Page 62 of It's Always Sonny

“I’m a big picture gal,” Jane says. “I make no apologies.”

Millie makes a scoffing sound in her throat.

I breathe slowly, my raging emotions getting steadier and steadier. The air in the bathroom is warm from all our bodies, but it feels nice.

“Did I ever tell you guys about the time I broke my wrist falling from the uneven bars?” I shiver with emotion, keenly aware of the way Sonny’s injured leg tenses only a yard or two away.

Everyone pauses, waiting for me to continue. My friends have heard me self-disclose now and then, but Sonny hasn’t.

Ever.

I’m not happy with the way I was triggered by fainting and feeling like I ruined Sonny’s family reunion. But I think about the growth I’ve made with Linda, how I get to choose every day who I’m becoming. Sonny said he’s never gotten over me, and if that’s the case, his behavior today isn’t about him wanting me gone but about something else.

I want to believe him. I want to believe his family isn’t the type to hate me because I blacked out and caused a small scene.

But my family is. And for the first time, I want him to know that. I need him to understand while he’s open to me being open.

“I was ten and slipped trying to catch the bar below. I landed on my right wrist and broke it pretty badly.”

“Ouch,” Ash whispers.

“It was awful,” I agree. “I cried out, and my coach and mom both came over. My coach called our team doctor over, but my mom pushed him aside. For a second, I thought she was actually going to take a look at my flopping, swelling wrist and hug me and tell me it would be okay. But …” My mouth twists and I sniff. “But instead she told me I was an embarrassment and that if I couldn’t stop myself from being so dramatic, I could at least learn how to cry gracefully.”

Sonny’s hand balls into a fist, and the sight makes tears spill down my face.

Again.

“What is wrong with them?” Lou asks, incensed. “How are you supposed to cry gracefully?”

“Like Jane,” Ash says, pointing to our beautiful friend who has tears streaming down her face but somehow makes it look angelic.

We all laugh.

“Shut up,” Jane says. “Stop cry-shaming me.”

“Then cry like a redhead,” Millie says. “You’re supposed to get snotty and puffy and alarmingly red-faced. It releases endorphins.”

Heads bump into my head from more places than should be physically possible. We’re like the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, except instead of magical pants that fit us, my friends manage to find a space to bump their heads into mine in the most cramped bathroom since our sophomore apartment.

“Your mom was wrong to say that,” Millie says.

“You don’t have to be perfect to be loved,” Jane agrees.

“You stole my line,” Sonny says. “And PJ, your mom sucks.” His foot is shaking with a pent up energy that’s both old and new. It’s old in the sense that he was always vibrating, ready to burst into action at the slightest provocation. It’s new in the sense that he’s had plenty of provocation and has held the stored energy in.

Poor, patient Sonny. I can imagine the toll this inaction is taking on him. Affection and gratitude swell in my chest.

It’s not just my friends here. It’s not just my friends who’ve proved themselves.

It’s also Sonny.

“Get in h—“

He’s up and in the bathroom before I can even finish the words.

“Dude!

“Ouch!”

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