Chapter 15 #3
Matt throws out his arms triumphantly. “I, too, am a golden god,” he yells, pounding his chest, and then he barrels down the staircase with far less grace but much more speed than anyone before him.
I grab Hannah and jerk her to the side just as he knocks against the railing, does a full three-sixty spin, and ricochets out from the stairs, flying in a glorious arc across the living room, face glowing with triumph.
We all realize where he’s headed at the exact same time, the instant before he splats like a bug against the wall.
A collective groan rises in the room. Hannah and I rush to him. I roll him over and she shakes his shoulders until he opens his eyes. “Where does it hurt?” she asks.
Matt gazes up at her fondly and taps the bridge of his glasses, which are wrapped in protective tape. “You were right about the glasses.” “Okay, Mr. Rolling Stone.” I put my arm around him and wrestle him up. Thank god he’s talking. “Time for bed.”
*
We tuck Matt into a small cot on the top floor of Dr. G’s funhouse and cover him with an old curtain Hannah found in a closet. Nestling in, he draws up the curtain and says, “I have to tell you something.”
Hannah’s busy putting a glass of water on the floor, so I ask, “What?”
He yawns. “This is my first Rolling Stone music feature. I’m normally a business reporter. I had no idea how tonight was supposed to go.” He closes his eyes. “But it was just like the movies.” Incredibly, on his next inhale, he’s snoring.
Hannah and I look at each other. “Yeah, that tracks,” I say.
“Lot of pieces fitting together,” she agrees.
We look down at his sleeping face. “Here’s hoping he wakes up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to lead three consecutive interviews and then write the best damn article the world’s ever seen.”
“He’s young.” Hannah nods sagely. “He’ll bounce back.”
“You know, you’ve been strangely nice all night.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Should I thank the Happy pill?”
She reaches over and flips off the light. “Here’s where I invoke that old Whitman quote about multitudes.”
In the dark, I repeat myself. “I mean it. Why have you been so nice?”
I sense her still. “Seemed like you needed a win. And maybe I did too.”
“I’ve needed a lot of things you’ve ignored. A heads-up on new songs, no drinking onstage, basic human decency—”
“Clearly your Happy pill has worn off.”
“Trying to save a reporter’s life was a sobering experience.”
She’s moving. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
I follow her to the end of the hall. Hannah yanks open a door to yet another rickety metal staircase and waves at it. “Ladies first.”
I shake my head. “I’m not getting lured into some creepy room full of funhouse mirrors.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine. I’ll go first.”
I follow her, grudgingly. “You’re feeding me to an animal, aren’t you? Does Dr. G own a lion?”
She snorts and keeps climbing, then wrests open another door and swings it wide. The night sky winks at us. In the distance, I can see the jewel-strung lights of the Golden Gate Bridge.
“Gunthy’s roof has a great view of the city,” she says, stepping out.
I hesitate. “And you’re not going to close the door and leave me trapped here?”
She makes an exasperated face. “Jesus, Suit. You’re weirdly good at coming up with pranks. I feel like I should be writing these down.”
I toe my way out onto the roof, following Hannah to the edge. She dangles her legs over while I sit gingerly beside her, leaning back to brace myself.
She glances over. “Stop thinking so hard.”
The night’s dazzling—the stars; long, swooping lines of the bridge; dark water; and even darker mass of Alcatraz like something you’d see on an album cover. My shoulders relax. “This is pretty cool.”
“I thought you’d like it.” Hannah taps her foot against the roof.
“You’re making me nervous being that squirmy next to the edge.”
“So,” she says, ignoring me. “Should we talk about the elephant in the room?”
“Which elephant?”
“The Whitesnake one.” She cuts a glance at me. “Or is that something you don’t talk about?”
I shrug. “I don’t mind.”
“So what happened? Did you see any signs your dad was on his way out before he left?”
“Not really. I was pretty distracted that year.”
“By what?”
I give her a bright smile, which is what I do whenever I’m about to reveal something serious about myself to another person.
“I was getting bullied at school. Kids used to tease me for stuttering. And wearing the same clothes too often. Said I looked poor.” I turn up the wattage on my smile, making it clear it’s no big deal.
“We lived in this tiny town in Virginia. My mom was a Dollar Tree clerk and my dad was a handyman, and we were always racing to make rent. The bullies were probably right.”
Hannah watches me. “I guess that explains those fancy clothes you wear, huh?”
I frown. “What?”
She shakes her head. “Never mind. Continue.”
I lie back on the roof until I’m looking up at the stars, my arms folded beneath my head.
“My dad must’ve been hiding how unhappy he was.
I never saw a hint. One day, he just left.
With only a duffel bag, and, you know, at least he didn’t rob us on his way out.
But I used to think . . . he didn’t even take anything to remember us by.
My mom’s the strong, silent type, so when he left she just zipped up.
She had to take a second job, so she was rarely home, and when she was, it was like she was a different person.
Always sad. Didn’t want to leave her bed. ”
“I can’t imagine walking away from anyone I loved,” Hannah says.
“I like to think he had a good reason.” Off her skeptical look, I add, “People are complicated.” It’s funny, but being on the road makes me feel closer to my dad, as if this is where he disappeared to, somewhere out here on America’s highways.
There’s a fluidity to picking up and leaving, sliding from city to city—a freedom in it.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s what he longed for.
As much as it hurts, a small part of me can understand it.
Hannah scoffs.
“Or maybe he was a selfish monster and I never really knew him,” I say. “Anyway, I figured the least I could do for my mom was not give her any trouble. So I threw myself into school, got a part-time job, aced the SATs. Got into Dartmouth.”
“The unimpeachable son. What happened when you were sad or angry?”
“Whitesnake.”
“Mm.”
“I like to think he left me his records as a parting gift. Or, you know, a sign. And I swear listening to all that music helped me with my stutter. Does that sound weird?”
“No.” She shakes her head, then lies down next to me. Her voice drifts skyward. “Not to me.”
Her music is the kind I would’ve played over and over in my room as a teen: intense, unrelenting, emotionally expansive. Three and a half minutes of sound and fury to brace my heart.
“So you’re familiar with contingent affection,” she says, still gazing at the stars.
“What do you mean?”
“It sounds like your dad left and you became a people pleaser. Maybe you thought if you were good enough, your mom would magically be okay and you wouldn’t fail anyone and no one would leave you again.
Trying to will the world into becoming what you wanted.
I tried to do that, too, just the opposite way. ”
She must see the surprise on my face, because she says, “What? You’re surprised I can read you?”
“No,” I say honestly. “I’m surprised when you open up to me.”
Her eyebrows skyrocket.
I lean close and bump her shoulder. “Also, thank you for putting ‘people pleaser’ in past tense when we both know it’s present.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you, and I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.” Her smile softens into something warm and private as her eyes move over my face. “Ginny likes you, though.”
The present tense of it is oddly charming. Without thinking, I reach out to brush a strand of hair from her forehead.
Hannah closes her eyes and leans into my touch, as if she thinks I mean to cup her face. My hand drops and her eyes fly open. We both freeze.
My heart jackknifes in my chest.
“Oh god,” she says. “This is humiliating.”
I act on instinct, reaching out again—slowly, so she can stop me anytime. But she doesn’t. This time I do touch her face, feeling the delicate line of her jaw.
Heart still pounding, I rub my thumb slowly over her soft skin. Hannah closes her eyes.
The world contracts to her. This unexpected moment.
I can’t hear the noise of the city because my heart is pounding so loudly in my ears.
I slide my thumb to her lower lip, full and velvet-smooth, and brush the pad of my finger across it, taking liberties.
Every movement a step into a brave new world.
This velvet mouth is the same one I’ve watched from the sidelines night after night.
The one that delivers beauty and anger, poetry and cutting remarks. The sheer power of her.
Hannah parts her lips. Her eyes open slowly, like she’s drowsy. When our gazes lock, she bites down gently on my thumb, pinning it between her teeth. I’m utterly still. She slides her tongue lightly over my skin, waiting for my reaction. The sensation creates a strike of lightning through my body.
A crash erupts somewhere inside Dr. G’s house, hitting us like a bucket of ice water. Hannah and I jerk back, our heads turning to the door on the roof, waiting to see if someone will walk through it.
But after a fraught moment, the door doesn’t open. Hannah looks back at me—and, to my surprise, laughs. “The look on your face.” She scrambles up. “Relax. Everyone does dumb stuff on Molly.”
Distantly, it dawns on me. She thinks I’m under the influence of—“Wait, the Happy pills were Molly this whole time?”
“What’d you think they were, Suit? Sprees?” She laughs again, like it’s the funniest thing she’s heard all night. She’s still shaking her head when she disappears inside, leaving me alone with the city lights and the secret of the small, chalky heart in my pocket.