, hi there. How Whamly of you to drop in.”

He doesn’t seem to care very much about me inventing adjectives. Once again, my genius goes unacknowledged. “Holly’s was very nice.”

“Yeah,” I say, moving over to the sink. “So?”

“So … perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if—” He goes quiet, like he can’t quite bring himself to speak so bold a notion out loud.

“Perhaps it wouldn’t,” I agree.

He stares at himself in the mirror, then looks over at my reflection.

“You’re not really eating

two

of that sandwich so big it’s got an extra bun in the middle, are you? That’s absurd. That’s a plea for death.”

“Let’s focus on the good here, Kraft.”

“If the store closes—” He sinks back into thought.

“Yeah?” I prompt, turning the sink off and heading over to the paper towel dispenser.

“—I would be out of a job. My parents would be – displeased, to say the least.”

“It wouldn’t, like, contribute to their financial ruin or anything, would it?”

“No, no, they’re comfortably retired.”

“Then why are you even still doing this?”

“Because—” He stops, and considers his reflection again. It’s like he’s having a staring contest with himself. “That’s a very good question.”

“I’m a very good questioner.”

“You’re a very good lot of things.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Right back atcha. I think,” I add truthfully, “you should do what you want to do.”

He turns away from the mirror to look at me. I realize exactly how much I want him to do this. Really, it all comes down to one simple thing: I really,
really want this dude to have a fucking excellent life.

“Maybe I will,” he says. I think he may be marveling.

“That’s the spirit,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder. He catches my hand and squeezes it.

Then all of a sudden his face gets serious, and seriously alarmed. “Cora’s going to think we’re having sex in the bathroom.”

“Shit. She is, isn’t she?”

We speed the hell on out of there. She does anyway.

It’s still a pretty decent lunch.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“May I just point out,” I say, “that that’s your third taco in a row.”

“May I just point out,” Amber replies through a mouthful of said third taco, “that shut up.”

“Mitch,” I say. “Buddy. Stop giving her tacos.”

Mitch looks a picture as ever this morning in his uniform: a bright yellow t-shirt and a jaunty baseball cap sporting the Señor Taco logo. The Señor
Taco logo was clearly devised by somebody with too many thoughts in their brainspace, because it is a sombrero with a taco on it. That in and of
itself, while obscure, maybe isn’t unhandleable mentally, but then you throw in the fact that the sombrero with the taco on it is

on the hat

, and it just

gets confusing. Hat on a hat. Even Dr. Seuss wasn’t wily enough to mess with that shit. Hat on a cat, sure. But hat on another hat? There’s a line.

A part of me will always be grateful to Señor Taco, because without it, I never would have gotten to know Mitch in the first place. The rest of me is
just glad that I surrendered to the overpowering urge to get the hell out of there three weeks after getting hired. Sure, a baseball cap doesn’t have
the same emasculating properties as, say, a quaintly crafted apron, but the whole taco-on-a-sombrero-on-a-baseball-cap conundrum – too much
fodder for thought. Not to mention the fact that somehow I just know that eventually, that job would have ruined tacos for me.

Mitch has worked at Señor Taco for three years. Nothing ruins tacos for Mitch Ballard. He’s too mighty a man. And he really likes tacos.

“Mitchell,” Amber says, in her loveliest of girly tones, “can I have another taco please?”

I frown at her as Mitch sets to work.

We are, needless to say, the only people at Señor Taco at ten thirty in the morning. Well, Mitch’s coworker Jerry is here, but he’s sprawled across
one of the tables and snoring, so I’m not sure how much he counts.

“Amber,” I say, “it’s ten thirty. You are eating very, very many tacos. More tacos than

could eat at ten thirty in the morning, and I went through a two-

month phase where I had potato chips for breakfast. I point this out because I care.”

“He’s putting extra lettuce on them. Would you chill? I’m nervous. Please just allow me, in this instance, to eat my feelings.”

“Kristy’s not going to do anything to you. She’s like God’s gift to everyone.”

“I know that!” Amber snaps. “That’s what’s so nerve-wracking about it. She’s like the best person that’s ever lived and

I’m

the leviathan superbitch

who attacked her with unpleasant life truths and profane language.”

“Excuse me, at what point during that confrontation were we trolling the deep sea?”

“What?” Amber says blankly, and finishes off Taco 3.

“I think ‘cause, ya know,” Mitch contributes, “Leviathan. Sea monster. Rarrrrr.” He thrashes his arms in a way that makes it abundantly clear that
they’ve turned into tentacles, and little flecks of lettuce fly around.

Amber groans. “Why are you talking, taco slave.”

“Yeah, man. What’s up with that? What’s – dare I say –

kraken

?”

“Things are about to get

Nessie

.” Mitch grins broadly. “You know. Like, messy.”

“Eff, yeah!”

“My best friends are boys,” Amber intones miserably to no one. (Or maybe Jerry.) “Why oh why did I make that horrible life decision.”

“Hey,” I say, pointing at her. “These could be fart jokes. Bad punning knows no gender limitations.”

Mitch has been driven into an impromptu freestyling frenzy. “I spit rimes like a mariner / Kristy’s really scarin’ her / it don’t make no sense / ‘cuz there
ain’t no Care Bear carin’-er—”

Amber looks up at him, eyebrows scrunched. “Mitch.”

“Sorry,” he says dutifully. “Tacos.”

“No, not that. I – did you just make a Coleridge reference?”

“Yeah,” Mitch says, smiling way too proudly for the moment to be casual. “He was a Romantic poet.”

“I know he was.” After the longest pause known to man, she says, none-too-tactfully, “…how do you?”

“I read some things,” he says nonchalantly.

For some reason, I feel struck by the sudden concern to help the guy. I’m not sure how, or why, but Amber looks all discerning-eyed and Mitch looks
sort of flustered and there’s a taco on the sombrero on his hat and sometimes, sometimes, a man must trust his instinct to do his best-budly duty.

“Care Bear,” I say, like this is the brilliant remark that will revolutionize the conversation. “

Care Bear

?” See you later, Sammy Cool.

“Dude,” Mitch says, totally heartened. “Care Bears are awesome.”

“Really?” Amber says. “Really? You get all flustered about Coleridge, but you willingly admit that

Care Bears

are awesome?”

Damn it, Amber.

“Coleridge is awesome,” Mitch says, all my carefully concocted segueing thwarted. “It’s too bad about that whole opium thing.”

Amber stares at me. “Have you been talking to him about Romantic poets?”

“Amber,” I say, “when do I ever talk to anybody about Romantic poets?”

“Oh, please. You make Gay Or Consumptive? Keats jokes all the time.”

“That, lady fair, is my prerogative as a reluctant English major at a shitty community college.”

“Hey,” she scolds. “Your mom works there, remember. It’s not shitty.”

“Yeah, well, for a not-shitty establishment, it sure hires some shitty professors.”

“Like who? Oh my God, are you

still

mad about that one guy taking five points off your Shakespeare essay?”

“Uh, yeah,” I say. “That.”

“Why are you reading about Coleridge?” Amber asks Mitch.

“I just remember you mentioned him awhile ago,” he says, shrugging. “And I hadn’t really done any reading since the Potter ended, and I thought, ya
know, Coleridge, I bet he’s cool. And he is. Like, Christabel, what was

that

? They were totally girl sexing each other, right? But in this spooky way.”

“You read Christabel,” Amber says, awed.

“Yeah,” Mitch says, like it ain’t no thang. “Tu-whit, tu-whoo! It’s a bummer he didn’t finish it. I was all getting into it, and then it was just, like,

the end

That was harsh.”

Amber just stares at him for ten straight seconds, like she’s never looked at him before in her whole life. There’s naught but Amber looking at Mitch,
and Mitch looking at Amber, and the sound of Jerry snoring. Finally, I reach for one of Amber’s taco wrappers and start crinkling it up, just for the
noise.

“There’s a Victorian horror novel by J. Sheridan LeFanu called Carmilla,” Amber says. She sounds a special kind of weird: it’s, like, 50% reciting-a-
textbook and 50% chick-flick-dialogue-with-a-sensitive-indie-song-in the-background. “It draws heavily from the plot of Christabel. Lots of lesbian
subtext and vampirism.”

“Excellent,” Mitch says. His expression is turning sappy, and God help me, God help us all, I don’t think it’s because of the lesbian vampires.

I need to

fix this

. “Like, porn-type excellent?”

“No,” Mitch says. He throws me this minuscule, pathetic excuse for a glance before steering his eyeballs right back to Amber. “Like,

awesome

excellent. You should make me a book list.”

“A book list?” Amber repeats, disbelieving.

Oh, jeez, why not just

ask her to marry you

“Sure. Reading’s flippin’ sweet. Plus, Rudy and me are almost done with our epic Xena rewatch, so I’m gonna have lots of spare time on my
hands.”

“A-all right,” Amber says, along with this cute weird little laugh that doesn’t sound very much like her. “I’ll think up some books for you.”

“Cool,” he says happily.

“Cool,” she echoes, just as cheerful.

They smile at each other.

This … is weird.

“

dig Xena. How come Amber and I didn’t get invited to partake in the epic Xena rewatch?” It’s the only thing I can think of to say. Unfortunately, I

say it really friggin’ abnormally loud. Jerry goes ‘Whuuut Xena whuttt?’, sits up for two seconds, and then falls asleep again.

“Dude,” Mitch says to me, very seriously, “you have to

respect

the Xena. It’s only the world’s greatest story of love and redemption. You guys would

just be all bantery and stuff.”

“We can be unbantery,” I protest.

“No we can’t,” Amber says. Which is, okay, fair. “Are you really expecting us to believe that Rudy respects the Xena?”

“Rudy pretty much respects any chick who could beat him up,” Mitch explains.

“I suppose my spectacular lack of upper arm strength explains why he starts chuckling like a demented ogre every time he sees me,” Amber says,
rolling her eyes. “And because he thought you and I—”

She dwindles off. Is she blushing? Is

blushing? Oh, crap, this will not stand.

“Okay!” I say. “Let’s go visit Kristy!”

“But – tacos—”

“Hold up a sec,” Mitch says gallantly. “I’ll get you one to go.”

“You are beautiful,” Amber sighs.

You know what, I’m starting to develop the very acute suspicion that if I do not separate them right now, they’re going to start licking each other’s
faces.

“It’ll go totally okay!” Mitch says. “Kristy sounds really nice. And you’re really nice.”

“And hopefully John’s really nice,” Amber adds. “Since I’m about to volunteer to blind date him.”

“Yeah,” Mitch says, crestfallen. “John. John … too. I bet he’s just … huggable. And … well-groomed. And punctual.”

“What?” Amber says, (understandably) baffled.

“I don’t know,” Mitch says, sort of miserably. “That’s what you ladies look for in a fellow, right?”

“A

fellow

?” Amber says.

“Well, speaking of punctual, look at that, we are running so late right now,” I say, not bothering to actually look at a clock. Technicalities are for lesser
men.

“What? You didn’t say there was a time we had to—”

“There is a time. And the time is now. Later, Mitch.”

“Our clock is broken,” Mitch says, frowning in confusion. “It’s not really eight fifteen. Because, you know, it’s light outside.”

“Doesn’t matter. Bye.”

And I drag Amber and her taco right the hell out of there.

I wind up walking into Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Krafts alone, because Amber has a last-minute case of nerves and insists upon eating her one remaining
taco outside in bitterly freezing peace. I can’t quite bring myself to take that away from her, so I amble on in on my own – and walk right into the
midst of a show-stopping musical number.

There’s sweeping instrumentals, blaring so loud off the stereo that I’m surprised it hasn’t exploded in protest. Kristy and Cora are both standing on
the counter and clasping hands, singing in dramatic tones.

At the realization that the door is open, they both freeze.

“Another gay workplace romance?” I say. “Really? You could at least

try

for originality, ya posers.”

“Oh, thank gosh,” Kristy says, hopping off the counter. “It’s just you.”

“It’s just me. What’s up, lady rebels?”

“Well, we’ve been here for a couple of hours and nobody had come in, so we waited ‘til Arthur went upstairs and—”

“I brought the Moulin Rouge soundtrack,” Cora grins.

“And she let me sing the Nicole Kidman parts!” Kristy says giddily.

“I’m Ewan McGregor,” Cora reports. “Which means I want to get all up in my own business. Kinky, right?”

“There’s no way Arthur can’t hear you guys,” I say, staring up at the ceiling. I’m pretty sure that the wrath of God should be causing it to tremble.

“I don’t think he minds,” Kristy says.

I respond with the only possible response, and that response is staring at her like she is friggin’ nuts.

“I know! It sounds crazy! But he’s all … relaxed, and cheerful. He called us upstairs like a half an hour ago, and I thought it was because we were in
trouble. Our Lady Marmalade got a little bouncy. But then it was just to show us a really cute Weimaraner on the Puppy A Day website.”

Um. “What the hell?”

“It was going to Holly’s,” Cora says. “He attained spiritual peace. Or maybe you’re just an exceptionally badass lay.” She gives me this skeptical,
scrutinizing look. It isn’t super-flattering.

“Unfortunately, Ewan McGregor, I can’t in good conscience wrench you away from your own business long enough to allow you to find out.”

That seems good enough for Cora. “Goddamn, I’m foxy.”

“Hey, Howie?” Kristy’s moved her way over to the front window.

“Yeah?”

“Why is Amber standing outside in the snow eating a taco?”

Oh, man. Having learned my lesson re: telling Kristy stuff about Amber that Amber doesn’t want anybody to know, I’m not sure how to answer.
Finally, I solve the problem in signature Howie Jenkins style, which is code for ‘I say something random and dumb as hell.’ (It’s an art form, verging
on a precise and perfect science.) “That’s just how they get things done in her homeland.”

“Isn’t her homeland here?”

Okay, so, not the best of my efforts. Deciding that at least a tiny scrap of truth is necessary, I say, “She’s coming in to talk to you.”

“Oh.” It’s not like she has some big, dramatic reaction. There’s no slow-mounting dread on her face, no gasping or fainting or hurling. But something
gets a tiny bit less joyful and more measured in her expression, and I feel kinda bad. No one deserves to be stripped of their giddiness about
singing the Nicole Kidman parts (I … guess), especially not Kristy.

“If … that’s okay.”

“Of course it is.” I believe her when she says it, at least.

“Why is there weirdness?” Cora demands, abandoning her solitary tango through the yarn aisle.

“No weirdness,” Kristy says, peppy as ever. She doesn’t waste any time in pulling the front door open and calling, “Oh my gosh, Amber, come in,
it’s freezing out here!”

After a couple of minutes, I leave the ladies to their bonding. It becomes obvious pretty quick that no one’s going to start any hair-pulling or pillow
fights: as soon as Amber comes in, she recognizes that there is Moulin Rougery at work, and this sends them all into a weird frenzy that I can’t
understand. I go upstairs before any of them get the chance to recruit me into being the sitar midget dude.

“Weimeraners?” is how I greet Arthur.

He looks up from the computer screen. “Good morning to you, too.” He stands up and leans over the desk to kiss me hello. “I didn’t expect to see
you today.”

“Yeah, well, that’s me.” I poke the A on his nametag. “I’m sneaky as hell. Just when you

don’t

expect to see me, bam. Plus, I’m doing the moral

support thing. Amber’s atoning to Kristy by agreeing to go on a blind date with one of Fisticuffs Clifford’s bros.”

“What are the odds of you ever ceasing to refer to him as Fisticuffs Clifford?”

“Eensy.”

“I suspected as much.” He sighs gravely. “What about your brother?”

“Oh, the second he throws down the gauntlet, he’ll be Fisticuffs Dennis. No question.”

“Good to know. But I was thinking more along the lines of—”

“Her being crazy in love with him since the dawn of time?”

“Right. That.”

“Yeah,” I say. “That.”

He looks at me expectantly. It goes quiet. Downstairs, the Moulin Rouge instrumentals are still blaring; I can make out the fuzzy, happy sounds of girl
chatter underneath it.

Arthur just keeps on staring at me with his pesky enthralling green eyes, backed up in their mission by the most formidably excellent eyelashes
known to the whole history of man, and I can’t help it.

“Oh, it’s so fucking weird.” I sit down. It’s not the badassest of sittings down: there may be a hint of anguish, a tinge of floppy despair. Arthur sits

down too. “Are you really sure you want to invoke this? Because really, for real: you, my gentleman, my scholar, are in for some grade-A insane
irrational heavy self-centered panic-laden whoa-now-simmer-down-freakboy ramblitude.”

He rests his hands on the desk and clasps them, serious business style. “I consider myself duly warned.”

“Okay. Swell.” I look at him. He looks at me. I can hear singing from downstairs. “I – I know I should heartily encourage this new thing, this whole
Amber-dating-some-miscreant thing. She’s been all stuck on Dennis since always, and it’s like – I get it. She’s twenty-two. She deserves to venture
into the giddy world of pineless, two-sided lovin’. It’s not like I don’t wish that upon her. And Dennis is with Emily, and Dennis is all about the Emily,
and Amber, she’s recognizing that and, I dunno. Manning up. In a girly way.

manning up, and being practical, and moving on. And that … is good

to do. But it kinda freaks me out.”

“That’s understandable, I think,” Arthur says. His tone of voice alone dials down my crazy like twenty percent. “You care about her, and it’s a big
change.”

“Yeah. And it’s like – what are the odds that this guy is worthy to even stand in the same room as her, let alone do date-type things? But then it’s like
… what if he

? What if he

like the full-on actual perfect Amber Clark dream fella, complete with … I dunno, cravat and white horse—”

“There probably won’t be a horse.”

“—Okay. Even horseless, though. Like – if he’s all epic-awesome-bitchin’-cool, then that changes stuff too. I mean, not like I’m jealous of her
potential theoretical

maybe

cravat-wearing jolly splendid asshole boyfriend. It’s just—”

“You sort of are,” Arthur says knowingly.

“I sort of am,” I agree. “It’s like, she’s been … what I’ve

got

for such a long time. I don’t want Mystery John, Faithful Squire To Fisticuffs Clifford

messing with that.”

“To be fair,” Arthur says, “you’ve got me now. And Kristy, and Cora. That must be difficult for her to adjust to.”

Friggin’ fairness.

“Well,” I say, “yeah. There is definitely that.”

“And besides, it’s not only the two of you. You’ve known Mitch for awhile, haven’t—”

“Oh yeah,” I say, maybe with the slightest lack of jubilation. “Mitch.”

Arthur frowns. “Are you mad at Mitch?”

“What? No. Mitch is – Mitch is – Mitch is –” I don’t so much want to say it out loud. Saying it out loud makes it real. Still, Arthur is just sitting there, all
attentive and there for me and handsome as hell, and it’s like, here’s somebody who will

willingly listen

to my psychotic madness so it doesn’t get

the chance to just boil and fester until my brain somehow actually, literally explodes.

Possibly this is a good thing.

“I think,” I say, shifting my gaze to the ceiling so I don’t have to experience the torment of saying this directly to another human being, “Mitch might …
have … thoughts …”

It’s right about here that I get tripped up.

“Um,” Arthur says after a long time, “well. I think so too. I mean, I always assumed so. Maybe on occasion he doesn’t precisely give off that vibe, but
just because he’s subtle about having thoughts doesn’t mean—”

“Hey!” I drag my gaze down and bust out a chastising glare. “Uncool.”

“What?”

“Obviously he has

thoughts

. Just because he excels at exuding some doofery doesn’t mean that he’s not a genius. He is. A very specific, very

undeniable kind of genius.”

“I believe you,” Arthur says – mostly, I think, because he is afraid not to.

“I just mean that specifically, he is having thoughts about … about …”

“Howie,” Arthur says, “you’re falling prey to your ellipses again.”

“Amber.” I spit it out. “He’s having Amber thoughts.”

“Of the romantic persuasion, you mean?”

“Oh! Ow. Okay, see:

. Going there, it’s a thing we can’t do. Human brains aren’t designed to withstand it. We are not – going to bust out the R

word. Or the S word.”

“I didn’t say an S word—”

“Just. For future reference. ‘Sex.’ Don’t ever, ever say it in relation to them.”

“Noted.”

“Mitch never has serious feelings about girls,” I say woefully. “Like, he has girlfriends, and stuff, and he likes them, but it’s never this big deal. I don’t
think I’ve ever seen him get all … like this. And it’s

Amber

. Not some jolly lass who loves, like, gummy bears and trampolines and gettin’ it on with

whoever!

That

is a Mitch-quality woman. But Amber? And yet he just – I mean, it’s always been there in a way. He’s always totally loved her. But

now it’s like – like, holy shit, what if he totally loves her?”

“Do you think Amber would ever be interested in him?”

“No. Except – Jesus, I dunno, maybe. He read some Coleridge, and she got all … there was a second there where I wouldn’t have been entirely
surprised, had she thrown her panties at him.”

“Oh dear.”

“Uh,

yeah

.”

There’s a little bit of silence. There’s still music and cheerful talking downstairs. I take a little while to ponder whether I’m actually going to say the
thing that’s been bugging me the most. Normally I wouldn’t, but normally, I don’t have Arthur to listen.

So I say it. “My mom is dating.”

“She is?”

“Yeah. One of my old professors.”

“Not the one that took five points off your Shakespeare paper?” Okay, so maybe I ranted about that to a few too many people.

“The very one.”

“Well, that’s Shakespearean in its cruel irony.”

“Right?

Thank you

.” Fuckin’ Herrick. Who, okay, I probably shouldn’t be harboring any (some-might-call-them-irrational) biases toward at the

moment. “I didn’t know she was ready yet. I didn’t know she was even …” For some reason, I can’t find a word to end the sentence with.

Arthur doesn’t say anything. He looks at me, though – this really kind, really simple look. He’s here, and he’s listening. It is a strange and wonderful
thing to have that.

“I don’t know what to do with it,” I say to my hands. “There’s a part of me that’s pissed off. And it’s like, how awful is that. Of course I want her to be
happy. I just – I guess ever since it happened, I’ve always been thinking she wasn’t. Like, losing my dad just fucked her up, and she was … like,

over

, or something. I don’t know how to say it without sounding like an asshole. But I guess I got that wrong. And now I’m like, well, what the hell am I

even doing hanging around here? Like, I thought I was doing her some great service, staying home. The dutiful baby boy. And now – whatever, I
was just kidding myself into thinking I was doing something important for her. But it’s cool. She’s all better.”

I laugh a little. Not a ha-ha-funny laugh. “And then it’s like, I just want to friggin’ bash in my own brain for thinking like this. Because it’s a big deal for
her. It must be. And I know she was nervous about telling me, and … and she’s probably scared about what I’ll think of him, and if I’ll like him, and if
I’ll be okay that suddenly he’s just this huge part of her life. And it’s like … like, who the hell should be more sympathetic toward that than me??
That’s exactly what I’m asking her to do, with me and you. And if she just decided, ‘Okay, nope, that’s not gonna roll, I don’t think I find that idea
entirely spiffy,’ then it would just … it would ruin me. Where do I get off deciding that I can feel shitty about her having this new person, when I

need

her to be okay with it? And it’s like, that’s sort of what I’m feeling with everybody, I guess. Not as bad with Amber and Mitch, but it’s still there. And,
like, Mitch doesn’t even

know.

But when he does know, I need him to be all right with it, even though it wouldn’t surprise me if he got all weirded out

and, like, thought I’d been secretly yearning to tap that all these many years of our friendship. If he

like

-likes Amber, or what the hell ever, I need to

okay

with it. And instead I’m just like – why the hell did everyone pick

now

to suddenly change and get all brave? It sucks. Except for the part

where, you know, it probably doesn’t suck. I suck for thinking it sucks.”

I’m so wrapped up in my pity soliloquy that it surprises me to look up and see Arthur’s not sitting at his desk anymore. He’s on his way over to me.
He stops in front of me and kneels down, a little bit awkwardly. Arthur, he’s not much of a natural floor-sitter, with all his pesky inherent dignity. He
takes one of my hands in his and looks right up at me.

“May I just remind you,” I say, “that you volunteered to listen.”

“Not necessary. I’m glad to.”

“You’re not

glad to

,” I protest, scoffing. “To be glad to is humanly impossible.”

“Well, then,” he says, smiling slightly, “I suppose I must be the pinnacle of human impossibility.”

“I’ve suspected it awhile,” I admit.

“This is going to be hideously trite,” he says. “Prepare yourself.”

“Prepared.”

“It’s Christmas. You love them. They love you. More than anything else, that’s what matters. Things will happen the way they happen, and you’ll sort
out the way you feel about them, and it will be all right. And you’ll keep loving them, and they’ll keep loving you, and … God bless us, everyone.”

I consider this. “Kind of a weak ending.”

“I can’t help suspecting it would have resonated more if I were a sickly child in Victorian Britain,” he agrees wistfully.

“Hey, Arthur?”

“Yes?”

“You,” I say, brushing my thumb against his cheek, “are the flippin’ bomb.”

“Thank you,” he says, leaning into the touch. “Honestly, I was fishing for exactly that compliment.”

God, he is the best ever human.

“All right, boss man,” I say, clambering with an exceptional lack of grace down onto the floor next to him. Equality, and all that. He laughs. “Your turn.”

“What?”

“You got to listen to me. Now it’s Artie ramble time.”

“I don’t have anything to—”

“Nuh uh. Not gonna cut it. Come on, man, there must be something that’s bugging you at this point in time. And I am here to listen.”

“All right then,” he says, looking cheerfully pensive. I surreptitiously attempt to practice his I’m Here And I’m Listening And I’m The Best Damn

Boyfriend Ever expression on my own face. He does it so well. But it must be

possible

, right? It’s not like he’s

that

crazy-talented.

He’s about to start talking, but then he stops and stares at me.

“What?” I say, trying not to let my face muscles shift too much. This is damn tricky.

“You look like you’re about to start playing the world’s saddest song on its tiniest little violin,” Arthur informs me. “And then hug a kitten, and paint a
rainbow, and watch Titanic whilst weeping profusely.”

There’s a part of me that’s just proud he pulled off such a seamless (if dated) pop culture reference.

“Okay,” I say, abandoning that well-intentioned and horrifically under-appreciated plan, “you shut up and start bitching, Kraft.”

He does. “There’s the fact that this store isn’t much longer for this world, and I’m … oddly enough, coming to terms with it. There’s the stress that
accompanies telling my parents about said development. I can’t quite fool myself into believing that that’s their dream holiday surprise. The moment
I woke up this morning, I had a song stuck in my head: I was then afflicted with the very depressing realization that it was by that woman who spells
her name with a dollar sign, and that I knew all of the words. Because my current place of residence is the futon in the living room of a pair of
teenage girls. Not a recent development, but a harrowing one. Always, always harrowing. Then there’s the fact that I’m currently caught in quite the
vicious struggle with Patrick over who’s going to get to keep the ottoman in our living room, which I have the distinct memory of paying five hundred
dollars for. However, he just so happens to have the distinct memory of paying for it as well, and quite frankly, it’s all leading me to suspect that you
were onto something with the whole ‘douchey’ label—”

“If I may,” I say, “what the fuck is an ottoman, and why the

hell

is it five hundred bucks?”

He stares at me. “Really?”

“Is this the face of a jesting man?”

“It’s a piece of furniture. There’s no way you don’t know this.”

“Actually, there is a way. And that way is, I’m not my own grandmother.”

“It’s an upholstered footstool—”

“A

footstool

? You paid five hundred bucks for a stool … for feet?”

“It was a very good deal. It’s antique—”

“You really are gay, aren’t you?”

“Really? This is what confirms it?”

“Jeez, man, just let DP have it.”

“Not all the sex that I could have sworn you were present for, but

a piece of furniture

—”

“Or, you know, you could really fight for it. Keep it around. Knit some doilies to put on it—”

“I think doilies are more typically crocheted.”

“You are so not helping your case here, Grandma.”

“Howie.”

“Arthur.”

“Shut up.”

“Yeah, you might have to make me. I’m really on a roll here.”

He rises to the task most admirably.

Amber and I both leave the store in considerably better moods than when we got there. Kristy’s in the process of scheduling date night, and Amber
talks cheerfully all the way home about how John’s supposed to be nice so hopefully it won’t be that bad, and how she and the ladies also have
plans to hang out girl style at some point, no boys allowed, and how she kind of wishes that she could pull a me and go gay because she’s ninety
percent convinced Cora is her soulmate. When we pull up into the driveway, it’s to find that it’s been newly shoveled by Dennis, who’s getting
started now on the Clarks’ driveway. Amber takes off, but not before she and Dennis get into a short-lived but violent snowball fight that results in
her awe-inspiring victory.

He’s brushing snow off of his sorry vanquished shoulders when he says, “Hey, do you think you could stick around out here for awhile?”

I’m pretty sure there’s a mug of hot chocolate and an honest afternoon’s aimless internet browsing awaiting me inside, so this isn’t exactly the best
request ever. Still, he asks so damn nicely. Bastard. “Sure. What’s up?”

“Mom and Emily are currently in the middle of a viewing of A Room of One’s Own. I think they might actually be bonding. The fewer interruptions
there are to mess with that fragile peace, the better.”

A mistake! A mistake from Dennis. It’s incredible. Almost unprecedented. Dulcet-toned angels start harmonizing in my brain.

“A Room with a View,” I say. “A Room of One’s Own is the Virginia Woolf thing.”

“Oh,” he says, a little taken aback. Because, roaring triumph that it is to me, my vast and astounding knowledge of lady literature isn’t quite enough
to balance the Dennis vs. Me Awesomeness Scales in one magnificent go.

“Most of my company has been provided by Mom and Amber over the past few years,” I tell him. “Regrettably, lamentably, sometimes shit sticks.”

“Well, yeah,” he says, grinning. “And you take all those English classes, so you’re learning all of that.”

“Yeah,” I say, “that too.”

“I’m gonna have to tiptoe around you, little bro.”

“Oh, absolutely,” I say. “It’s intimidating, how brilliant I am.”

I wonder if it’s possible to throw up from irony.

We stand there. It’s, oh, just riveting.

“So,” Dennis says, succumbing to the pressure of the awkward silence first. “How are you, man? We haven’t really gotten a chance to talk much.”

“No, I guess we haven’t.” Such the conversationalist. “Uh. I’m good. Just, ya know. Work. Home. That’s pretty much it.”

Maybe that wasn’t the most helpful of replies. I can’t quite bring myself to feel bad.

“Oh,” Dennis says. He’s still smiling, still curious and courteous and that whole damn cornucopia of social acceptability. “Nothing new?”

“Nothing new.”

Silence, silence. “How’s Lindsay?”

“Uh,” I say. “I don’t really know. Since that hasn’t really been going on for … like … years.”

“Oh.” For just a second, he falters. “Right. Any new lucky ladies?”

“Nope,” I say. “No ladies.” And then, because he shouldn’t have to do all the work, and this is such a craptastic conversation that I’m pretty sure even
me contributing to it won’t eff it up too badly, I throw in, “Emily’s great.”

“I’m a fan,” he says, the smile coming back. “I’m glad you guys are getting along.”

“Yeah, totally. She’s really cool.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. At least this time, the silence is a little more cheery. After roughly seventy thousand years, he ventures, “I think she might be
knitting you socks.”

“Really?” The idea of having my own personal Emily-knit masterpiece – overwhelming. So many feelings. Really, I just think it’s cool of her that she’s
doing it. I dig her enough that I will wear her funky socks proudly. But I’m not exactly sure where to go with that now, because does Dennis realize
that Emily’s knitting is either yarn’s equivalent of the avant-garde art movement or really, really bad – or does he think she’s actually fandamntastic
at it? Is he so blinded by love that he wouldn’t notice it? Even though he’s obviously spent way more time with the hat than I have? And besides, he’s
so damn

nice

to everyone, about everything, that I just can’t imagine that he’d say anything less-than-glowing about Emily. Once again, I find myself

bested by his unfailing excellence. And so all I can muster reply-wise is, “That’s … cool.”

“Yep!” There he goes, busting out the extra enthusiasm in an attempt to drown my general social retardation. Good luck, soldier. “And, okay, I also
know she didn’t want me to tell you that, so, um – come Christmas morning, act surprised.”

“Sure,” I say. “Surprised. Got it.”

Silence anew. And there’s no defeating this one, either. It’s just him and me, standing here, saying nothing, nothing, nothing. Maybe the outside
observer would presume we were just communicating in psychic twin language, like, transcending normal plebeian speech altogether with our all-
powerful siblingly bond. Oh, Nonexistent Outside Observer, that’s so cute of you. Me and Dennis, we are atypically, remarkably bondless. It was one
thing when we lived in the same house, went to the same school – then closeness was at least forced upon us. But it’s so easy for stuff to just die
when you throw in some space. We never really keep in touch, because it’s like – from my end, anyway – what is there to say?

Finally, he gives up. “I guess I better get back to shoveling.”

“Guess you better.” Heartened by the knowledge that this conversation is over, I find it in me to tack on a mock-epic, “Good luck, man.”

“Oh, I got this,” Dennis replies, lifting the shovel over his head.

“Lame-ass,” Amber yells out her window, and Dennis grins up at her and does this dorky salute. Because for all the accidental pain he’s caused her
over the past

ever

, Amber’s still better at interacting with Dennis than I am. Kind of a shame, but not something I’m gonna lose sleep over.

I wait until he’s got his back turned, and I sneak into the house. I do it quiet, and everything, and I don’t think the thirty seconds I spend saying hi to
Mom and Emily will forever shatter whatever great thing they momentarily had going. Still, I feel kind of shitty. I drown that feeling in hot chocolate
and many a quippy text message to Arthur about ottomans.

Chapter Twenty-Six

A cheery air of panic hangs around our house come Christmas Eve morning. When I come downstairs, my mom is already in hysterical cleaning
mode; she’s still in her pajamas, hair pulled back all crazy-sloppy, and she’s scrubbing the stove with wild ferocity.

“Howie! Chairs!” she barks.

“Chairs?” The fact that it’s one syllable doesn’t mean it’s not hard to compute. Caffeine. Need caffeine.

“From the garage. We’re going to need a few of the folding chairs if we’re going to fit everybody at the table.”

“Who’s everybody?” Dennis asks. He’s dressed already, looking awake and windswept, and he’s taking stuff out of a plastic grocery bag and
arranging it on a tray. Pastries. Fruit. A single red rose. I look at the clock above the (besmirched and slovenly!) stove – 8:37. Not even nine, and
he’s already left the house to get his ladylove the fixings for breakfast in bed? I’m caught between the warring forces of ‘aw, good for Emily’ and
‘gag me.’ “Isn’t it just us and Amber and Mitch?”

“Um,” Mom says, pausing in her stove-scrubbing frenzy. “Actually, I’ve invited a coworker who didn’t have anywhere else to go. And so did Howie.
‘Tis the season, you know.”

“Oh,” Dennis says. “Cool. Who’d you invite?”

“Howie invited Arthur.” Thanks, Mom.

“Atrocious Arthur?” he asks, grinning at me.

“Chairs!” I say. “I should get chairs!”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dennis says. “I’ve got shoes on already, I’ll grab them.”

We wait ‘til he’s out of the house.

“We are terrible, lying, cowardly people,” I announce.

“Oh, he’ll figure it out on his own,” Mom says. “And he’ll react to it with a level head. He’s always been the sanest member of this family.”

“Thanks, Mommy,” I say.

I play the role of dutiful son long enough to clean the downstairs bathroom. When Mom, looking fetching in her bathrobe and a pair of bright yellow
rubber gloves, suggests that I do the upstairs bathroom too, “just in case,” I decide to make my escape. There’s only so much time you can spend
with a toilet before your Christmas spirit is irrevocably dashed. When Arthur calls me to ask what kind of wine he should bring, I – opportunist that I
am – invite myself on along on his liquor store quest.

“What do you think?” he asks, when we’re there.

“I think you probably do not want my opinion on this.”

“Oh, come on. You must remember something about what kind of wine your mother likes.”

“Yeah, I don’t really make a big point of boozing it up with my mom. Do you?”

“Booze it up with your mom? Well, yes, during our several secret trysts, but you’re not supposed to know about that. We’re very discreet.”

“Oh no you didn’t.”

“All right, we’re going to start very basic. Does she prefer red or white?”

“How ‘bout some Bacardi?” I ask, pointing merrily and helpfully at the line of bottles. “We’s gon’ get crunkkkk! Christmas crunk.”

“Interesting news: I no longer feel so much as a spark of attraction toward or respect for you.”

I shrug. “Had to happen sooner or later.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and smirks, and we amble wineward through the store.

“You do realize that wine’s the obvious choice, right? I’m sure Herrick’s got wine covered. Don’t you want to try something a little different? Really
stand out?”

“I’m getting wine.”

“How ‘bout a nice Christmas goose? Or – hey – an adorable Weimaraner puppy.”

“Oh, look at all the wine.”

“Not to eat, obviously. That would not endear you to my mother at all.”

“Red or white, Howie?”

Regretfully, I surrender. “Red.”

“Merlot?”

“Sure. That’ll bring out the flavor of the Christmas goose just swimmingly.”

Once the wine-purchasing’s out of the way, we make our way out onto the sidewalk. There’s a general sense of holiday merriment in the air, a flurry
of last-minute shoppers and Salvation Army bells ringing. We walk close, shoulders together. I look at all of the people around, on the sidewalk and
in the parking lot, coming in and out of stores. They’re almost all familiar faces, even if I can only pick out a few that I know by name. Living here, it’s
like being in a perpetual state of At Any Second, You Could Run Into Your Kindergarten Teacher. It’s hard not to get caged in by that feeling.

Still

, I

think, as Arthur’s arm moves a little against mine.

“Crunk,” Arthur muses under his breath, saying the word (if it can be called a word. Has ‘crunk’ achieved true word status yet? Are we there yet, as
a race of sentient beings?) in a way that’s, like, the vocal equivalent of holding up a dead mouse by its tail with two very reluctant fingers. He
ponders for awhile, then comes, with a disgusted sort of victory, to, “Crazy drunk. Am I right?”

“And you got it in one,” I reply, and I reach for his hand. “You hip unstoppable genius, you.”

I can tell he’s surprised. Hell, I feel like I should be surprised, too – but for the first time in what feels like, well, ever, I’m not. I can be in control of my
own actions, despite what my track record might imply to the contrary, and suddenly, I just feel like, sure. I can hold my boyfriend-yeah-that’s-right-
world-

boyfriend

’s hand wherever I want to, and not because I want to be all, ‘Check it out, humanity, there’s someone out there who’ll hold my hand,’

but because we’re walking close enough that his arm is against mine and he’s musing over the meaning of ‘crunk’ like he’s sixty-five and somehow,
by some mad glorious stroke of luck, he is mine to touch.

He looks down at our hands. Ever sensible, he’s wearing gloves, nice leather ones. I left in a hurry, and I’m not exactly the most practical guy to
begin with; I’m barehanded, and my fingers are cold. He tightens his grasp on my hand, smiles at me a little bit. I smile back. Beats pockets.

Amber shows up about an hour before Arthur and Herrick are set to. She’s in a pretty good mood, considering she got subjected to both a double
date

and

a blind date last night.

“You’re very brave,” Emily says, staring at Amber with wide(-r than usual) eyed admiration. “I don’t think I would want to go out with a stranger.
Especially one who’s just had his heart broken.”

“He was okay,” Amber says, unloading the multitude of Christmas feast-type goodies Mrs. Clark sent over. I get the feeling that Mom mentioned
Herrick to Mrs. C, because she went all out: ham, fancy potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce that’s not even shaped like the can

because it didn’t

come out of one

, three pies, cookies … it’s the perfect holiday spread of domestic deceit. “He was really nice and everything. Just sort of …

traumatized.”

“Traumatized?” Emily sounds mildly interested.

“He brought up his ex Cally thirty-eight times. After awhile, I started counting.”

“You mean you didn’t do anything to take his mind off his heartache?” Dennis asks, roguery in every syllable.

“Dennis, really,” Emily chastises.

“Screw you, pervert.” Amber tosses a dinner roll at him. Dennis, feat of Herculean perfection that he is, catches it. “I’m a lady, mind.”

“You think you’re going to go out with him again?” Dennis asks, taking a bite out of the roll.

“I don’t think so,” Amber replies, wrinkling her nose. “He doesn’t really seem ready. Which, in and of itself, was kind of uplifting, you know? I
definitely didn’t expect to be the one who was

more

ready. But, nope. I think I’ll leave poor Johnny to wallow in his lingering emo pain.”

“Oh, come on,” Dennis cajoles, grinning at her. “He sounds like a sensitive lad. I think you guys seem great together.”

“How can you think that?” Amber demands. She sounds jokey, and all. I think it’s a mark of my Amberly expertise that I can hear the bite underneath.
“You don’t even know who he is. You’re like, what, wishing me upon random emotionally disturbed strangers now?”

“I just think you shouldn’t let a good thing pass you by,” Dennis replies with a shrug. He shakes his head, fake-earnest. “This could be the greatest
man who’ll ever come your way, and you’re just letting him slip between your fingers. You gotta seize the day. Right, Em?” He rubs her shoulder.

“I think that Amber deserves better than a boy who’s obsessed with someone else,” Emily replies. Amber looks at Emily with a whole new
appreciation.

“Right?” she says. “

Thank you

, Emily.”

Dennis turns to me. “What do you think, Howie?”

“I think,” I reply, operating from a strict stance of Staying Out Of It, “that Amber should do whatever she wants to.”

“Aw,” she says, leaning over and giving me a one-armed hug. “I’ve trained you well, buddy boy.”

“You bring me food, I’m your bitch.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure you’re my bitch anyway—”

“Did you know that brach is an antiquated form of bitch? Meaning the female hound, of course. I’m not quite comfortable saying it in any other
context.”

There’s that moment where the pall of Emily’s A Weirdo sinks over us all, manifesting in the awkwardest of silences.

Then Amber – Christmas miracle to end all Christmas miracles – salvages things like a regular pro. “Oh, I like that way better. Maybe you’re my

brach, Jenkins.”

“I like it too,” I decide. “It’s got zest. Flava, if you will.”

Emily’s smiling, now, and Dennis is looking at Amber and me with what I’m pretty sure is gratitude. It makes me feel sort of like a shitty-ass human
being, more than anything; like, being nice to Emily shouldn’t be this monumental gesture spurred by holiday good cheer. It should just be a thing
that is.

Well. Better late than never.

“Could I get somebody to come help me up here?” Mom calls from upstairs. “I’m caught in the midst of a very ugly zipper dilemma!”

“I would be happy to help you, Miranda,” Emily calls back, standing up.

“Amber, hon, are you here?”

Emily sits back down.

This is not lost on Amber. She doesn’t make a move forward. Instead, she says awkwardly to Emily, “You can—”

“No, no, go ahead,” Emily says, gracious as the queen of England. “She called for you.”

Amber nods, and disappears up the stairs. Dennis stares after her with – well, with a look that is in no way a normal Dennis look. He doesn’t look all
that pleased with the world and everyone and everything in it. Come to think of it, he probably looks a whole lot like me.

“We had a very nice time watching A Room with a View,” Emily finally ventures. Dennis looks at her like he can’t decide whether to hug her or
avenge her honor. “I can’t help feeling so sorry for poor Cecil Vyse. He’s not one to kiss a girl in a field of violets in Italy, of course, but even so.”

“Um,” I say, having exactly no clue what any of that means, “yeah. Poor … old chap.”

“He is an old chap, isn’t he?” Emily says, giving me this very keen look, like I’ve landed upon the perfect phrasing.

“I think she probably just wanted to thank Amber for bringing the food over,” Dennis says, sounding about forty percent convinced by himself. “And
that’s why …”

“Yes, I know,” Emily says serenely.

“Okay.” He kisses her hair. She gives him a quiet smile, but it’s not quite enough to brighten up his expression. I don’t really know what to do. I start
counting all the whole cranberries I can spot in the cranberry sauce.

“So, why doesn’t Arthur have anyone to spend Christmas with?” Dennis asks, switching back to pleasantly conversational mode. “That guy we saw
him with, wasn’t that his—”

“They split up,” I reply, abandoning cranberries. “Awhile ago, actually.”

“Oh,” Dennis says. “That’s too bad.”

“I dunno,” I reply. “I think it was for the best.”

Because that means I get him all to myself, wikka whaaat,

I do not say. For the first time, though, I feel like maybe I should. Technically, I guess I’ve

always gotten that Dennis has a right to know. I’ve just never quite felt it ‘til now, with him standing there looking down at Emily, not even slightly
smiling.

Dinner happens. Everybody survives. There are five things, though, five things that go down throughout the course of the evening that really feel like
they

matter

Emily hangs up mistletoe. (“It’s such a lovely tradition, I think. Did you know that it dates back all the way to pagan rituals? And in Scandinavian
history, it was a symbol of peace: if two enemies walked beneath it, they had to lay their arms aside. Well. Not their literal arms, of course. That
wouldn’t be very peaceful at all.”) For the most part, we’re all careful when it comes to doorways, but at one point, Mitch and Amber slip up and walk
under it together. Amber – new, bold, I Went On A Blind Date and Survived Amber – is actually, like, totally game for it. She throws one little look at
Dennis, who doesn’t notice, and then says, “You know what? Sure. It’s about time, right? And in terms of storytelling, nothing’s gonna top ‘I had my
first kiss at twenty-two under some mistletoe with a guy who, at first glance, mistook said mistletoe for marijuana, brought along corndogs and
rootbeer as his contribution to the Christmas feast.’”

and

, fun bonus fact,

“What’s wrong with corndogs and rootbeer?” asks Mitch, looking a little bit crestfallen and a lot bit freaked.

“Nothing,” Amber says impatiently, inching into him. “Mitchell, can we just—?” She puts a hand on his chest.

“You don’t have to kiss me,” Mitch insists, encircling her wrist and guiding it off of him with all the grace and speed of a jungle cat (who’s suddenly
really scared of girls). “You don’t. Screw that little plant. He’s not the boss of us.”

Mitch then spends all night looking miserable. Amber doesn’t do much better.

Herrick brings snowman cookies. They are intricate little fuckers, too; he didn’t just use a Frosty-shaped cookie cutter and call it a day. Herrick is
this very intellectual, very Englishy guy with light brown hair and a beard and wire-rimmed glasses and lots of cardigans with those little elbow
patches on them, who is about as British as you can get without actually being from Britain. The idea of

him

taking the time to draw little icing faces

and scarves and button noses onto like twenty friggin’ snowman cookies is unreal. I reach the conclusion that they must be store-bought, but then I
hear him telling my mom about his adventures in making them. I pause on my way to the living room: the two of them stand in the kitchen alone,
bending over the tray so my mom can inspect the cookies. She laughs and points out the scarf on one of them, and says, “Ooh, lilac and sky blue
stripes, this one’s quite a dandy.” Herrick gets Very Serious, all, “Yes, that was absolutely my intention there. Whereas here, this one’s a bit more of
a ruffian, a wrong-side-of-the-tracks snowman—” and my mom laughs, and he looks at her with this very fond look, even though she forgot one of
her earrings and she introduced him to Dennis as “my friend, well, my work friend, well, we know each other from work – not that he’s not a friend,
certainly we’re friends, right, David?”

I see Herrick looking at her with that look, like she’s cooler than the Oregon Shakespeare Festival and a whole class’ worth of student essays with
perfect MLA formatting put together, and I think I may be capable of reconciling myself to this.

My mom is not the sappiest of matriarchs, not even slightly, but she spends the whole first half of the night looking at Arthur like she wants to throw
her arms around him and burst into tears. I can’t help but feel like this doesn’t bode well for the future; how can I expect them to have a functional
relationship if she’s all blubbery whenever she’s in his presence? But then somehow, the conversation turns to music, and Arthur mentions driving
around with me and being subjected – direct quote, that’s the word he uses,

subjected

– to a half hour of The Clash. This makes my mom’s

eyebrows shoot up.

“I can’t hear much there besides noise,” he says, adorably oblivious. “I know that there’s a lot of political resonance in their lyrics, but – well, it’s hard
to count that in their favor when you can’t actually make out any of the lines.”

“Arthur,” my mom says very seriously, after taking one steadying swig of her wine. “Thank you for bringing the cobbler. You’ve been a lovely dinner
guest. But surely you must be shitting me.”

This is when I know that they’re gonna be all right.

At dessert, when we’ve been at the table long enough that a sense of vaguely inebriated ease has settled over us, Dennis says, “There’s some stuff
I’d like to say, actually.” Everybody looks at him, and there’s something about “some stuff” plus me and Arthur plus Mom and Herrick that somehow
makes me nervous. It’s a kind of stomach-lurching that can’t quite be blamed on the three pieces of cherry pie I polished off. But Dennis just looks
back at all of us, and then he smiles, and he holds up his glass and says, “Merry Christmas.” Amber looks at him. Emily looks down at her hands.
We’re all real happy to pretend that that’s what he’d meant to say in the first place.

There’s a piano in our living room. Nobody in our family has ever really played. It was Grandma and Grandpa Jenkins’ wedding present to my mom
and dad, and even though Mom had Dennis and me take some lessons when we were kids (Dennis lasted a year; I lasted three and a half
sessions, and might have accidentally pulled my piano teacher’s wig off), it was never a thing that stuck. Over the years, it became a glorified stand
for all of our family pictures; I think that I may have actually forgotten that it was capable of creating sound. After dinner, though, the whole gang
moves into the living room, and Arthur starts ogling the piano.

“May I?” he asks my mom, gesturing to it.

“Oh,” she says, surprised. “Certainly.”

He sits down and starts playing Winter Wonderland. He’s unobtrusive about it; it’s not like it’s suddenly holiday concert time, more like background
music. After a little while, Mitch and Dennis strike up a conversation trying to determine which Judd Apatow movie is the best, and that becomes
fodder for a surprisingly heated conversation. Emily, the only non-Arthur person in the room who I’m guessing doesn’t have an opinion on the
subject, gravitates over to Arthur. They exchange a few words, smiling at each other. Then all of a sudden, they’re singing together. Arthur plays a
jazzy little intro, and they launch right into “Baby It’s Cold Outside.”

It is maybe the best thing I’ve ever witnessed in my whole life. They remind me of something from an old movie, Arthur at the piano and Emily

standing beside it. They smile and make faces at each other, totally milking the lyrics for all they’re worth. All I can think, watching them, is how
awesome they both are, and how weird it is that it took me such a long time to see it.

On Christmas morning, Mom, Dennis, Emily and I go for a walk. There’s this little park ten minutes from our house: it’s a nice, quiet spot, with lots of
trees and a lake. It’s not quite cold enough that the water’s frozen over, and there’s this flock of ducks that hangs around all the time. If there’s one
thing the Jenkins household never has a shortage of, it’s food that’s past its expiration date. And so Mom digs up a loaf of expired wheat bread
from the cupboard, and we get ready to go give our feathered friends a Christmas treat. I put on my Emily socks and bundle up, and we all set off.
My instinct is to complain a whole goddamn lot about it: pulled out of bed before the crack of noon to go outside, sans breakfast, sans coffee – the
indignity of it all! But the Christmas walk was always a Dad thing, and we haven’t kept up with it over the past couple of years. I like the idea of
starting again.

The cold air is kind of nice first thing, which is one of those facts of life it’s really easy to forget. It makes me feel more clear-headed than I’m used to
being without the aid of that dread mistress caffeination. It’s snowing lazily, thick flakes that are big enough that they actually look like snowflakes –
you know, the stereotypical every-one’s-different-and-super-special perception of snowflakes. I like the crunch of the snow underneath my shoes.
Most of the time, I tend to be of the Get Me The Hell Out Of Here And Put Me Somewhere That’s Always Warm persuasion, but I don’t hate the
winter today. It makes everything seem bright and crisp and clean.

Dennis and Emily walk arm in arm a few steps behind Mom and me. Mom’s got her hair pulled back sloppy, and she keeps closing her eyes for
these long stretches of time – longer than may be advisable when one’s traveling ‘cross the icy tundra, but she seems to be doing okay so far.
There’s a faint almost-smile on her face.

“Last night went all right, didn’t it?” she says after awhile.

“Yeah,” I say truthfully. “I think it was pretty nice.”

“I was so worried beforehand. But really, all things considered, it was something of a triumph. No tears. No bloodshed.”

“Not to mention the tasty, immensely detailed snowman cookies made by a dude with way too much time on his hands and a natural finesse for
icing.”

“Oh, be nice.” She opens her eyes to give me a little admonitory glare.

“No, I mean it. Those were great. A feat of cookieish wonder.”

“He’s a nice man, isn’t he?”

“He gets points for the cookies. And also for that sweater. I didn’t know they still made those ones with the elbow patches on them.”

“Shh. It’s his right as a professor.”

“Mmkay.” And then, because I figure she’s earned herself some sincerity from me, I add, “He’s a cool guy. He’s won my approval.”

Her smile widens. We walk in nice silence.

“I love Arthur,” she says then, looking over at me.

“Jeez, Mom. Forward much? You can’t tell a guy that right after the first date. You’ll spook him. He’ll flee.”

“No, I do. And I love you with Arthur.”

It’s weird to hear out loud. For some reason, it’s made especially weird by the fact that it’s here: this peaceful, Narnian landscape, with the faint blur
of Dennis and Emily’s conversation the only other noise around.

“Yeah?” I say. My voice sounds a little croaky.

“Yeah. You seem happy around each other.”

“We are,” I say.

Mom doesn’t say anything. She reaches over and tousles my hair, then pulls my hood back up.

“You’re not allowed to freeze your ears off. All of the other mothers will make fun of me for having the bizarre earless offspring, and I don’t know if I’m
secure enough to endure that.”

“In that case, I should probably let my ears freeze off for the greater good. It sounds like you are in need of some serious character growth,
Mamacita.”

“Oh, hon. How did you become such a pain in the ass. Surely that all must have come from Daddy’s side.”

“I dunno. I feel like you must have contributed at least a little bit there. Or, you know, a whole lot of

extremely

.”

She fake-punches me in the arm, then loops her arm through mine. I feel really glad to be her kid.

When we get to the lake, my mom offers a slice of bread to Emily. Dennis hangs back and watches the two of them as they start wooing ducks
over. After a little while, he comes next to me.

He doesn’t say anything. I’ve gotten pretty used to awkward silence when it comes to Dennis and me. That doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable.

“Mom’s dating David, isn’t she?” he says at long last. It’s not where I expected the conversation to start.

“Yeah,” I say. I get the feeling that Mom should be the one who’s telling him this, but she doesn’t seem eager to get around to it. Besides, we’re
brothers. She’s our mom. It makes sense.

“For how long?”

“Not very, I don’t think. She only told me a little while ago. The same weekend that I went to that concert Arthur played at.”

“Oh.” Dennis goes quiet. I look over at him. He’s watching Mom and Emily, who are both laughing as they toss bread into the water. “I wonder why
she didn’t tell me.”

I feel a flash of guilt. “I dunno, man, it didn’t really seem like she was gonna tell me either. Some stuff … just … happened, and it wound up coming
up. I don’t think she really wanted to.”

“I don’t know about that,” Dennis says, still not looking at me. “The two of you have always been close.”

“We have?”

“Well, yeah. We used to divvy up like that. You and her, and me and Dad.”

As soon as he says it, I realize that it’s true. It’s just that I never really thought to look at it like that. The way I saw it, it was always more that Dennis
was Dad’s favorite, his pride ‘n joy, but at least I had Mom’s weird-ass sense of humor. I didn’t seem like the big winner in the situation at the time.

“It’s hard with three,” he says. “Like … like I’m not in the club, or whatever.”

“What?” I say. “You are so in the club! If there is a club. I don’t even think there’s a club. Because, like, who starts two-person mother-son clubs? Not
a healthy situation—”

“I’m just saying. That’s how I’ve been feeling for awhile. And I’m not always the best at saying what I really mean. But … I guess here’s me trying. I’m
sorry if this conversation sucks.”

“You’re doing okay,” I tell him.

We both laugh the same awkward, trying-too-hard laugh. It strikes me that he’s having just as difficult a time as I am.

Something about that makes me like him more than usual. “I’m sorry that Mom and I are ... keeping you out of the club,” I say. “I didn’t think to look at
it like that.”

“That’s okay.” I believe him. Then again, I guess that’s his specialty.

In any case, the time seems right. About as right as it’s ever going to be. “You know why Arthur came over last night?”

“Because he didn’t have anywhere else to go?”

“Well, yeah. And also – well, you know how he broke up with his boyfriend?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, well. He’s kinda … seeing somebody new.”

Dennis only looks lost for a few seconds before it dawns on him. He’s always been a quick one, my bro.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Telling Mitch is tricky business. I bring a bucket of KFC chicken along with me, reasoning that if things go really shitty, well, I can at least distract-
slash-pacify him with fast food.

As soon as I come in and we’re sitting down on the couch (with a cushion’s worth of space and a bucket of chicken between us, because the last
thing I want to do is freak him out with proximity), I attempt my explanation. A lot of really confusing words come out of my mouth, stuff about Bert
and Ernie and were they really just roommates, and imagine Xena and Gabrielle but with boy parts. Nope. He just stares at me. And then after
awhile, I guess he starts getting bored, because he stares at the chicken instead.

“Here you go,” I say, prodding said bucket of chicken in his direction. I’m feeling pretty disheartened.

“No thanks,” Mitch says.

Which is like: “Say what now?”

“Howie,” he says morosely, “do you think Amber’s mad at me? For not kissing her? With the whole mistletoe thing?”

“No,” I say, “I don’t think she’s mad at you. I think she might be sort of mad at Dennis.”

“Oh,” Mitch says. I sense that we’re not quite done with this yet, because he’s not smiling, and he has yet to pay attention to the chicken. “I felt like …
you know, it would have been assholey for me to do it. ‘Cause she’s all super old to be unkissed, and she’s waited this long, and it should be
amazing. Like that whole thing in The Princess Diaries, where she wants her foot to, like, pop!” He demonstrates with his own foot and kicks a bowl
of old Spaghettios off the end table (that is actually a box) in the process. “And there should be fountains, all like

whooshhhhh,

and she’s wearing

one of those little sparkly crowns—”

“Dude. No man should reference The Princess Diaries with that much ease. The Princess Bride, sure. But The Princess Diaries, nuh uh.”

“It’s a heartwarming family film,” Mitch says stubbornly. “And Anne Hathaway’s cute like crazy, even with those walrus eyebrows in the first half. I
stand by it.”

I decide not to pursue the concept of walrus eyebrows, and say instead, “You are a braver man than I.”

“But the thing is. Like, that’s how it’s supposed to be, right? I bet it really matters to her. Not, like, standing under some stupid little plant with me,
and everybody watching. I didn’t want to be the jerk who made her first kiss

that

. But then she seemed pissed.”

He looks so – so genuinely troubled

His forehead’s scrunched up, and his eyes are sad. It strikes me all at once that Amber deserves somebody

who cares about her like that. I don’t know what’s going on with the two of them, and I can’t say in all honesty that I

like

it, and I have no clue whether

Amber could ever reconcile herself to love a non-Dennis man who not only lacks a British accent, but watches The Princess Diaries without shame
and sometimes forgets to change his socks. But after so many years of, after

forever

of watching Dennis not care, and only pay enough attention to

her to keep her stuck on him – well, I like the idea of someone being all mad about her, all the-sun-rises-and-sets with her. If nothing else, Mitch is a
great friend to her. That odd twitch of feeling in the depths of my soul, I think it might be called approval.

“Again,” I say, “I think that’s about my brother. Not you.” I hadn’t meant to share this part with Mitch, but now I feel like he earned it. “He was kind of
encouraging her to keep things going with Blind Date Guy, even though she didn’t like him.”

“She didn’t like him?” Mitch’s eyes light up like the living room just turned into Disneyland.

“Nope. He was all hung up on his old girlfriend, or something.”

“That sucks,” says Mitch giddily.

“She had me bring these for you, bee-tee-dubs,” I add, busting out the copies of

King Solomon’s Mines

and

The Lost World

that she sent over.

“Oh, hey, sweet,” he says, taking them.

“There’s crazy African juju and dinosaurs and shit,” I explain, very intellectual. “I think she has you figured out.”

“Awe

sooooome

.” He grins. “She’s the best.” Wise man, Mitchell Ballard.

Apparently, the conversation has taken a jolly enough turn that his appetite is back with a vengeance. He sets the books aside carefully, then
reaches for not one but

two

drumsticks and starts taking alternating bites out of each of them. The universe attains its symmetry once more.

He’s chomping happily away, throwing occasional glances at the books from Amber with a fondness that suggests they, like,

are

Amber, and I

kinda feel like, well, if there’s any time that’s gonna be good, now’s probably it. I clear my throat. “Hey, you know that stuff I was saying earlier about
Bert and Ernie and … stuff?”

“Yeah,” he says, going to town on that chicken, “I didn’t get any of that, man, sorry.”

“Not gonna blame you there. Yeah. Uh. That was actually my weird, pansy-ass way of telling you that …” Here we go. “Arthur and me, we’re seeing
each other. We’re together. Togetherly seeing each other. In a way where there’s … well, the Brits call it snogging.”

Mitch’s jaw drops. It offers me a lovely display of his half-masticated chicken.

“Dude!” Rudy exclaims, thundering out of his room like the Odyssey Cyclops leaving his sheep cave. The walls shake. I can’t believe I didn’t realize
that he might be listening with his big weird magical-giant ears. “Dudes. Dudes who dig dudes. I don’t mean to interrupt your conversation, so sorry,
sorry, sorry, but may I just say:

called it

.”

We both stare at him.

“Huh?” I finally offer.

“You,” Rudy beams, “being all

cock

-a-

dude-

ledoo. Called that.”

“You … did?”

“Yeah,” Rudy says proudly. “Mitch, tell him, yo.”

“You mean,” Mitch says, “all those times that I’d bring up Howie, and you’d go, ‘Howie. That dude’s gay,’ you, like, for real meant—”

“Yeah!” Rudy says. He points at me. “That dude’s

gay

!”

I am not really sure how to feel about this.

“I thought you were just,” Mitch says, “you know. Saying you thought he was lame. Which,

uncool

, by the way,” he adds, waving a chastising

drumstick at Rudy.

“Oh, no, man,” Rudy says, holding his hands up. “You kidding me? That’s so derogatory. Me, I don’t hate. I wasn’t hatin’. Just statin’.”

“Whoa,” I say. I don’t really know what else to be saying. “And you had this figured out …?”

“Like the first time I met you,” Rudy says with a shrug. “What can I say? For some reason, my gaydar is

off the hook

.”

“That’s true,” Mitch acknowledges.

“Sure, man. When I used to watch Doogie Howser reruns as a kid, I’d be all like, ‘That guy’s gay.’ And I was like in fifth grade. I dunno, man, I just
knew. Hey!” he says, the lights of epiphany shining grandly upon his visage. “You! Doogie

How

-zer. And it works ‘cause your name is Howie, and it

works ‘cause you’re gay!

Man

. I love it when stuff operates on two levels like that. Makes my brain all tingly.”

I think we may have a burgeoning great thinker among us. Beware, Foucault.

“Well,” I say, “too, uh, bad you didn’t let me know sooner, I guess.”

“Nah,” Rudy says sagely. “That’s the kinda stuff that you’ve gotta figure out on your own, I think. Soul searching’s one of those things you do alone.”

Mitch and I sit in impressed silence at this wise reflection upon the nature of existence.

“Like jerking off,” he finishes, “or taking a dump.”

Aaand he’s Rudy.

“Wait, whoa, what, you brought

chicken

? Scorizzle to my stomachizzle! Don’t mind if I do, DooHow. Don’t mind if I do.”

“Do you think we’re too old for this?” I ask the next afternoon, casting a glance at a couple of kids who are looking at Amber and me with suspicion
from the merry-go-round. “Have we reached a point where our enthusiasm for playgrounds is creepy?”

“Not as creepy as the fact that that little boy just ate something out of his friend’s nose,” Amber replies, claiming one of the swings with great
regality. “Besides, we’ve been hanging out here since before their parents started dating. We’ve got dibs.”

“Nice,” I say. I am fiercely down with dibs.

“Now push me, slave.”

Being naught but her humble minion, I press my hands against her back. She goes swinging forward, and doesn’t make any attempt to help me out.
No leg pumping action at all. Typical.

“Yeah,” I say, “you’re not gettin’ anywhere if you’re just gonna sit there and let your feet drag in the dirt, lazy-ass.” I don’t realize that maybe even the
PG-rated talk should be off-limits, considering the present company, until the words leave my mouth. Backtrack time! “Lazy-butt. Lazy-bum. Lazy-
rump. Lazy-derriere – that’s just me, nonchalantly projecting my knowledge of foreign tongues out into the universe. Take a second language, kids!
Stay in school!”

“Knock it off, you’re harassing the youth,” Amber orders. I catch the chains of her swing and hold her hostage in retaliation.

“Free me, Jenkins!” She makes a few futile attempts to kick her feet back at me. Utterly pointless. I am unconquerable.

“Uh, yeah, maybe I will if you quit this verbal abuse attack.”

“

Never.

You can take my freedom, but never my scathing remarks.”

“Okay. I will settle, at this point in time, for your freedom.” In one totally bad-derriere ninja move, I let go of the chains and wrap my arms around her
from behind. She is paralyzed in my unearthly grip of steely man strength.

“Unhand me, blackguard!”

“What the hel—…ck’s a—”

“It means, like, scoundrel,” Amber informs me impatiently. She keeps flailing her arms around. “Which you

are.

When I get out of this – and mark my

words, I will – you’re gonna be at my mercy. You’re gonna owe me lots of pushing. And an underdog!”

“That, madwoman, is a price I’ll never pay.”

Unfortunately (and, if we’re being real, unsurprisingly), Amber too is inclined toward bad-derriere ninja skills. She manages to wiggle her way out of
my steely manbrace and swing free. Then, just to salt the wounds, she twists her swing around as she’s flying back my way and kicks me. There
might be some very manly, dignified falling over on my part.

The kids seem happy to laugh their tiny heads off at this for a little while, but eventually, I think they find themselves intimidated by the epic battle
being waged between us.

Either that or they’re just, ya know, weirded out. In any case, they take off.

“Ha ha, suckers!” I call after them. I can’t help it. I’m prone to random terrible lapses in maturity. This time, it results in me getting called a, quote, ‘tall
butt-face.’ Worth it.

“Hey,” I say as I sit down on the swing next to Amber’s, “he called me tall. Deal with

that

, Artie 6’2” Kraft.”

Amber doesn’t seem to be basking in the full height of this victory. Instead, she’s looking forward at nothing in particular, and – uh oh – I’m pretty
sure she’s got Nostalgic Face. “You remember that time you dared Dennis to throw himself off the swing when he was up there really high, and he
did it?”

“Yeah,” I say. The gravel’s covered in snow now, but looking down at the spot in question, I still remember him face-planting onto it. My parents were
picking gravel bits out of his skin for hours. They grounded me for three days for facilitating

that

evil plan. Turns out ‘I never thought he’d be dumb

enough to do it’ doesn’t hold up very well in Mommy and Daddy Court.

“I always thought that was so weird, that he did it,” Amber says.

“Me too.”

She’s quiet for a long time. “Do you think he knows? About me always liking him?”

“I don’t know,” I say. I don’t add the part where I feel inclined to fall on the ‘probably’ side of the ‘I don’t know’ spectrum.

“I think he might know,” she replies. I watch as she pushes the snow aside with her boot, going at it until gravel’s exposed from underneath. “The

way he was acting about me and the whole John thing. It just had such a vibe of, ‘Yes, yes, you go for him and leave me alone.’ That was so the
subtext.” She lets out a short laugh. “Although, ya know, to be fair, I think the me-subtext in even bringing it up in the first place was to make him
jealous. Or some crazy person equivalent thereof, considering there’s no way that he ever … would be. Technically, I know these things.”

“What are you gonna do about him?” I ask, swinging to the side to knock my foot against hers.

“Jeez, I don’t know.” She swings into me, bumping my shoulder. “Forget about him, I guess. Get over it. Blind dates or no blind dates.”

“Really?”

“I’ve always had reasons for liking him so much. He’s funny and smart and we’ve just got this … I don’t know, rapport that I like. It’s not like I was
being totally deluded and pathetic for ten years.”

“I know,” I say.

“But at the same time, I think I was clinging to the idea of him. It’s like, I had him, and he was my excuse, and that way, there wasn’t that huge sense
of … of there being someone out there somewhere for me and me having to go through the horrible process of trying to find them. You know?”

“Sure.”

“Instead it was like, ‘Nope, I found mine. Found my one. He just doesn’t like me, isn’t that rotten luck.’ Destination spinsterhood. Which was really
easy, in a strange way. And I’m still in this place where … he walks into the room and the whole world gets like twenty times better. He can say
anything to me and I’ll remember it for months, and … and love it because he said it and he said it to me.” I feel bad for her, really bad, and a little bit
angry too. It’s a funky, directionless anger: I’m not really sure what the target’s supposed to be. But what she’s saying, it’s a concept that I newly
know, it’s something that I’ve only ever felt around Arthur, and it just seems so fucking unfair that it’s not guaranteed to go both ways. “But at the
same time,” she adds, “it’s like, now there’s this whole new sense of

screw him

.”

“I like this sense,” I say. It’s easiest to blame Dennis. Maybe it’s lousy to do, but it’s a little satisfying, too.

“He’s with Emily, and they seem happy, and I like her. And I shouldn’t let myself dwell on the fact that she’s this weird, like, uber-Amber. I shouldn’t
be bitter about that. There should be no shaking my fists at the heavens like Lear over it.”

“No dwelling,” I say. “No Learing. That way lies badness.”

She laughs. “I think I officially give up,” she declares, meeting my eyes. “He’s got his life, and I’m not really in it, and that’s fine, and screw him, and
may he be happy in the Amberless existence he’s chosen. I think I might be done.”

I feel a flash of pride toward her. That’s my Amber. “You should be done.”

“I should?” she asks, with a sharp inhale that she doesn’t quite allow to become a sniffle.

“Hell to the yeah times infinity,” I say firmly. “You’ve always been better than this.”

She gives me a wistful smile. “You’re my favorite twin, anyway.”

“Yeah,

now

.”

“Always,” she corrects.

That one earns her two underdogs.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Arthur takes me to his apartment. Douchey Patrick’s at work. Arthur reasons that it’s not breaking in when he’s going to be living here again soon
enough anyway, and half of the stuff is his.

“You say that now,” I tell him as he unlocks the front door. “But what if we walk in on something not meant to be witnessed by our unsuspecting
eyes? What if he’s got some nubile young man-wench covered in marmalade and tied to the bedposts, awaiting his return?”

“Marmalade?”

“Mitch found some in our fridge awhile ago, and ever since, it’s seemed so rife with comedic value.”

He doesn’t seem to find the dangers of intruding on a marmalade-slathered man-wench very high, because he steps right inside. I follow him.

It’s nice. Mitch’s apartment, this is not. The floors are glossy wood, with the occasional rug to mix things up. I’m pretty sure all the furniture matches,
and I spot something that looks distinctly footstoolish. Hello, antique ottoman. We meet at last. The walls are covered in framed art, and painted
really pale yellow. A piano’s hanging out in the corner. There’s a tall bookshelf that is, impressively, neat whilst being completely packed. The whole
place has an atmosphere that’s really

light

, especially considering we’re in the dead of winter.

I realize after a couple of seconds that there’s not a TV.

“Man,” I say, awed, “you’re like, cultured and shit.”

“I don’t know,” Arthur replies, smirking. “It seems a little lackluster, sans angel-kittens poster.”

“Well, that goes without saying.”

“Isabelle?” he calls, setting his keys onto the coffee table. It’s fascinating – perhaps irrationally fascinating – to watch him here. Arthur in his native
environment, at long last.

A slim grey cat slinks in from down the hallway. Its eyes flash in a way that seems somehow unnatural. Or at least mighty evil.

“We meet again,” Arthur grumbles.

“Whoa. Why did I not know you have a cat?”

“She’s Patrick’s,” Arthur informs me. “She hates me completely.”

“Really?”

“Really. I don’t think either of us will be all that sad to part ways forever in a few short weeks, now will we, you little hellion?” He takes like two steps
closer.

She gives him a disdainful look, does a bitchy tail-swish, and then turns and disappears back down the hall.

“That was touching to witness,” I say. “Really.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“I want to watch it again in slow motion with a Sarah McLachlan song in the background.”

“You should have seen the time I got saddled with taking her to the vet. That was—”

“Poignant?”

“Traumatic. Humiliating. Emasculating.”

“Emasculating?” I raise my eyebrows.

“I’d regale you with the story, had I not made a solemn vow with myself never to think on it again for longer than five seconds. That’s all right, though.
This is the true lady of the household.” He sits down at the piano. His hands dust over the keys briefly, leaving a few notes of nonsense music that
sounds better than anything years of lessons could give me. “Oh, my darling, how you’ve been missed.”

I sit down next to him on the bench. “Do I get to make fun of you for talking to your piano?”

“Shhh.” He puts a finger to my lips. “Allow me this sole eccentricity.”

“Sole? Yeah, okay, watcher of Antiques Road Show, drinker of chamomile, lover of Weimaraners—”

He starts playing, and I shut up. It’s nothing I recognize at first. My musical knowledge isn’t exactly vast, so I can’t tell whether it’s something that
exists or he’s just making it up as he goes along. Some gut instinct tells me it’s the latter. There’s something really free in the sound of it, and the
way that his hands move. Whatever it is, it sounds serene and happy. He moves a little bit as he plays, rising and sinking with the music; I look up at
him to see that he’s got this slight smile on his face, one he probably doesn’t even know is there. The music changes gracefully, easily, and I
recognize what it’s turned into as the song that was on the radio when we were driving over, some cheerful Jack Johnson ditty. I watch his hands,
his fingers drifting over ivory and black with something that’s like purpose but a lot looser. I can’t remember the last time anything was as beautiful
to me as the movement of his hands.

The song slips back into unrecognizable territory, makes a pit stop at “All You Need Is Love,” takes an alarming detour into “We Text U A Merry
Xmas,” redeems itself with “The Boy With The Thorn In His Side,” and then finishes with something new, a sound that perfectly matches the sight of
the snowfall outside the window. When he stops, we sit in silence for a couple of seconds.

“What are we calling that, exactly?” I ask.

Arthur ponders this for a moment. “Hmm. How about … Haphazard Medley Inspired By Radio on the Drive Over, Messrs. McCartney, Lennon,
Harrison, and Starr, The Most Hideous Preteen Holiday Monstrosity Ever Inflicted Upon The Ears Of Longsuffering Parents, The Smiths Because I
Know You Like Them, And A Great Deal Of Nonsense Made Up Spur Of The Moment, All For The Beautiful Boy Who Is Sitting Next To Me,
Because Somehow, Amidst The Recent Chaos, Dissatisfaction, And Mediocrity Of My Existence, Lord Knows How, I Seem To Have Done
Something Very Right.”

Oh, this guy.

“You’re never going to fit that on any album sleeves,” I say, leaning in to rest my forehead against his.

“Just the beautiful boy part, then,” he compromises, starting to smile.

“Hey, Arthur?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for turning into a lunatic that one time, chasing a bunch of shoplifting teenagers through a rainstorm, and coming back to kiss me in the
fake flower aisle at random. In retrospect, I really appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” he says fondly. He doesn’t quite kiss me, even though he’s close enough to. I look at him, loving the quiet and the quirk of his
mouth when he smiles, thinking I could stick around this guy for always and be happy, thinking I could count his eyelashes and not get bored.

The next day I’m out front at the store. Kristy’s in the kitchen having lunch. MGMT is on the stereo. I may be partaking in some fairly enthusiastic
head-bopping to the end of “The Handshake” when the bell jingles on the door. I don’t stop right away, because – and this is a tragic testament to
the amount of customer traffic we’ve been getting lately – I figure it’s just Cora dropping by. I look up, though, and there’s no yak-coated mad
maiden in sight. Instead, it’s a woman who looks maybe mid-thirties. She’s got crazy flyaway brown hair, glasses, and a look that can best be
described as mondo-tremulous. (I mean, maybe, like, Proust wouldn’t agree, like, he’d find a more elegant synonym, but that’s the description that
I’m sticking with.)

“Heyyyy,” I say, trying to give off the vibe of a man who wasn’t just caught head-bopping. “How can I help you?”

“I am going to start knitting,” she announces, with the very steady conviction that can only accompany poorly stifled craziness. “I’ve been meaning to
do it since I was twenty, and now … I am going to do it. It is going to happen.”

“Uh,” I say, “that’s great. Congratulations. Knitting stuff’s that way—”

“I’m getting a divorce. After fifteen years of being not divorced. You know. Married. I was married.

married, still, technically, but, you know.

That’s over with. There is nothing salvageable there. So! Knitting! I’m not really sure who I’ll be knitting things

for

, but …”

She trails off, and stands there looking lost.

It is so sad. Not, like, ha-ha-you’re-

lame

sad, but genuine, Old Yeller sad.

“How ‘bout I give you the tour? The grand knitting tour?” (Secret: there’s no such thing as the grand knitting tour. Or at least, there wasn’t ‘til two
seconds ago.)

“That would be nice,” she says with a quavering smile.

“Great! So, what have you got in your knitting arsenal so far?”

“Nothing at all. This – this is all new for me. And I’m awful at new things, as a rule. But not now! This is me starting over. With knitting.”

“Okay then! No biggie. We can grab you some needles over here—” I start off toward that aisle; she follows me, nervous puppyish. “You probably
wanna go with some eights, that’s your standard size. We’ve got an assortment of colors, as you can see, so, ya know, whatever your fancy—”

“I do like purple,” she volunteers shyly.

“Purple it is. Go purple, totally. The color of royalty. For some royally good knitting.” Some things, I reflect, never change. Namely, the fact that I talk
like a dumbass.

The mondo-tremulous customer laughs, though. She seems pretty grateful that I’m trying (emphasis on ‘trying’) to be funny. “Okay. Wonderful.
Purple it is!”

I retrieve some purple needles and hand them to her. She smiles down at them in her hands, like they’re promising her a splendid future.

“Then you’re gonna need yourself some yarn,” I continue, leading her down the aisle. “Now, okay, important knitting life lesson right here: don’t go
acrylic. Just don’t. Acrylic’s what you’re gonna find at, like, Wal-Mart, and acrylic is

crap

. I have it on good authority that it’s like knitting with barbed

wire, that it’s squeaky, yeah, that’s right,

squeaky

, and that – although I can’t vouch for this one personally –

apparently

it’s what Satan uses to

make Christmas sweaters for the ninth-circle sinners.” She giggles. “What you’re gonna want to do is go for good, old-fashioned wool – which,
fortunately, is what we’ve got here. Lots of colors – again, go for what feels right. Pick out something you like. Now, I’ve never done any knitting
myself, but I just received a pair of socks for Christmas made out of some kick-butt baby alpaca, and they are

excellent

socks. My feet have never

been jollier.”

She laughs again, taking in the magnificent sight that is the yarn aisle.

“Oh, they’re all so lovely,” she says admiringly, reaching out to run her fingers over some dark pink merino. “How do I choose?”

“Take your time,” I say, smiling. “You want any other pointers?”

“Oh, whatever you can tell me,” she replies earnestly.

The fact that I have more to say is a little creepy – like, when did

that

happen? – but I oblige. “You can get started with a how-to guide book that’ll

outline how to do the basic stitches for ya, and we sell those over at the end of the aisle, but from what I’ve heard, it’s less confusing if you can just
find someone to teach you.”

“I’ve got a friend at work who knits constantly. I was thinking I would ask her—”

“Perfect. And, okay, sometimes you’ll hear to start with a scarf, because you’re pretty much, ya know, knitting a big rectangle. Very basic, not much
that can go wrong there. But actually, I’ve heard from a friend of mine that that’s not necessarily the best way to go, because it’s quite the
undertaking, and by the time you’re finally done, you might be so irritated that you never want to knit again.” (Or, well, okay, the way Cora phrased it
was, “You’re just like, oh my God,

die

, you fucking cocksucker scarf, screw this fucking knitting

nonsense

,” but.) “So instead, you might wanna just

start small. Do, like, a coin purse.”

“All right,” she says with a slow nod, like she’s trying to commit every word to memory. “And who doesn’t need a coin purse?”

“Exactly!” I say. “We all got coins.”

“Yes!” She gives me a big smile. “Thank you.”

It’s like she’s thanking me for something way bigger: getting her kitten out of a tree, helping her granny across the street, I dunno. It’s funny, how stuff
that seems so small can be so important. I guess there’s no real way of telling how much something can mean to somebody else. Maybe even this
job is sort of important.

“Of course,” I say, smiling back at her. “Good luck. You’ve got this already. I can tell.”

She smiles at me just a little bit longer, then turns her attention back to yarn.

When I return to the cash register, it’s to discover that Kristy’s standing there. She’s got this big, sappy smile on her face. Damn it. Caught in the
act.

“You can go eat now if you want to,” she says, her fingers traipsing affectionately up my arm.

“Nah,” I shrug, throwing a glance back the yarn aisle’s way. “I’m not too hungry.”

“Okay,” Kristy says easily. Her eyes have that pesky adorable knowing sparkle.

After about five minutes, the customer comes over with her arms full of yarn. I ring everything up, giving her a ten percent discount on the grounds of
Just Because, and put it into a bag.

“Thank you again,” she says, pausing at the doorway. “This is a very kind little store.”

It’s a funny choice of adjective, but I like it.

“Thanks,” I say. “Have a nice day.” And I really mean it, too. I would like her to have a nice day – and a nice life, too, if she can swing it.

The door jingle-jangles itself shut. I turn to see Kristy looking at me like she’s suddenly transformed into my proud mama bear.

“What?” I demand.

“Nothing!” she says, beaming. “You did that really well, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well, guess what, home girl? I’m a professional.”

“I can tell,” she says, giggling.

“She was a nice lady,” I can’t help saying. I glance back over at the door.

Kristy just keeps on with the smiling. “I bet you made her day.”

“Let’s not go all crazy.”

“I’m not! You’re wonderful, Howie Andrew, and I think it’s time for you to just accept it.” She is a picture of adorable sternness, all hands-on-hips,
trying really hard to glare up at me, like this is somehow going to convince me that I am, contrary to twenty-two years of believing otherwise, actually
wonderful.

Just between you and me, I’m beginning to maybe, I dunno, reach the tentative conclusion that I’m not that bad. Possibly even pretty okay.

But it’s not like I’m gonna tell Kristy that.

“The middle name, Kristina Elyse?” I say instead, mimicking her pose. “Really? You wound me.”

“It’s very serious business, Howie Andrew.”

This could, of course, potentially continue on until the end of time, but a thought strikes me. A wistful thought indeed. “It’s a bummer Cora’s not here.”

“Coralia Victoria Caldwell,” we sigh together.

When “Kids” comes on the stereo, Kristy lets out a squeal of delight, the way she does every time “Kids” comes on, and starts dancing around the
empty store. She grabs my hand and tries, not for the first time, to get me to dance with her. This business of hopping around like a hooligan, it’s
way super dorky, it’s so not my style, it is – in short – not how I roll.

But damn it, it’s a catchy song, and I think Kristy’s ponytail has hypnotic powers of pep.

And so, for the first time in Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts history, I surrender, and I dance with her.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Cora decides that, regardless of whatever plans we may have, the employees of Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts need to be together at midnight on New
Year’s Eve.

Mitch and Rudy are throwing a party, which will no doubt result in a whole legion of humans getting New Year’s Crunk. I’m gonna be hanging there
until eleven thirtyish, and Amber’s brave enough to accompany me. Dennis and Emily are coming too. The idea of Emily bearing witness to
bellybutton shots kind of makes my soul want to cry, but she’s very intrigued by the whole thing, since she’s never been to a

party-

party before. Mom

and Herrick are going to some fancy party the dean of the community college is throwing; hopefully, there won’t be quite as much going on there in
terms of bellybutton shots, but who knows?

When I voice this aloud to my mother on my way out the door, I get this in reply: “Oh, little boy, now you’re trying to monitor Mommy’s bellybutton
shots? You just want me to stay at home and do your laundry all the time, don’t you?”

“I’m just saying,” I reply innocently. “If Herrick’s going to lick your bellybutton, he should at least buy you dinner first. None of this free party food crap.”

“Who’s to say it’ll be David?” she replies, eyes mischievously a-glint, as she slips into her coat. “And, come to think of it, who says he’ll be the one
doing the shots?”

“My mom,” I groan, “the boozy, boozy college floozy.”

She kisses my forehead. “Have a good night, hon. Only lick the bellybuttons of the very cutest boys. Or that Rudy. He’s enchanting.”

“Ha ha ha

.”

“How in the world did I raise such a little prude?” she fake-ponders, putting a newly-polished fingernail to her chin.

“How in the world was I born of such

iniquity

?” I shoot back.

“Life’s profoundest mysteries,” she declares, squeezing my shoulder. I stick my tongue out at her. Love, love, everywhere.

In the greatest New Year’s Eve gift of all time, Amber reinstates my Femmes privileges. The heavens sing.

“Here you go,” she says, pulling the CD case out from behind her back as soon as she climbs into the car. She looks extra-pretty, with her hair
down loose and curly. She’s wearing a little more makeup than usual (read: enough that I actually notice she’s wearing makeup), and the neckline of
her shirt, while prudent by normal girl standards, puts her collarbone on gorgeous display. Mitch is going to go so googly-eyed.

As I take the CD from her and pop it into the player, I could weep from joy. My boys, back again!

“I’ll even trade you for Tori,” Amber adds, officially making her my favorite person in the world.

I dig

Boys For Pele

out of the glove compartment and hand it to her, and feel a whole lot like I did when I finished my last math class junior year of

high school. Never again. Ahhhh.

Amber turns around to say hi to Dennis and Emily. Dennis tells her she looks fantastic, and she smiles at that, but when Emily breathes, “Oh, your
hair! You look like Arwen Evenstar,” that gets a way more pleased grin. She’s gonna be okay, Amber. Hell, it’s happening: this is her, being okay. It
feels good to watch.

On the drive, we all sing along loud to “Blister In The Sun” – well, except Emily, who has clearly had nothing to do with that song in her whole life, but
even she bobs her head along enthusiastically, and she’s picked up the chorus by the end.

When we pull up to Mitch’s duplex, the driveway’s already packed with cars, and sound is booming out of the house.

“How does he know so many people?” Amber muses, shaking her head. “I don’t get it.”

“He’s universally beloved,” I reply wisely.

“You sure you want to go in?” Dennis asks Emily.

Emily, ever the seeker of all things new, is the first one out of the car.

“Okay then,” Dennis mutters, smiling, and climbs out after her.

When we step inside, it’s to discover something truly baffling: Mitch and Rudy’s place is actually … clean. Sure, it’s filled with people, but there’s no
food on the floor, or the walls. As far as I can tell, the only place where there

food is the kitchen table, which is shockingly conventional. Not only

that, but there are gold Christmas lights strung up around the windows and streamers draped from the ceiling. A silvery HAPPY NEW YEAR banner
hangs on the wall.

“Oh look,” Amber says faintly, “we’ve wandered into an alternate universe.”

Mitch comes up to us, wearing a nicely pressed Oxford shirt and beaming broadly. Maybe it’s alternate universe Mitch.

“Howie,

yes

! Hey guys! Okay, How, question: Robert Downey Jr. (Iron Man, what what!) or Christian Bale (Batman,

what what

)?” He delivers the

‘Batman,

what what

’ in a seriously spot-on gravely Batman voice.

The shock wore off pretty quickly, and ever since, Mitch has just been curious about the whole gay thing. “What’s it like to kiss a dude?” and “Who
pays when you go out?” and “So, uh, do you think I’m like …

gay guy

cute? Like, would you want to get with me, if you weren’t you and I wasn’t me

and I was just some guy you saw chillin’ in the club?” (At which point I said, “What club?” and he said, “Good point,” and we sat in thoughtful silence
for awhile.) What he’s really been having relentless fun with, though, are the either-or questions.

“Downey Jr., no question, man. Bale Batman’s just like,

whaa whaa whaa, man pain

.”

“

Nice

! That’s totally what I thought.” He fist bumps me. “And I was also wondering if—” He goes suddenly silent, and his mouth falls open, and his

eyes light up. Which means he’s just really noticed Amber. He stares for like ten straight seconds.

“Ambie,” he finally says, “you look

so beautiful

!”

She smiles. I think there may be some actual blushing going on. “Thanks. You look nice, too. What is this, a shirt with

buttons

?”

“Yeah, well,” he says, looking down when her hand fleetingly grabs onto one of the aforementioned buttons. “I’m glad you came. I, uh, tried to
straighten the place up a little bit, I know it kind of bums you out when it’s a mess—”

“You … did well,” she says, staring around in awe.

He grins. “Cool. Hey, I know you don’t do the drinking thing, and I know you

looove

Mango Madness Snapple, so I went and I picked you up a

couple of those earlier, they are currently chilling in the fridge. Those are just yours, everybody else has gotta keep their hands off. I put a note in
there, I wrote it in all capitals and everything, but maybe we should go grab one right now because I’m not really sure—”

“Yeah, sure,” Amber interrupts, smiling at him.

“

Awesome.

”

“I’ll be right back,” Amber tells me.

“Missing you already,” I assure her.

She rolls her eyes and elbows me gently in the side, then heads off with Mitch.

“Hey, I read King Solomon’s Mines,” I hear him telling her as they walk.

“All of it? Already?”

“Dude,

yes

, I woke up one morning and it was right by my bed, and I thought, ‘You know what would be awesome? Just reading this, and not even

getting out of bed.’”

“Oh, gosh, aren’t those the best mornings? I love those, I need to start doing that more often.”

“Yeah, like, once a week, at least! And dude, that book was friggin’

craziness

, I loved it! Gagool the old monkey witch lady, dude, she was freaky.

And that part where the captain guy—”

“Captain Good—”

“Yeah, Captain Good, couldn’t put his pants back on because the natives were, like, worshiping his shiny white legs and thought he was a god, that
was

amazing

. I busted a gut.”

“Right? I love H. Rider Haggard, he is just like total cracky fun …”

I watch them walk off, talking happily away.

“Do you think those girls are kissing one another because they’re crazy about each other,” Emily muses, gazing in the direction of the most
debauched section of party so far (oh, far corner of the living room, I always sensed you were designed for licentiousness), “or because it makes
those boys stare at them with so much interest?”

“Hard to say,” Dennis replies. “I hope it’s the first one.”

“Me too,” says Emily with a little sigh.

“Hey, Howbell!” Ahhhh. Rudy.

“Howbell,” I say as he approaches me. “That’s—”

“You see, like ‘cowbell.’ ‘Cause it rhymes. But then, but then! It works, ‘cause it also sounds girly as

shit

, and that works with the gay thing, because

traditionally (although this is all stereotypical and stuff and probably pretty offensive, so don’t worry, I don’t

mean

it-mean it) gay dudes are pretty

effeminate. So, see, that’s what I’m thinkin’.”

“I see,” I reply, reaching up to pat him on the shoulder. “Brilliantly conceived, buddy.”

“Where’s your boyfriend?” His voice is so loud. I bet you can hear that voice across oceans.

Like six people – a few I don’t know, a few I’ve seen around, one I went to school with from kindergarten to twelfth flippin’ grade – all look over at
me.

“He’s having dinner with some other friends,” I say. The words come out easy. “I’m gonna go meet up with him later.”

“That’s cool,” Rudy says. “Tell him Happy New Year.”

And the conversation moves on to something else, and that’s that.

When I leave at quarter to twelve, I have yet to witness any bellybutton shots. There’s some devoted drinking, and a hearty game of beer pong going
on in the kitchen, but all in all, it’s a near-respectable environment. The two girls Emily was so worried about stopped kissing and started talking, all
smiley and close, until their male fans got bored and wandered off. My friends and I have mostly been hanging out around the Wii, where a truly epic
round of Mario Party is going down. Dennis is losing spectacularly and with immense good cheer; it’s sort of great to see him suck so bad at
something. Not in a spiteful, Jacob-have-I-loved way, just a ‘check you out, you actual human you’ way. Emily, who has never as much as touched a
video game before in her life, is totally kicking ass and taking names, but in a way where she still exudes the vibe that she’s not quite sure what
she’s doing and it’s all a happy accident. Amber has always been staunchly Wii-opposed, but we finally broke her down. Mitch is taking the
opportunity to walk her through it. I’m pretty sure that there’s no legitimate reason for him to wrap his arms around her from behind in order to teach
her how to use the controller, but Amber doesn’t seem to mind.

They all look really happy. There’s a lot of laughing and a lot of good-natured bitching, and I stop in the doorway to take one last look at them before
I step outside into the cold night air.

Such a good bunch of humans,

I think.

By some grand miracle, I parked in the one spot where there aren’t like three cars behind me, so backing up and out of there is just fine. I am
inclined to suspect that maybe, just maybe, sometimes the universe loves me. As I pull out onto the road, I crank the volume up. “Please Do Not Go”
spills out of my speakers with so much force that the bass shakes the car.

Oh, yeah.

I sing along in my loudest, ugliest, pluckiest, most ardent Gordan Gano-style warble. It’s cathartic as hell. I find myself wondering what, exactly, it is
that makes this song so great. It’s sort of a downer, subject matter wise: this guy loves this girl like crazy, even though she’s totally oblivious and
she’s got a boyfriend. That ought to be, like, the lie-on-the-bed-stare-at-the-ceiling, “Fake Plastic Trees” type of woeful, but instead, it’s so friggin’

great

. I can’t think of another song on earth that gets me in as good a mood as this one.

At a stoplight, I’m like a minute and thirty seconds into the song, the part where shit really starts gettin’ angsty. I’ve started bopping forward along in

time to the music; the music, just so you know,

demands it

. I look over to my left, only to discover that there’s a couple in the car next to me, and

they’re totally the audience to this little performance. They stare at me.

Caught. Dumbassery witnessed.

I don’t care so much, I realize. I wave at them, and I mouth “Happy New Year,” and I keep on drivin’.

I step into the store, humming to myself. The bell on the door sings out. Arthur’s waiting for me behind the counter, resting his elbows on it.

“You’re here,” he says, pleased, and stands up all the way.

“Here I am,” I agree, beginning to unzip my coat as I come over to him. “Where the ladies at?”

“None of that,” Arthur orders, reaching for my hands and stopping them. He slides my zipper back up the few inches that I’d pulled it down. His
hands are a little more fumbly than usual. “Outside is our destination, as it just so happens.”

“You’re drunk,” I realize, a grin spreading across my face.

“I’ve had a bit to drink,” Arthur corrects me, all smiley. “That’s true. But drunk: very undignified. I don’t think so.”

He’s drunk. Arthur Kraft the Second is drunk. Best night ever, immediately, starting now.

Turns out the festivities are out on the roof, because Cora and Kristy would like to die of hypothermia for New Year’s. Arthur and I make our way up
the rickety staircase to his office. (The ladder to the roof is in through there, which is news to me. I didn’t even know we could go out on the roof.
Way to keep your grunts informed, Kraft.) He holds onto my arm, like another staircase ascent oh so long ago; there’s some stumbling, like another
staircase ascent oh so long ago. This time, though, when we get to the top, he leans in and kisses my neck, his mouth warm and my skin still cold
from outside.

“Wow,” I say, with (I like to think) the air of a levelheaded gentleman whose instinctive reaction is nothing along the lines of ‘

mmmmm yeah’

, “you’re

slutty when you’re drunk.”

“I am not.”

Kiss.

“Drunk.”

Kiss

. “Just happy to see you.”

Kiss.

My neck might, at this moment, be having an even better night than I am. “That’s what all the sluts say.”

“You’re insufferable. I don’t know why I suffer you.”

“Right back atcha, baby.”

We climb out onto the roof to find Kristy and Cora. Cora’s in her trusty lime green yak coat. Kristy’s wearing pink earmuffs, and is, I have no doubt,
the only person in the world who is capable of making this cute instead of stupid. They’ve got a blanket spread out with an upside down picnic
basket serving as a mini-table. It’s covered in bottles and cheap plastic champagne flutes. In one corner of the blanket, there’s an ancient tape
deck. Neil Young’s crooning away.

“Howie!” Kristy exclaims. She bounces over with a glass of champagne and hands it to me. “Arthur leant me his watch so we can keep tabs on
counting down to midnight!” She holds up the watch cheerfully as evidence.

“You accosted my watch,” Arthur corrects her. “My watch was stolen. I’m a victim of your thievery.”

Kristy doesn’t seem too troubled by his accusations. She just giggles. “Isn’t he cute when he’s drunk?”

“I’m not

drunk

.”

“He’s not drunk,” I agree.

“Thank you,” he says, looking at me with surprise.

“No problem, bud. I’ve got your back.” I wait ‘til said back is turned, and then I mouth to Kristy, ‘HE’S SO DRUNK.’

She air fives me. Arthur, meanwhile, is in the process of turning over an old packing crate, thus transforming it into the tiniest of platforms. He climbs
up onto it, which seems pretty bold considering his current state of drunk-being, but he does just fine.

“I would like to propose a toast,” he says – pretty grandly, current setting considered. He lifts his glass. “To you, and you, and you.”

“And you!” Kristy tells him, waving her glass in his direction.

“And me,” Arthur agrees, pleased by the idea. “I would just like to say that it has been – well, occasionally very exasperating working with you all.
There’s been counter dancing. Prohibited, by the way.” Cora smirks proudly. “And Taylor Swift on the stereo, of which I will never be able to
approve. Definitely prohibited.” Kristy doesn’t look nearly as ashamed as she should. “And a hatred of the apron that you have not disguised nearly
as well as you thought you did, Howie.”

“Damn it,” I mutter, grinning.

“And it has never been easy business, selling people arts and crafts supplies. Which you wouldn’t expect, but there you have it. It is at times a
vicious and brutal profession. One that can easily seem futile. And Holly’s is very big, and very nice, and has much more than we do, and sells said
much more for much cheaper. And odds are, Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts shall not prevail to see another rooftop New Year’s celebration. But we
have now, and we have champagne—”

“And sparkling cider!” (Kristy.)

“—and sparkling cider for our responsible underage drinker, and that is very good also. And we have this uncommonly mellow musical selection on
this very crappy tapedeck from Cora, and we have each other’s company, and some surprisingly pleasant memories, and the future. We’ve done
what needed doing in order to make us wind up here. And all in all, I would deem that a very good year.”

He catches my eye at the end there, and I smile big at him as the three of us provide an enthusiastic round of applause and whooping for our
fearless leader. Arthur bows, then stumbles his way off the box and back next to me.

“One minute to go!” Kristy announces, looking at the stolen watch.

“Good,” I say, out of habit more than anything. “It’s fucking freezing out here.”

“Oh, shut up, Jenkins,” Cora says. “In no way is this not the ballin’-est New Year’s you’ve ever had. We’re on the

roof,

motherfucker.”

“He doesn’t mean it,” Kristy says. “When he complains, it’s just code for how much he loooves us.”

“You must love us a lot,” Cora says affectionately, pinching my earlobe. It brings back fondish memories of her trying to bite it off. “You whiny little
punk-ass.”

“You caught me,” I say, holding my hands up surrender-style. “I love you.”

Kristy and Cora both make cooing noises, Kristy’s sincere, Cora’s not so much. (Or at least, I don’t think they are. But after finding out her favorite
book’s

A Little Princess,

who really knows?) Arthur’s standing a little ways behind them. There’s a smile playing on his mouth. He’s looking at me

with really serene focus, like maybe in Arthur land, it’s a pretty sweet deal, this business of looking at me. I feel my mouth curving up as I look back
at him.

Somehow, the cooing from the girls escalates real suddenly into a group hug. Kristy loops her arms around my shoulders. Cora’s hands wander a
little bit lower, naughty vixen that she is, before I swat them back up.

“Check it out, man,” I say to Arthur over Kristy and Cora’s heads. “

Two

fine ladies, all over me. You should probably be a little worried right now.”

“I don’t know,” Arthur replies cheerfully. “I’d say I’m fairly confident in your regard for me.”

“Get over here, Krafty,” Cora calls, muffled, into my chest.

“I may be a little tipsy,” Arthur says. “I will concede to that. But I just don’t think I’m drunk enough to justify—”

Cora momentarily extracts herself from the cuddle orgy to grab Arthur’s arm and drag him over to us. He lands with an awkward ‘oof’ on the other
side of Kristy and Cora, and we are transformed into a cozy, gangly bundle of humans.

“This is very weird,” he declares.

“I know,” Cora rhapsodizes. “It’s great, isn’t it?”

“You guys are the best friends,” Kristy sighs, her words dimmed a little bit by the fact that they’re said right into my shoulder. She snuggles happily
against me. I bring a hand up to pat her on the head. Maybe my heart performs an action that is eerily akin to melting. Fortunately, I am way too
manly to ever ‘fess up to that fact.

Just between you and me: sure, there’s melting. I’m so happy that I got this stupid job that I want to, I dunno, perform a merry tap dance. Scream it
out to the whole sky.

“Oh!” Kristy pulls back abruptly. “It must be almost time!” She hurries over to grab Arthur’s watch off of the blanket. “Oh my gosh, you guys, ten
seconds!”

“Ten seconds,” Arthur repeats under his breath, singing the words a little.

“Get ready, get ready!” Kristy squeaks.

“You do realize that we’re going to have to get snoggy with it,” Cora says to Kristy. “Since there is no way we’re prying those two off of each other.”

“Ladies, ladies,” I say, “there’s plenty of Howie to go around.”

“Not really,” Arthur replies. “I intend to keep you shamelessly to myself.”

Well, it’s not like I’m gonna argue with that.

“I’ve never kissed a girl before,” Kristy muses. “Katy Perry made it sound kind of fun!”

“Don’t worry,” Cora says, “I’ll be a gentleman.”

“You know,” I say, “this isn’t the first lady-kissing debacle I’ve borne witness to tonight. My life! So tawdry. So excellent.”

Arthur shakes his head.

There’s old music in the air, the kind of stuff my dad liked to listen to, and Kristy and Cora’s voices ringing out “

five … four … three …”

in sloppy

unison; the sky is big and black and full of stars, waiting for fireworks, and the air is sharp and cold. Arthur is smiling, humming absently along to the
song. He looks calm, and happy.

“Two,”

Kristy chants, and Cora takes a swig of champagne right from the bottle, and Kristy squeals and laughs

loud. Fuck waiting, I decide. Vastly overrated, I decide. I put my cold hands on Arthur’s cold face and I kiss him. I catch him by surprise a little; he
mumbles a messy version of my name and laughs before he settles into the kiss.

“One!

” Kristy and Cora yell together, and Arthur curls his fingers

against the back of my neck, bringing me in close, and then it’s midnight. Just like that, everything’s new.

The End

(Which is to say: The Beginning)

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