I read those words over and over again until I fell asleep.
I was pretty sure I fell asleep smiling.
• •
It was still dark out when we were released. Probably only an hour or so later. Wynezra, Holden, Imogen, and I were shepherded out of our cells, down an earth-colored hallway, out into the lobby.
Where Roscoe was waiting for us.
We all stopped walking, like we had suddenly run out of floor. Looked at Wynezra.
She just looked sick.
Roscoe seemed to notice this. He cleared his throat nervously.
“I’ve already talked to your parents,” he said. “Or…we have. The police and I. I’ve agreed to take everyone home since I was, um…in the area.”
I assumed “in the area” meant rehab.
“Fortunately, there aren’t any charges against you four,” Roscoe continued, “so there was no bail, although, Ezra, um…your car was impounded, so that’s something you’ll have to take care of.”
I sighed and nodded my head acceptingly.
Then I realized I was Wynonna.
Then I realized I really didn’t give a fuck.
Roscoe noticed this, too. If he thought anything of it, he kept it to himself.
“Anyway,” he said, “I already filled out all the paperwork to get you guys out, so…you’re free to go, ya hoodlums!”
I think that last part was meant to make us laugh. Or to at least break the tension. It didn’t really do either.
“Thank you, Mr. Jones,” said Imogen, politely. “Holden and I are going to go outside for a breath of fresh air.”
“We are?” said Holden.
“Yes, Holden. We are.”
“Oh. Right. Of course, we are. Obviously.”
He gave Wynezra and me the most unsubtle wink he was capable of, then sauntered outside. Imogen shook her head, perplexed, and followed after him.
It was just Roscoe, Wynezra, and me.
“So…” said Roscoe. “That’s Holden, huh? I like him.”
He didn’t seem to know who to look at—so he glanced between the two of us like we were playing an invisible match of telekinetic Ping-Pong. The sheer effort seemed to be making him dizzy.
“So you got out of rehab easy enough?” I said, mostly to fill the silence.
“Yeah, well…” said Roscoe, shrugging. “It was an emergency. The police called the center I was staying at. Plus, I checked myself in, so…”
Wynezra said nothing. She was stewing. A pot of boiling silence.
“But, um…” he said, “I’ll probably check myself back in once everything here is settled. The usual stint is six weeks, and that’s probably what I need to get my bearings straight anyway.”
He glanced from me, to Wynezra, back to me.
“We don’t have to do this right now if you don’t want to,” he said. He was apparently using a plural you because his gaze was fixed in space, directly between us.
Wynezra’s eyes grew misty, but her face hardened. It was a fierce juxtaposition of emotions, and they did not seem to be operating in Roscoe’s favor.
“Actually, we do,” said Wynezra.
Roscoe finally looked at her.
He looked directly at her.
“I want to forgive you,” she said. “But I think, deep down, we both know that what you did was unforgivable. Hell, I don’t even know what forgiveness means! Forgive? Don’t forgive? All I know is that Mom is dead, and that’s a forever thing. We’re never getting her back. Not in this life anyway. And this life is waaaaaaay too fucking long and painful for me to focus on anything else.”
Roscoe was speechless. Breathless.
“But I have a friend,” said Wynezra. She looked at me. “And he has taught me that I deserve to be happy. Goddammit, man! I am so fucking sick and tired of punishing myself for something that isn’t my fault! I deserve to have a father in my life! And I’m sorry, buddy, but you’re it. You’re all that I’ve got. So, if you’re willing to give that to me, then I’m willing to take whatever you got. Just know that you have seven years to make up, so you better make ’em count. I expect the princess treatment: breakfast in bed, deep-tissue foot massages, the works. And just so you know, my feet smell like ass, so this is not gonna be a picnic for you.”
Roscoe’s eyes were wet. Overflowing.
And they never broke from Wynezra’s gaze.
Not for a moment.
“Nona?” he said. His bottom lip quivered. “Is that really you?”
Wynezra’s face was like aquarium glass, and it shattered—flooding with teary happiness.
“Yes!” Her voice—my voice—was soft, brittle, delicate. “It’s me.”
“Oh my god. Oh my god, Nona!”
Roscoe and Wynezra sprinted into each other. They collided like snap bracelets, wrapping around each other, squeezing fiercely, crying. Wynezra’s face was buried in Roscoe’s chest as she clung to his shirt. Roscoe cradled her head in his hand, his thick fingers in her hair.
Meanwhile, I had my arms wrapped around myself. Kinda wishing I had someone to hug as well. Definitely wishing I had a tissue. I was a mess.
A great big happy smiling mess.
You couldn’t buy happy endings like this—not from Disney, not even from the Hallmark Channel.
Flash.
Suddenly, my face was mashed in fabric and muscle, and I was clinging to Roscoe as if to a rock wall or a cliff face, and I definitely had snot coming out of my nose, and oh boy, this was embarrassing.
Not a second later, Wynonna hug-attacked me from behind. She squeezed me between her and Roscoe like the dulce de leche in a stuffed churro.
“Get in there, Slevin!” said Wynonna. “Just let it happen.”
“Whoa, wait,” said Roscoe. “Did something happen?”
“I’m me, and she’s her now,” I mumbled into Roscoe’s shirt.
“Really? Just like that?”
“Yep,” said Wynonna. She rested her head on my shoulder. “Just like that.”
I sighed. Embraced the awkwardness. Released all the tension in my body and let myself be hugged.
I wasn’t gonna lie. It felt fucking amazing.
question left to be answered.
“We saw you packing,” said Wynonna. “And your neighbor told us you moved out. What was that all about?”
Roscoe laughed nervously. “I could tell you. But it might be easier to show you.”
Four hours later—as we fell asleep in turns—we pulled into a quiet neighborhood, in front of a quiet house. Morning had finally punctured the horizon, spilling orange light across the sky, casting everything in a dreamlike hue.
“We’re here,” said Roscoe, quietly.
“Here?” said Wynonna. She was just now waking up in the passenger seat, blinking desperately for clarity. “Where’s here?”
“My new house.”
Wynonna kept blinking because that didn’t make any sense.
“Our new house,” he said. “If you’re interested.”
Wynonna stopped blinking. Rotated her head slowly.
It was a small white thing, single story, with a tiny little porch, and a tiny little garden—all of this encased in an actual tiny little white picket fence.
“It’s two bed, one bath,” he said. “I know it’s small, but—”
“You bought a house?” said Wynonna.
Roscoe shrugged. “It’s Theo’s, actually. He was selling, and I’d kind of decided I was staying here for good, so…why not?”
Before Roscoe could even finish, Wynonna was nodding her head desperately.
“Yes,” she said.
“Yes?”
“I’m interested.”
Roscoe’s face broke into a smile. “Great! I mean…I’m still checking myself back into rehab today. But a month or so from now, if you’re still interested…”
“Yes,” said Wynonna, still nodding. “Still interested.”
“Great!”
“Go check yourself into
rehab already. I need you to get out ASAP.”
“Okay!” said Roscoe, like this was the happiest day of his life. Which it probably was.
“Guys!” said Wynonna, turning back in the passenger seat. “Wanna see my new house?”
She was smiling so wide, it couldn’t possibly be genuine. Except it was.
• •
After calling our parents, letting them know where we were—and emphasizing where we were not: aka jail—we kind of fell asleep at Wynonna’s new house. The living room was filled with every pillow and blanket Roscoe owned, stacked into a soft, lulling mountain in a corner. The quantity of bedding was truly staggering. Like, did he swap them out every day or what?
At the end of the tour, the four of us just sort of unraveled into it.
Didn’t wake up until late afternoon.
Even I, the broken sleeper, had sunk into an impenetrable sleep. When we woke, it was a collective awakening. We were a tangle of bodies in the den, and when one of us moved, it sent ripples across the labyrinthine human network.
Suddenly, Imogen shot up and exclaimed, “Prom!”
That caused the rest of us to splinter and unravel. We scrambled to our feet in an aimless frenzy.
“What time is it?” I said.
“Four forty-five!” said Imogen.
“WE HAVE TWO HOURS TO GET READY?” said Wynonna. She slapped her face with both hands like she was Macaulay Culkin.
“Two hours and fifteen minutes,” said Imogen. “It’s not exactly plausible, but it’s possible.”
“Wait, wait,” said Holden. “Getting ready in two hours and fifteen minutes isn’t plausible? What are you doing? Training forest animals to follow you around like Disney princesses?”
Wynonna rolled her eyes. “I hope you and Imogen start body-swapping. Then you would know.”
“Please don’t wish that on me,” said Imogen.
The girls demanded we drop them off at Imogen’s house first. Apparently, Wynonna’s dress was already there. They had planned this. From there, Imogen told Holden and me that we could take her car.
The suits were at my place. We had planned this. We hopped in Imogen’s car and drove.
Silently.
Holden cleared his throat awkwardly. “Can I ask you something?”
I didn’t think Holden had ever asked if he could ask me something. He usually just skipped straight to the “asking” part.
I nodded suspiciously.
“Do you think I’m”—he hesitated—“gay?”
“Oh!” I said.
“Because I think I’m just a little gay,” said Holden—anxious, vulnerable. “But before you go getting weirded out, it’s not that I have a thing for you, per se. It’s mostly just Wynonna in your body.”
“Hey, Holden, it’s—”
“I mean, mostly I just have a thing for Wynonna, period. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have a thing specifically for Wynonna when she’s you.”
“Holden, it’s—”
“And I just wanted to tell you that because, well, there was the janitor’s closet thing that we never really talked about, but also, you know, it’s prom, and there’s a possibility that you and Wynonna will switch again, and if that happens, there’s a possibility that she and I will…uh…”
“Holden!”
Holden stopped. Looked at me.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m a little gay, too.”
Holden reared his head back, except for his eyeballs. Those stayed fixed in midair, practically dislodging from his face. “You are?”
“I think I’m a little lesbian, too.”
Holden couldn’t help it. He laughed. He was defenseless.
“Can I tell you something?” I said. “What I think?”
Holden swallowed, suddenly nervous, and nodded yes.
“I think,” I said, “that there are so many words and labels for who we can be, and what we can be attracted to, and what we can identify as, that it’s sometimes easy to forget ourselves. The important thing isn’t the word or the label. The important thing is you.”
“Me?” said Holden, confused.
“And me,” I said. “And Wynonna. And Imogen. We’re all human beings. I think we’re more complicated than a single word: gay, straight, boy, girl, whatever. Most days, I identify more with a dot in the middle of a blank white page than anything else. And my life could start moving in any direction, and I don’t even know what direction that is! Only that it’s happening. I identify with the blankness. But…I think that’s okay.”
“Because the important thing is you,” said Holden.
I grinned. Returned my attention to the road. “Exactly.”
The important thing was me.
• •
I had been bracing myself for the We’re So Disappointed in You treatment. I had, after all, gotten the car impounded. I spent an hour or two in a juvenile detention facility. I’ll be honest: If I were my parents, not knowing the situation, I would be disappointed in me. I might have even grounded myself from prom! Which made me suddenly panic and wonder if the greatest night of my life was in jeopardy.
That wasn’t what happened.
You see, my parents found out about all this from Roscoe. My parents knew who Roscoe Jones was. They knew who Wynonna Jones was, for that matter!
This whole time, they knew who she was.
And now they knew—in a confused version of the truth—my role in reuniting Wynonna with her dad.
“Hey, these things happen,” said Dad.
“They do?” I said. I wasn’t sure which things he was talking about: leaving your car at the airport drop-off so it could get impounded, or getting mistaken for terrorists and spending a couple hours in a juvenile detention center.
“Of course they do. The important thing is you’re okay.”
“It was a great thing you did for Wynonna,” Mom added. “We’re so proud of you, Ezzie.”
“What am I, chopped liver?” said Holden.
“I’m proud of you, Holden,” said Willow.
“Oh, you know we’re always proud of you, Holden,” said Mom.
“You keepin’ our Ez in line, Holden?” said Dad.
“Oh, you know,” said Holden, casually brushing his shoulders off. “It’s a full-time job, but I do what I can.”
• •
Holden and I cleaned up well. Partly because we were really, really, really trying. Partly because my family—who knew nothing about prom tonight or our respective dates until now—made it a Slevin family effort to pull our prom shit together.
“Imogen Klutz?” said Dad. “Who’s Imogen Klutz? Do I know an Imogen Klutz?”
“She was Olivia,” said Willow.
“What, the really tall, skinny one?” said Mom. “Is she taller than you, Ezzy?”
“Mom!” I said. “Seriously?”
“No, no, I’m just saying…she’s a total cutie-pie. But do we need to get you shoes with a little extra…oomph?”
“We’re, like, the same height.”
“They’re, like, exactly the same height,” said Holden. “Like, you could balance a table on top of their heads and build a card castle on it.”
“That is a really weird way of saying we’re the same height.”
“I thought it was poetic,” said Willow.
“Thanks, homie!” said Holden. He extended his fist, and she bumped it.
“So she’ll be wearing heels,” said Mom.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Probably.”
“Of course she is. That’s it. I’m getting you shoes. Spiffy off-white shoes to go with your suit coat.” She was already starting for the door.
“Please don’t get me shoes.”
“I’m getting them. Whether you wear them or not is your choice.”
“Oh my god. Do you even know what shoe size I am?”
Mom shot me a look of the utmost indignation. “I gave birth to you! Of course I know what shoe size you are.” And then, slightly
less certain, “Nine, right?”
“Ten,” I said.
“Ten? Oh lord. My children are radioactive monsters. They won’t stop growing.”
“Ouch,” said Willow. “That hurts a little.”
“I’ll go with you, Mrs. Slevin!” Holden volunteered. “I think I’m going to get myself a pair of those bad boys. Then Ezra and I can match!”
Oh my god. My house had gone insane.
“What about you?” I said to Willow. “Are you not going to prom?”
“Psh!” said Willow. “No. Boys are stupid.”
Even as she spoke, I caught the slightest glimpse of it: the tenderness of a wound that hadn’t quite healed.
It vanished the moment Holden opened his mouth.
“Boys are stupid,” he said. “Except for me.”
“Except for you,” Willow agreed. (And they fist-bumped again.) “No, Mom and Dad and I are doing a daddy-daughter date. But, like, with Mom, too. Is there a name for that?”
“What?” I said. And scanned the vicinity for privacy—Mom was looking for her purse, Dad was on the phone—then dropped my voice to a whisper. “Mom and Dad are going on a date?”
Willow smiled, knowingly. “Well, it’s more like Dad’s going on a date with me, and Mom’s going on a date with me, too, and they’ll be with each other by association. But yeah. I guess Mom and Dad are kind of going on a date.”
She winked.
“Okay, Holden!” said Mom. “You ready to get these shoes? If you get Ezra to wear his pair, your pair is on me.”
“Seriously?” said Holden. “Heck yeah!”
“Can I come, too?” said Willow.
“Oh god,” said Mom. “If you must.” She smiled, teasingly. “Ezzy? Do you want to pick out your own shoes, or are you leaving this valuable decision in the hands of your mother, your BFF, and your little sister?”
I sighed—barely suppressing my happiness. “Fine.”
It was more than fine.
The four of us were on our way out the door when Dad abruptly ended his call. Stopped us in the entryway.
“Sorry,” he said. “I hope it’s okay, but I just rented you guys a limo for prom. The driver will be here to pick you boys up at six. I hope that’s early enough to pick up your dates and get to prom in time.”
Holden and I raised our hands and looked at each other like we were about to scream the highest notes our limited teenage vocal cords were capable of, puberty be damned.
Where I End and You Begin Page 31
