Gunnar shook his head. “Forget it.”
“No. I want to hear you say it.”
Silence.
“Whatever,” Hollis muttered. She stamped her feet. Her toes were going numb. The air was biting through her pj’s. She should just go back inside—quit while she was ahead. But she couldn’t seem to leave.
“I’m not your boyfriend,” Gunnar said finally.
Hollis snorted. “Who says I want you to be?”
“I mean … I like you.”
“OMG. You like me? I feel sooooo special.”
“Don’t be that way.”
“What way?”
“Hey,” Gunnar said. He leaned in and gave her a different kind of kiss. Soft and slow, no tongue.
“Go away,” Hollis murmured.
“You don’t want me to kiss you?”
“Not particularly,” she said, kissing him back, grabbing his belt loop.
“You sure? Because it seems like you do.”
“Shut up.”
Lips, hands, skin.
Twenty-three point six miles popped uninvited into her head. No, she told herself, pulling Gunnar toward her, back against the garage. I am not going to think about that. I am not going to think about anything.
* * *
I have been behaving carelessly.
Hollis sent the text at 12:47 a.m. It’s not like she expected Milo to answer, but she felt the need to send it anyway. She needed to do something. Hooking up with Gunnar had only distracted her for 47 minutes.
Hollis held her phone in her lap. No text back from Milo and she wasn’t the least bit tired.
Then she remembered.
She scrolled through her contacts. It took a while to find—not because she had so many friends but because he hadn’t listed his number under “R” or “J” like a normal person. He’d listed it under “B” for “Bowling Hotline.”
He answered on the fifth ring.
“It’s Hollis,” she said. “Darby.”
“Hello, Hollis Darby.”
“Hello, JJ Rabinowitz.”
He yawned loudly.
“I woke you up. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. What’s going on?”
What’s going on? How was she supposed to answer that? Well, I’ve been hooking up in the backyard with a boy who’s not my boyfriend, about ten feet away from the spot where I recently buried Pam’s dead cat. A cat I thought I hated, but now that she’s gone, it turns out I miss her. Although not nearly as much as I miss Pam. But I’m trying not to think about that. I’m trying not to think about a lot of things. Like fathers. And letters. And towns on the north bank of the Minnesota River. But the more I try not to think about those things, the more I think about them. Hence my need to distract myself by hooking up in the backyard with a boy who’s not my boyfriend.
“Nothing,” Hollis said. “Just couldn’t sleep.”
“What time is it?” JJ said.
“Twelve fifty-two … Well, one fifty-two for you.”
“Oh.” He yawned again.
“Sorry. This was dumb. I shouldn’t have called you.”
“No. I’m glad you did.”
“You are?”
“So glad.”
Hollis smiled in the dark.
“Tell me something,” JJ said.
“What?”
“Anything. What were you doing before you called me?”
“Nothing.”
“You must have been doing something.”
“Fine,” she said. “If you must know, I was hooking up with Gunnar Mott in my backyard.”
“Gunnar Mott?”
“Yeah.”
“What kind of a name is Gunnar Mott?”
“What kind of a name is Jonah Jedediah Rabinowitz?”
“Touché.”
There was a moment of silence during which Hollis could hear JJ breathing, deep and slow. “Okay,” he said finally. “Tell me about Gunnar Mott.”
“What about him?”
“How did you get together?”
“We’re not together.”
“Okay…”
“You’re going to think this is whacked,” Hollis said.
“Try me.”
Hollis thought back to the night of the Snowflake Formal. She almost hadn’t gone because A) she couldn’t dance, and B) she hated getting dressed up. But her mother’s real estate agency was having their annual holiday party that night, and Hollis didn’t feel like spending her Friday alone on the couch, watching Yvette lick herself a fur ball. So she asked her mother to drop her off at the high school. “It’s on your way to the party,” she said. “I’ll take a cab home.”
Leigh was surprised. “Really?”
“Why not?”
“You’re going to a formal?”
“Yup.”
“By yourself?”
Hollis shrugged. “Shay and Gianna study on Friday nights.”
“Are you—” Her mother hesitated. “Do you think that’s the most appropriate outfit for a school dance?”
Hollis had on a slinky black dress that she’d found in the back of Leigh’s closet. And combat boots—because, well, she loved her combat boots and she didn’t give a shit what anyone thought.
“What’s wrong with my outfit?”
Her mother shook her head. “Nothing. I’m just—”
“You said I could wear your clothes any time.”
“I know. You can. But that body. With your curves … Hollis, you look about twenty-five in that dress.”
“So?”
Her mother shook her head. “Just wear a coat, okay?”
“Fine.”
There were a few stares and snarky comments when Hollis took off her coat and walked into the gym, but not as many as she would have predicted. It was dark. Most people were dancing. Some of them looked drunk. Hollis made her way to the bleachers and sat with a few of the fringier kids she’d known since elementary school. Jenn Mattias. Grace Sung. They talked about what books they were reading and watched the other kids dance.
Hollis couldn’t remember exactly when it happened—it was toward the end of the night and she was starting to think about calling a cab. But then she saw Malory Keener on the dance floor. Malory Keener in a silver sequined dress and light-up Christmas ball earrings. Her arms were draped over Gunnar Mott’s shoulders and her hips were swaying side to side. Hollis knew who Gunnar Mott was; of course she did. In a school where football reigned supreme, you had to be living under a rock not to know who he was. Gunnar Mott, #24, Sophomore Quarterback Phenom. He had enough social currency to date any girl in school, including the seniors, and he’d chosen Malory, a freshman. Hollis didn’t know why this pissed her off, but it did. Watching the two of them on the dance floor, latched together and swaying, all she could think about were those words: My mom says your mom’s lifestyle is an abomination. It didn’t help that a few minutes earlier, when Hollis had gone to get a drink, one of Malory’s glittery friends had smirked at Hollis’s boots and said, “Nice shoes.”
“Nice face,” Hollis said.
“Dyke.”
Malory didn’t say it, but Malory might as well have said it, and that word started a fire in Hollis’s chest. As she watched Malory hanging all over Gunnar Mott, the fire crackled and spit. After the song ended, Gunnar said something in Malory’s ear, Malory nodded, and Gunnar walked away.
Hollis still didn’t know what possessed her. She hadn’t been drinking. She hadn’t been smoking pot, like some of the upperclassmen she’d seen in the parking lot when her mother dropped her off. But something—some unknown force—compelled Hollis to get up off the bleachers and follow Gunnar Mott. She followed him down the hall to the boys’ bathroom. She waited until he came out. And when he did, she said, “Hey, Gunnar.”
He turned around, raising those golden eyebrows. “Yeah?”
“I’m Hollis,” she said.
“Hey,” he said. His eyes moved up and down her dress.
“H
ey,” she said. Then, “Want to go for a walk?”
If Gunnar was surprised by the offer he didn’t show it. He just shot her that killer smile and said, “Sure.”
Hollis took charge. She led him into the science lab. They made out like a couple of horny teenagers in a movie, and it was actually really fun. They kissed up against the Bunsen burners, and—even though Gunnar was the first guy Hollis had seduced, or maybe because Gunnar was the first guy Hollis had seduced—she was incredibly turned on, and so was he, and one thing led to another. Not everything. But … things.
And then, just as they were leaving the science lab, they ran into Malory Keener at the water fountain. She was standing with the same glittery friend who had called Hollis a dyke. Gunnar was straightening his shirt, and Hollis was fixing her hair, and the look on Malory’s face when she saw them together was perfect. Perfect. That look would have been enough, but Gunnar coming back for more—all those hookups that followed, and now, showing up in Hollis’s yard when he was still going out with Malory? Priceless.
“You’re right,” JJ said, when she finished the story. “That is whacked.”
“You wanted to know.”
“So you’re hooking up with this guy for revenge? Against some girl who hurt your feelings when you were little?”
“I wasn’t that little,” Hollis said. “And she didn’t just hurt my feelings.”
“Okay.”
“She insulted my family. She basically called my mom repulsive because she’s a lesbian. No—worse than repulsive. Evil. And she said it right after Pam died. Which … by the way, did you know I wasn’t even allowed into her hospital room to say goodbye? Because—guess what? Other people besides Malory’s mother think that being gay is an abomination, and they won’t even let a seven-year-old into the room to say goodbye because the person dying in there isn’t family.”
“Okay,” JJ said. “I get it.”
“Do you?”
“I think so. Yeah.”
Hollis sighed. “I know it doesn’t make a lot of sense. Malory probably didn’t even know what she was saying. But I did. I knew what she was saying. And my mom was so sad, and there was nothing I could do to bring Pam back. And I was so sad, and all that sadness kind of … I don’t know … morphed into anger. I’ve been angry for a long time, I guess. Hooking up with Gunnar—okay, yeah, at first it was for spite, but now it’s … I don’t know … being with him makes me feel…”
“Less angry?”
“Yeah.”
“Less lonely?”
“Uh-huh. And it’s fun.”
“Fun,” JJ repeated.
“Let’s just say that Gunnar Mott is exceedingly easy on the eyes. I think he was a baby model.”
“A baby model?”
“So the rumor goes. He was on the cover of Parenting magazine or something when he was, like, six months old.”
JJ was quiet for a long time. At first Hollis thought he’d fallen asleep, but then he blurted, “I was an ugly baby.”
“What?”
“I was an ugly baby.”
“No you weren’t.”
“I was. Trust me. I looked like Winston Churchill.”
“Don’t most babies look like Winston Churchill?”
“I’m serious. I had the world’s biggest head. And five chins.”
“I bet you were cute.”
“I wasn’t. For the longest time, I thought that was why my birth mother gave me away. Because she didn’t want an ugly baby.”
Hollis swallowed. Hearing JJ say that made her throat hurt. “You know that’s not true.”
“How do I know that’s not true? It’s as good a reason as any.”
Hollis hesitated. “I want to say something to make you not feel that way … but I don’t know what to say.”
“That’s okay.”
“I like the way you look,” she said.
“Thanks. I like the way you look, too.”
“I wouldn’t give you away.”
“I wouldn’t give you away either.”
It was suddenly very quiet, like the whole world was asleep except for them.
“I feel like I can talk to you,” Hollis said.
“Me too.”
It was so quiet. She closed her eyes and listened to JJ breathe.
“Hello darkness, my old friend,” he suddenly belted out.
“What are you doing?”
“Breaking the sound of silence with ‘The Sound of Silence.’ You know—Simon and Garfunkel?”
“You’re so weird.”
She could hear him smile. “You’re pretty weird yourself.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should,” he said. More silence and then, “Is it weird to say I’m jealous of Gunnar Mott?”
“Because he was a baby model?”
“Because he got to hook up with you tonight.”
Oh God, Hollis thought.
“I wanted to kiss you the first time I saw you.”
Oh God oh God oh God.
“Sorry,” JJ said. “Did I say that out loud?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I have this problem. I just say what’s in my head without really thinking … do you want me to take it back?”
“No … I don’t know.” This was crazy. She and JJ barely knew each other. An hour ago, she’d been hooking up with Gunnar. And yet. And yet. Why was her stomach doing funny things?
“I feel stupid now,” JJ said.
“Don’t feel stupid.”
“Let’s pretend I never said that.”
“If that’s what you want.”
“It is.”
“Okay.”
“Do you want to get off the phone?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“So…”
“So…”
“How ’bout those Mets?” he said.
Hollis smiled. “I’m a Twins fan.”
“Right.”
“Also, it’s January.”
“Good point … how ’bout that letter?”
Crap, Hollis thought. “What letter?”
“Ha, ha. Did Milo tell you I helped him write it?”
“No.”
“I tried to get him to ask William Bardo if he could fold his tongue into a four-leaf clover, but he didn’t go for it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Cloverleaf tongue. It’s a genetic trait. Very few people can do it. I’ve been trying to teach myself, but so far no dice.”
“Huh.”
“You’re thinking I’m weird again.”
Hollis smiled. “Maybe.”
“Can you do it?”
“Fold my tongue?”
“Yeah.”
“Two-leaf clover, three-leaf clover, four-leaf clover, roll, and flip.”
“Damn,” JJ said. “Some people have all the luck.”
“I must have good genes.”
“Yes you do. Want to hear another one?”
“Yeah.”
Hollis closed her eyes and listened to JJ talk about widow’s peaks and hitchhiker’s thumbs and detached earlobes. And after a while she stopped thinking about the letter. Well, she didn’t stop thinking about it exactly, but it became background noise. JJ’s voice was deep and soft. Each word was a wave, rolling toward her, rolling away. After a while, she was too tired to participate in the conversation. She just listened. Wave in, wave out. Wave in, wave out.
“Hollis?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re snoring.”
“Nomnot.”
JJ laughed. “Good night, Hollis Darby.”
Barnes, Hollis thought from the bottom of the ocean. Barnes.
MILO
I have been behaving carelessly.
Milo didn’t read Hollis’s text until Sunday morning. She’d sent it in the middle of the night, and he thought maybe she was making a Gatsby reference, but he couldn’t be
sure.
Carelessly how? he texted back.
Three hours later he got Forget it. I’m good.
U sure?
Yup.
Milo wasn’t dense. He knew Hollis had issues. Issues with her dead mom, issues with the search for their donor. He wanted to tell her, “It’s okay. I’m a little effed up, too.” But Milo wasn’t one for deep confessionals. This was a guy thing, maybe. Or was it? Noah seemed to have no trouble pouring his heart out. Sharing his doubts about his father’s love—his fear that Josh was the favored son and that finding their donor would only deepen the rift in his family. Was Milo kidding himself? Could sending the letter have been a terrible mistake?
Well. It was too late now.
He’d told Suzanne and Frankie last night at dinner. “We found William Bardo’s address. He lives in Eden Prairie, Minnesota.”
Frankie, attuned to every nuance of every word that came out of Milo’s mouth, said, “We?”
“Uh-huh,” Milo said. “Me, Hollis, Abby, and Noah. It was a group effort.”
“I see.”
“We—well, technically, I—just sent him a letter.”
“Just?”
Milo took a casual sip of water. “I mailed it this afternoon.”
“Oh, Mi,” Suzanne said, rushing around the table to give Milo a hug. “Congratulations.”
“Congratulations?” Frankie said.
And Suzanne said, “Is there an echo in here?”
Frankie pressed her lips together.
“Ma,” Milo said gently. “It is kind of a big deal.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Frankie said.
God, it sucked. Hearing Frankie use that tone. Seeing the look on her face, like she’d just been slapped. Even after she hugged him. Even after she apologized for her reaction.
“He may not even write back,” Milo said. “He may not want anything to do with us.”
“One step at a time,” Suzanne said.
One step at a time.
Sunday afternoon, twenty-four hours after he’d dropped the letter in the mailbox, Milo was still waiting for the next step. And waiting. And waiting. Even though he knew that he’d missed the noon mail pick-up yesterday and that no mail would go out today. He didn’t know what to do while he waited. Trawling the Internet was no help. Each link was more discouraging than the last.
New Study Shows Sperm Donor Kids Suffer.
Sperm Donor Kids Are Not Really All Right.
Children of Sperm Donors Met With Hostility, Ridicule.
The Other F-Word Page 13
