Page 43 of Only Mostly Devastated

Maybe if I bribed them with an order of fries to share and the promise of seeing Will, they’d be down.

My chances seemed good.

14

“Ollie, why aren’t we driving anymore?”

Breathe in. Breathe out. Don’t die. That last one was particularly important.Don’t die.

“Ollie?”

“Yeah, uh. We’re here, that’s why.”

“Oh. Why aren’t you getting out, then?”

Excellent question, Crista. Kids were full of excellent questions. How could I explain to a seven- and three-year-old that I was afraid to get out into this too-dark street, walk up that too-long driveway, and ring the too-loud doorbell?

Maybe I could put it in a way that was accessible to them? Like, this is the cortisol that’s flooding the blood, that flows in the veins, that leads to the heart, that’s pumping too fast in the chest of the guy, who’s too scared to knock on the door of the house where Will lives.

I only had three options. Option one, turn back and drive all the way home with two cranky, hungry kidsrightfully complaining in the backseat. Ruin their night, let Aunt Linda down,butavoid having to knock on Will’s door. Pros, cons.

Option two, get out and knock on Will’s door.

Option three, sit here for a while longer, and explain calmly to Crista and Dylan all about the cortisol that’s flooding the blood that flows in the—

Okay,fine. Fine. I’d do it.

Dylan, who was still squirming in his car seat, reached up as I unbuckled him and hoisted him out. Crista had no such issues, unclipping herself and quite literally leaping around on the road. Part of me wondered if she’d smuggled some of the leftover vending machine loot into her pockets and eaten it on the drive. I’d seen her do craftier things in my time—she was capable.

Will’s house was pretty much a clone of the houses in Collinswood, with a large, green front lawn that met stairs leading up to a spacious front porch. The house was two stories (of course), and covered in navy weatherboards, with white trimming on the Victorian-style arch windows.

He’d said everyone was outside eating. What if they’d already started? They might not hear a doorbell or knock. Then how would I know how long to wait before trying again? What if Will hadn’t asked permission for us to come, and his parents answered the door and sent us away? Or, worse, what ifWilldecided he didn’t want us there after all?

I stopped under a streetlight and placed Dylan down to stand. “Let’s wait here,” I said. “I’ll just send Will a text, then he’ll come to get us.”

At least, I hoped he would. If he was allowed his phone at the dinner table, that was. I sent a quick plea to the Great, Ethereal Being that he’d see the message quickly. It wasfreaking freezing, even for late November, and our breath was opaque enough to reflect the streetlight. By my knee, Dylan started grumbling before I’d even finished the text.

Apparently frigid air was a good prayer conductor, because Will flew open the front door and trotted down the steps within seconds. “What are you doing all the way out here?” he asked. “Come on. It’s ridiculously cold.”

Will looked even colder than I felt, actually. Even in a hoodieanda denim jacket he had his bare hands tucked under his armpits. Dylan grabbed my hand as we started toward the house, but Crista planted herself by Will’s side. She was as determined to claim him as ever.

“Ollie said we have to eat outside,” Crista hiss-whispered to Will.

“Well, he’s right, but we haveheatersin the backyard. You’ll be toasty, I promise.”

As soon as we entered Will’s house we were hit by a wave of heat, accompanied by the tantalizing smell of meat and spices, and upbeat Latin music playing at about a billion decibels.

The rooms were buzzing with people ferrying plates and trays from the kitchen to the backyard. Will hadn’t been kidding about the turnout—altogether there had to be about fifty people here, what with aunts and uncles and grandparents, along with kids running around between it all, clutching fist-sized snacks they’d managed to swipe from the kitchen. Among the din, I could make out an even mixture of Spanish and English.

Mrs. Tavares, a tall woman who had Will’s freckles and large brown eyes, burst out of the kitchen carrying a tray with a hunk of delicious-looking slow-cooked meat on it, bopping from side to side in time with the music.“Ollie,”she cried, lifting the tray up a little to greet me. “It’s so good to see you again! Thank you so much for coming by tonight.”

“No, thankyou,” I said. “I’m so sorry we didn’t bring anything, it was kind of short notice.”

“Ah, Ithinkwe’re going to be okay,” she said, nodding at the platter in her hands. “We could feed half the neighborhood with just the side dishes.”

“Should we go help bring stuff out?” I asked Will.

“Under no circumstances. It’s mayhem in there, honestly. We just try not to get in anyone’s way for the next five minutes. You got here at the perfect time, it’s almost dinner.”

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