Page 46 of Wham Line
Somehow, that was even worse.I glanced at the snippets of the results (because I honestly couldn’t bring myself to click on them).Most of it was geared toward the straights, and the advice ranged from the obviously bad (“Don’t be too available.Make her work for it.”) to the blush-inducing (“There’s no such thing as too much sex.”and even less helpful, “7 Ways to Make Her Scream.”) to the probably-correct-but-not-exactly-helpful (“Work on yourself” and “Give as much as you get” and—this one mademewant to scream—“Keep the romance alive.”Of course I wanted to keep the romance alive.That was the whole reason I was reading these stupid search results.)
None of this helped, probably because, yet again, I hadn’t asked the question I really wanted answered.
How do I help my boyfriend after his mom died?
And because this was the internet, there were so.many.results.
I spent a while reading, uncomfortably aware of Bobby’s breathing next to me.If he woke up and saw me reading these—well, I didn’t know what would happen, but a flush prickled from my belly up to my throat when I thought about it.
None of the answers shocked me.If anything, as I read them, I found myself thinking,Yeah, yeah, oh yeah—stuff I should have thought of myself; stuff I should have recognized, immediately, as correct.Spend time with him.Be willing to talk, but don’t pressure him.Let him know you’re there.All things I’d tried to do, obviously.And all things that had ended with Bobby either: a) nodding, or b) acknowledging verbally, or c) not responding at all.
As I kept reading, though, I found more specific—and more helpful—answers.He’s going to be overwhelmed with decisions, so try to take things off his plate or narrow down his options.OrAll the little things that go into daily life are going to feel too hard, so pick a chore to help him with—sweep, do the laundry, wash the dishes.Or evenFood.Food.Food.He’s probably not eating, and he needs you to put something in front of him and tell him to eat.
Okay, that last one was eerily accurate.Bobbyhadn’tbeen eating.And the doctor had told us he needed fluids and rest.
I slipped out of bed.Part of me waited for Bobby to roll over, to stir, to mumble a question.But he was totally zonked, so I pulled on my clothes and padded upstairs.
The living room was still dark except for that weak yellow light coming from the kitchen.Somewhere, a fan was spinning, and the faint odor of sandalwood hung in the air.I made my way down and then I made my way up again (so many stupid steps in this house).The kitchen looked the way it had the other night, although someone had put away the groceries.I glanced at the photo of little Bobby as I made my way to the fridge.The same serious expression.The same dark eyes.What had he been like as a child, I wanted to know.I bet he had put all his toys away.Or maybe not; maybe little Bobby had been a terror, and I was in a relationship with a reformed man.
My gaze widened to take in the full photo.Bobby stood next to Eric and slightly in front, as though he’d been shoved forward a step, or as though he’d run into the frame late.It was even easier to see the similarities between the brothers as children.Behind them stood their parents.Bobby’s mom had one hand on Eric’s shoulder.His dad had his hands behind his back.It was impossible for anyone outside a family to truly understand their unique dynamic, I know, but when I looked at that picture, I thought I knew some of it.
The fridge held a surprising amount of food: the bok choy I’d seen yesterday, blocks of tofu, chicken breasts that had thawed inside a plastic bag, a few small apples, bottles of condiments—every shelf filled to the edge.Indira probably could have whipped up enough meals to get Bobby and his family through a nuclear winter.
The thought brought a pang and a wave of guilt; in the chaos of the poisoning at Mizzenmast and then taking Bobby to the hospital, I hadn’t checked to see what had happened with Indira.I hoped that silence meant nothing bad; Fox would have called if things had taken a turn.Keme would have texted.Millie would have simply raised her voice, and I would have heard her all the way in Portland.But that didn’t alleviate the sick feeling as the reality of Indira’s situation crashed in on me again, so I took out my phone and sent a quick message to the group asking for an update.I also filled them in on what had happened with Bobby, where we were, and that everything was more or less okay.
No reply.Which wasn’t agreatsign.
I gave the contents of the fridge one final evaluative look and gave up.Yes, there were lots of staples.Yes, it all looked healthy and nutritious and, uh, wholesome?The problem, though, was that it didn’t look like any of it could be made either: a) in the microwave, or b) by boiling some noodles in a pot and adding butter, milk, and orange cheese powder.And that was pretty much the extent of my off-the-cuff cooking.
Shutting the fridge door, I turned.Bobby’s dad stood in the archway to the living room.He wore khakis and a polo, and the kitchen light smeared across his glasses.My heart smashed into my ribcage, and I barely bit back some words that you arenotsupposed to say in front of your boyfriend’s dad.
“Hi, Mr.Mai,” I said.And then—because I will always be Dashiell Dawson Dane—I added, “Um, sorry.”
“Do you need something?”
“Who, me?”That seemed like theworstquestion of the year, so I tried to smile, but it felt like I had fishhooks in my cheeks.Bobby’s dad just looked at me.And I kept smiling—or whatever you could call what was happening to my face.And he wasstilllooking at me, and I knew I had to do something.People always didsomething.They said something.Or they—what?I had this image of me saying,A cold drink and a hot man,like I was some sort of aging Hollywood starlet, and then having one of those laughing fits that ended with them hauling you off to a padded room.
And somehow, Bobby’s dad was still looking at me.
“No,” I said.“I was looking for something to eat.”
He nodded.“I’ll make you something.”
“No!Uh, no.No, thank you, I mean.That’s super kind of you.I’m not hungry, actually.I’m never hungry.Not much of an eater of, um, food.”A part of me that wasn’t currently in panic mode sat back to watch my accelerating death spiral.“It’s for Bobby, actually.But you know what?He’s sleeping, so I’ll just wait until he wakes up.”
“If you’re hungry, you should eat something.”
I nodded my head like that was the wisest thing I’d ever heard.“Right, yeah, no, I’m totally good.But thank you.”
Bobby’s dad nodded.
I nodded too.
It was a lot of nodding.
My plan was to crawl under the kitchen table and wait for Bobby’s dad to leave, since I had successfully discovered a new personal nightmare (being trapped with Bobby’s dad while he made me something to eat) and achieved a new world record in awkward social interaction.
Instead, though, somebody inside my head—somebody who wanted to be a good boyfriend, somebody who could already hear myself telling Bobby about this conversation and how awkward I’d been, someone who could see Bobby’s big, goofy grin and know that he loved me and was grateful I’d made the effort—decided to keep talking.
