Page 93 of It's Always Sonny

“That’s my PJ, all right.”

I smile.

And suddenly, it hits me.

We are sharing a sleeping bag. My body is wrapped around his strong thighs, his chiseled arm, his beautifully sculpted chest …

He’s exquisite.

As exquisite as the torture of being in a sleeping bag with him after he could have died and after I cried in front of him multiple times today and after I told my parents—

“I told my parents off,” I say.

“Huh?”

“I told my parents off. And evidently my dad has cancer.”

“I thought I imagined that. I thought I imagined that whole thing.”

“No,” I say, getting angry. “He actually thought that me begging him for help was the right time to blurt out that he has cancer. Who does that?”

My disgust at his behavior overpowers any sadness or fear I feel at him having cancer. Another realization hits me, too.

“This is why he texted me. This is why my mom said they love me for the first time maybe ever. This is why they’re flying out. They’re facing their own mortality and finally have the sense to regret what atrocious parents they’ve been all these years.”

“I’m sorry, PJ” Sonny says, holding me.

My mind whirs. I’m an internal processor, and while some people can talk and talk and figure things out, I file information away and hope that, one day, I’ll have developed the skills I need to open the spreadsheet and sort the data.

I think I’ve finally leveled up.

“Anthony and Amber said that Felix is ‘only five.’ He’s a terror, and they expect that from him. Harry ran away and hid in a hot tub, and I guarantee the only consequence that came from this is a mini lecture and a massive hug. Noah is so busy trying to impress everyone, and his parents sit back and let him try to figure himself out. You guys are unreal.”

“PJ—”

“No, you know what? I don’t know if you guys are unreal. I honestly have no clue. Your family is like a dream to me, but maybe mine is actually a nightmare to everyone else. I’m so tired of thinking that there’s something wrong with me. What did I do that was so wrong? Who flips out at a little girl for being hungry at a three-hour awards ceremony? Who tells their kid to go to the bathroom to have a panic attack so she doesn’t disturb a dinner party? Who threatens to cut their daughter off because she got a C—”

“When did you get a C?”

I grimace. I hadn’t meant to tell him this, at least not yet. I drop my voice low, but the shame I’ve felt for so many years lacks the same weight it used to. “A C minus, actually. In geology.”

Sonny’s chest deflates as the weight of what I said hits him. “The class you had after lunch the last semester of our sophomore year. The class I always tried to get you to skip.”

“I lost my scholarship. They downgraded it from full to half.”

The memory gnaws at me like an ulcer. My mother’s gasp when I told her was as violent as a broken glass, her dreams for me shattering with just as much finality. She couldn’t stop talking about how embarrassing it was for them. They were friends with the president of the University of Chicago. How were they supposed to look him in the eye after this?

“My dad wouldn’t even talk to me. He had an important surgery the next day and he didn’t want to be ‘too distracted to operate.’ They told me they were putting a hold on my bank account and taking my car back. They also told me I wouldn’t be allowed to travel that summer—”

“Like to Sienna’s wedding,” he says quietly. “It’s my fault. I knew there was something off about the class to you, so I followed you and saw the way the professor seemed like your dad.”

“So you tried to make me happy by creating a campus disc golf league,” I fill in. “That was sweet of you.” I mean it, too. It was the wrong move, but it was done with the right motivation.

“It wasn’t sweet, it was selfish! I couldn’t handle you being upset, and I only made things worse. I love making people happy, especially you and my family, but it’s also … gratifying. There’s a part of it that makes me feel special. I look at people I’ve helped and think ‘I did that.’ But that’s not what it should be about. It should be about them. I should have been thinking how I could have supported you rather than manipulating you into the outcome I thought was best for you. And I’m sorry I didn’t realize that until now. When you told me I couldn’t see you when you were having a panic attack in the bathroom, I think you meant I couldn’t see you. I wasn’t capable of it, and you didn’t want to burst my bubble. Am I right?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

Sonny’s crying, and his tears make my eyes leak. “Can you—” his voice trembles. “Do you think you’ll ever be able to forgive me?”

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