Page 93 of Sleepover

“As long as you promise not to talk.”

“No can do,” Brooks says. He comes around the other side of the kitchen island so I have no choice but to stare at his ugly mug. “Seriously, Sawyer. What’s this move about? You’ve got cheap rent, you live in a great neighborhood, you love the elementary school, Jonah loves Madden—are things so awkward with her you have to run across town? What are you running away from?”

“I’m not—I’m not running—”

But I can’t choke the words out. My throat’s so tight, suddenly, I can barely breathe. Brooks must realize something’s wrong, because he comes around to my side, touches my arm. “Dude, you okay? Oh, Jesus, Sawyer—”

Brooks’s voice is alarmed—panicky.

“C’mon, man, don’t cry—you know I can’t stand that shit. For me, man, don’t.”

“I’m not crying,” I insist, damply.

“Just don’t think I’m getting you tissues or anything.”

“No. No tissues.” I swipe the back of my arm across my eyes and pull myself together. “I just miss her, you know?”

“We all miss her,” Brooks says quietly. “But falling in love with someone else, it’s not going to make Lucy, um, more dead, you know what I’m saying?”

Strangely, I did. I really did. I nod.

“I mean, I know it must feel really weird to be moving on without her, but I know she’d want you to be happy, and I bet she’d like Elle. Or she’d like how much you like Elle, at least. Jesus, I suck at this shit. How did I pull this job? I was just supposed to be dropping off cardboard boxes.” He throws his hands up, with the intended effect—I laugh, weakly.

“And Elle’s not dead,” Brooks continues.

I look at him, startled.

“She’s next door. She’s right fucking there, dude. No, no, no, that’s not supposed to make you feel worse—oh, shit, Sawyer, I’m going to have to go get the tissues, aren’t I?”

And Saint Asshole, to his very great credit, does just that. Or, you know, the man equivalent, which is to bring me a whole roll of TP from the nearest bathroom. I wipe my face and blow my nose.

“It’s just all mixed up, if you know what I mean,” I say, sounding very much like an nine-year-old, because, let’s face it, when we fall apart, when the big shit hits the big fan, we are all nine-year-olds. “I don’t want to love Elle.”

“Because it hurts like a mofo,” says Brooks sagely, as if I’ve just said red is red or two plus two is four. “Every time you look at her and feel how crazy you are about her—and it’s obvious to anyone in their right mind you are—your snake brain just throws up a big ol’ wall, because loving someone that much means they’re going to die and wreck you, and—who can blame you for not wanting any of that? But unfuckingfortunately, this is one of those choices you don’t get to make. You didn’t get to make the choice about Lucy dying and you don’t get to make a choice about loving Elle. You just do.”

This is so completely and totally true that I actually manage a real laugh, which loosens the awful tightness in my chest, just a little. I poach a little more TP from the shrinking roll and try to mop my eyes as discreetly as possible, but it’s not like I’m fooling Brooks.

“I’m crazy about her, huh?” I ask.

“You know you are.”

I do. I don’t want to be crazy about her, like Brooks said, and like he said, I don’t have a fucking choice in the matter. I only have a choice about what I do about it.

“So what you’re saying is, I should get my ass over there and tell her that I love her and that I want to be with her.”

He puts a finger to the end of his nose and points it at me.

And then, just in case I didn’t get the message, he throws the zinger at me. “Because life is short, Sawyer. That’s the whole point of your pain. To remind you that life is way too fucking short. And if you ignore the reminder, it’s just fucking pain.”

That’s when the doorbell rings.

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