*   *   *

“There aren’t any bugs down here, are there?” I ask Abram later, taking another bagel from his plate.

“Not that I’ve noticed.”

There’s a huge cobweb in the corner of the room. Intricately woven, as if the spider sensed she had all the time in the world. Am I going to let that go? I think I am. Because I feel comfortable existing here, in this space, with Abram and his whale show and his hidden tarantula. My mind is almost, but not quite, quiet.

“Is this whale show okay with you?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“Cool,” he says, and goes back to watching.

All conversations should be so brief.

Maybe we really did meet as whales in a past life.

10

ABRAM

I TOOK A PAGE from Juliette’s book and pretended not to be surprised when she showed up at my sliding door last night. Between the dog and me? I thought she was either a super-dedicated UPS guy or a polite serial killer. She stayed until I fell asleep, which is another way of saying that once again I have no idea when she left. Her note on the top of my laptop said: Thx for the Wi-Fi. There looked to be the beginnings of an X or O toward the bottom, but I’m thinking that was an accidental pen mark. I put it in my wallet and saved it for my next rainy day.

The problem with good things happening out of nowhere with minimal effort on my part? Can’t think of any, except maybe that I want the magic to happen over and over again afterward. So tonight I’ve been doing my best to re-create the miracle that was last night. Got the door unlocked, my snack at hand, a fresh whale documentary on TV, and my shirt in the off position.

Approximately two beluga segments later, I hear the door sliding open. I squeeze my fingers together in a silent fist pump because I knew she’d prefer letting herself in over the blah-blah formalities that go along with her knocking and me answering. She doesn’t say anything when she walks into my room, just grabs my laptop from the same spot on the dresser, sits down on the bed, and opens it. Takes everything I have not to point out what I remembered to do for her.

“Thanks for charging it,” she says, looking at me with a newfound something-I’ve-never-seen-before in her eyes. Seems too presumptuous to call it admiration. Appreciation, maybe.

I give her a lazy, it-was-nothing smile and proceed to fill my facehole with popcorn, letting her get settled for a minute before holding out the bag. She reaches her elegant hand inside and brings a few kernels to her lips. Then she does it again. I like this documentary, starring her in captivity, better.

Even if she’s not into me, per se, we’re definitely developing a connection per my snacks.

Juliette

HE SURE DOES fall asleep a lot. Must be the Paxil. He takes his pill and a half hour later it’s like he’s roofied himself. Now I’m sitting here, observing him like a science project, wanting more popcorn. I scrape the last kernel from our second bag and give Orville Redenbacher a look like I’m going to punch his face off, with all my rings on, for not putting more inside. Then I wonder whose idea it was to make that face the face of the brand. His good friend, Colonel Sanders? Then I google “Orville R.” and learn he died of a heart attack/jacuzzi drowning. I didn’t need to know that, Wikipedia!

I should leave Abram a nicer note tonight. Something less robotic than Thx for the Wi-Fi with half an X at the bottom, which I’m hoping he mistook for an errant pen mark. Still trying to figure out why I started writing that kiss in the first place. Must’ve seen it in a terrible movie once—Prescription for Love?

Having issues focusing, obviously. Worried that I can’t stop worrying about Abram’s lack of tennis motivation, his excessive sleeping and eating and whale-show watching, his growing dependency on my unreliable presence, and, most of all, his Paxil prescription. All of this is a sign, right? A big red STOP sign with a Seriously, girl, you’ve gone way too far subhead. And yet my eyebrows continue furrowing. I’ll have to pluck the movement out of them tomorrow. Meanwhile, let’s check out these comments I just found on a sketchy online drug forum re: Paxil.

PaxilSkeptic: Worked okay at first, but then I gained forty pounds and became even more depressed!

BradG77: Ruined my life for the three years I took it, then experienced horrible zings and zaps, like I was being electrocuted, when I tried to get off of it.

JFWhatever: Why does anyone take this **** of their own free will?! Here’s my prescription: Get some Adderall and go exercise!

Okay, that last person was me, just typed it in, couldn’t help myself. In summary, Abram needs to get off of this FDA-approved brain poison—slowly, to prevent spontaneous electrocution—and I guess I’m the only halfway-invested bystander around with the organizational skills to help him do it.

I open up an Excel spreadsheet and name the file “Abram’s De-Paxilization.” I’m confident it’s going to be the first decent plan he’s had in a while. When I’m done, I leave him a note straight from my heart murmur:

Hi. We need to talk (without the TV on). I’ll be back tomorrow night. Probably. And you were right—the popcorn was “extra tasty” tonight. I should have let you make a third bag.

11

ABRAM

“WHAT ABOUT ADDING a ‘Juliette’ tab next to mine?” I suggest on night seven of her using my bed as a Wi-Fi hot spot, the second consecutive weekend we’ve hung out. I point to the “Abram’s De-Paxilization” spreadsheet as she ignores my legit idea and reiterates the exact dosage I’m supposed to be taking each day to safely taper off the Paxil in under a month. When she’s finished, I thank her for the detail-oriented plan.

“Why do you look like you’re not going to follow it?” she asks.

“Isn’t this the same face I’ve been making all night?”

Her eyes widen like, Yes, Abram, that’s why I’m not convinced.

“Sorry, Juliette, I’m ready to stop taking this stuff.… I was just thinking it’d be more fun if I had someone to stop with me?”

“I can’t be that person,” she says.

“You can be that person. You just refuse to realize it yet.”

“True. Plus, my withdrawals would be five hundred percent worse than yours.” And with that figure in mind, she turns back to the computer and starts stabbing the keyboard, filling the “Abram” tab with even more clear-cut directions. I like to give her intermittent breaks from my presence, and now seems like an opportune time. So I mention something about making popcorn, her only known snack-food weakness, and sure enough she un-tenses her neck and tells me twice to remember the napkins.

I’m surprised to find my mom upstairs in the kitchen; Aunt Jane was supposed to pick her up for the casino a half hour ago.

“She’s running late,” Mom says, as I rip open the popcorn package and plop it inside the microwave.

“Aunt Jane’s never late,” I say, setting the timer and pressing Start.

“She was trying to make it past the Rainbow Runway on Candy Crush,” Mom says, glancing longingly at the iPad by her purse.

“Are you out of lives?”

Mom nods, goes over to the cupboard on the far side of the kitchen, and pulls out the Crock-Pot. She’s not slow-cooking a roast, just getting one of the money envelopes she keeps inside there, I’m guessing the one labeled CASINO FUND. Mom has a fund for everything. NEW CAR fund. NEW PATIO FURNITURE fund. ABRAM NEEDS $$$ fund. I put that one in there as a joke.

“Is there anything you want to tell me before I go?” she asks.

“Good luck?”

She knows. Moms always know, according to her. Not sure where the dads are when they’re getting the eyes surgically implanted into the backs of their heads, but I bet my dad was familiar with the tennis courts in the area. Speaking of Dad, she’s wearing red again, even though I overheard Aunt Jane, a loud phone talker, specifically forbidding it.