Hello (From Here)
Page 1
Content notes: Please be aware that this story touches on topics such as parental death, COVID-19, AIDS, generalized anxiety disorder, panic disorder, and racism.
Dial Books
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York
First published in the United States of America by Dial Books,
an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2021
Copyright © 2021 by Chandler Baker and Wesley Thomas King
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 9780593326121
ISBN 9780593407653 (International Edition)
ISBN 9780593326138 (Ebook Edition)
Cover art © 2021 by Jeff Östtberg
Cover design by Kelley Brady
Design by Cerise Steel, adapted for ebook by Michelle Quintero
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
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For all those who missed the expected moments
We hope you found your bright spots
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One: Max
Chapter Two: Jonah
Chapter Three: Max
Chapter Four: Jonah
Chapter Five: Max
Chapter Six: Jonah
Chapter Seven: Max
Chapter Eight: Jonah
Chapter Nine: Max
Chapter Ten: Jonah
Chapter Eleven: Max
Chapter Twelve: Jonah
Chapter Thirteen: Max
Chapter Fourteen: Jonah
Chapter Fifteen: Max
Chapter Sixteen: Jonah
Chapter Seventeen: Max
Chapter Eighteen: Jonah
Chapter Nineteen: Max
Chapter Twenty: Jonah
Chapter Twenty-One: Max
Chapter Twenty-Two: Jonah
Chapter Twenty-Three: Max
Chapter Twenty-Four: Jonah
Chapter Twenty-Five: Max
Chapter Twenty-Six: Jonah
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Max
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Jonah
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Max
Chapter Thirty: Jonah
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Hello (From Us)
About the Authors
chapter one
MAX
Conventional wisdom suggests that, when the world finally does begin to fall apart, love will be the only thing left that really matters. Petty grievances will fall away. You won’t remember who called you Maxi Pad for the entirety of sixth grade (Logan Bennett) or how much money is in your bank account or the hours spent studying for that one calculus exam you almost failed. Instead, you will spend time with loved ones. Hold them close. Be present. Let them know that you care. And so, I guess, that’s more or less how I came to be price-comparing boxes of condoms for my seventy-seven-year-old customer, Mrs. Phillips, at the start of a global pandemic.
This is what it’s come down to. Me, standing in the Family Planning aisle of the grocery store debating the merits of flavored versus colored versus ribbed varieties—trust me, I am so not qualified for this—and guarding my grocery cart like a lion over its kill. I first took an afterschool job as a personal grocery shopper eight months ago and never have I seen Vons like this. It’s only been a couple hours since Governor Newsom announced a shelter-in-place order effective tonight, but already the checkout lines stretch past the soda aisle, and if you want hand sanitizer that badly, you might not want to get too attached to your kidneys.
The canned beans shelves—wiped. Frozen pizzas—wiped. Cleaning products—wiped, wiped, wiped. It’s as if there’s a hurricane, a wildfire, and a blizzard all hitting at once and the entire county has decided to doomsday prep.
I run through the lists of today’s clients, circling the items I still need. Listen, I’m not here to judge anyone’s life choices, but, Mr. Culver, are three different types of soft cheeses and organic pomegranate seeds, like, really priorities right now? I make my best guess for Mrs. Phillips, which is all I can do, given the woman still doesn’t know how to text, and make my way through the maze of shoppers who are demonstrating the whole spectrum of concern levels. I weave around a woman sporting those rubber yellow gloves meant for washing dishes and a dad in shorts and flip-flops licking his thumb and wiping food from his toddler’s mouth all in one aisle. When I can’t get through a traffic jam in front of the garbage bags, I take the long way through cosmetics toward the back of the store.
“Miss!” someone calls out from somewhere between canned goods and chips, and I’m 99 percent sure that he’s not talking to me because I have a messy bun and a hole in the armpit of my favorite T-shirt and Miss is some country club shit. “Uh, miss. Hello, I’m talking to you. Excuse me. You can’t do that.” A boy taps me on the shoulder and when I turn around, I see that we are the exact same height, looking eye to light blue eye, a detail that I only notice because, first of all, I’m not oblivious, and, second of all, he is all up in my business.
“Excuse you,” I say, but with attitude, and while trying not to notice the passersby staring me down like I’m trying to shoplift an entire case of frozen pizzas. “Social distancing.” I shoo him back.
He hooks his palm around the back of his neck and stares down the Salty Snacks aisle. “Oh, um, sorry, but you’re not supposed to hoard . . . toilet paper.”
“I’m not.” I lean my elbow on the cart handle, mentally tap-tap-tapping as a frantic shelf-stocker in a black apron and an “Ask Me about Super Savings” button rushes between us.
I know you’re not supposed to judge a book by its cover, but I’m sorry. I have this guy pegged. My age, floppy red-brown hair, nice teeth, those techie catalog glasses, and real collared-shirt energy—so much that it’s like hi, yes, you’re obviously from around here and own at least one leather item that’s been monogrammed.
“Actually, you’ve got six packages.” He says it like it pains him a little to be the one to point this out. And yeah, I made sure to score a load from Lou in Inventory as soon as I arrived because I read the news. “The shelves are empty,” he says, “and it’s just—well—you’re only supposed to take what you really need. So that there’s enough to go around.”
I eye his basket: a wheel of brie, Clorox wipes, and two bottles of sparkling water.
“So that’s what you really need?” I reach up and pull my bun tighter. “Not that I need to explain myself to you, but this is my job.” Like it pains me a little to be the one to point this out. “I
deliver groceries.”
His mouth forms an O as he drags his fingers through his nice haircut. A bright shade of pink swallows up the freckles on the tops of his cheeks and I almost feel bad because, well, the absolute truth is that he’s kind of adorable, if you’re into that sort of thing. “I—wow—okay,” he says. “I’m sorry.” He coughs, which is so not the thing to do right now. Everyone within earshot looks at him like he’s Patient Zero in the zombie apocalypse. “I’m—can we just, like, start over? I’m Jonah and I’m really kind of desperate here.”
“I’m Max and that’s really not my problem.”
“Look.” He shakes it off. “I can pay you for the toilet paper.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a (monogrammed!) leather wallet, fishing a handful of bills from it. “How’s forty dollars sound?”
He holds it out and I stare down my nose, not wanting to admit to this boy who has at least a hundred just sitting there that, to me, forty bucks sounds really, really good. “I don’t want your dirty money,” I say, with more conviction than I feel.
He frowns. “I’m not, like, in the Mafia. I got it in a birthday card from my grandma.”
“I mean germs. Cash is covered in them.”
“Oh. Right. Those.” He nods once, returning the money to his wallet. He rocks back on his heels before jumping out of the way of an oncoming cart with a squeaky wheel. “Okay then. Well, I’m sure we can negotiate a deal.”
“Oh, so you’re a lawyer?”
“My dad actually. M and A. That stands for mergers and acquisitions.”
“I know what M and A stands for.” I don’t. “So what do you propose?”
He looks down at his basket and I see that he bites his nails. So do I. “Trade sparkling water for toilet paper.”
I tilt my head, all you’ve got to be kidding me.
“Oh, come on,” he protests. “Someone on your list definitely ordered sparkling water if they’re from Fountain Valley, and I got the last two bottles.” He holds one up and shakes it as enticement. “Oops, probably shouldn’t do that,” he says.
“No deal.”
“Okay, okay.” He holds up a finger. “You drive a hard bargain. I’ll throw in the brie too.”
I begin walking away with my cart. No thank you.
“Fine,” he calls after me. “Fine and the Clorox wipes.” I stop. Wait. This just got interesting. “Look,” he says once he has my attention. “We can make it official and everything.” He has his palm up like a stop sign, like hear me out. “I, Jonah Stephens”—hand on his heart now—is he for real?—“in exchange for toilet paper and . . . other good and valuable consideration, yadda, yadda, yadda . . . do hereby agree to transfer all of my . . . assets in this here grocery basket to you—what was your name again?”
I roll my eyes. “Max.”
“Max.” He grins, pleased with himself. “This agreement constitutes the entire agreement with respect to the matters set forth herein and may not be amended without the mutual consent of the parties hereto. How’s that?”
I sigh. “Think I can get that in writing?”
“Actually, that’s a common misconception. Verbal contracts are just as binding.”
“Learn something new every day.” I make my eyes wide and innocent. “Okay then. You’ve got yourself a deal.”
“Really? Awesome. That’s great! I would shake your hand, but—” He gestures at the madness going on all around us in the store and instead unloads the brie and sparkling water into my cart. He’d been right. They’d been on my list.
Slowly, I take a pack of toilet paper and use the only nail whose life my teeth have miraculously spared to rip into the plastic, selecting a single roll. “Catch,” I say, and throw it over to him.
“What’s this?” He squeezes the roll.
“Toilet paper.” Obviously.
“Yeah, but I—”
“You didn’t say how much.” I pause a beat for him to catch up. “The contract simply stated that I owed you toilet paper. Period. Frankly, I think I’m being generous. It’s a double roll.”
“Okay, but I clearly meant—I mean—this—”
“Sorry.” I shrug. “Verbal contracts are binding, I hear.”
I turn as I’m walking away with my loot. He’s standing on his tiptoes. “Come on. It’s not like you can give someone an opened package!”
“That was from my stash,” I yell from the end of the aisle. “Pleasure doing business with you.” I salute. Shopping lists complete.
chapter two
JONAH
“I’m still confused as to why you have a single roll of toilet paper.”
Olivia stares at my pitiable offering, tapping her fingernail on the Carrara countertop like a small but suitably disdainful gavel. Her expression reads, as always: What the hell is wrong with you? It should be ironic, since she’s wearing an aquamarine bathrobe she hasn’t removed in at least three days—it looks . . . hard—and she has her chestnut hair in slowly unraveling space buns. But my older sister can look judicial, and by that I mean deeply condescending, even without regular hygiene.
“Well, it turned out we didn’t really specify,” I manage weakly.
I’m still trying to remember how that happened. We were negotiating and it seemed to be fairly equitable . . . and then I was looking at her big green eyes and the way the right corner of her lip moved when she smiled and then I had no toilet paper and yeah it all makes sense.
“Do you know what an Unconscionable Contract is?” Olivia asks.
“I can speculate,” I mutter. “It’s not a big deal. I got another brie—”
“Not a big deal! Do you know how many times a day I poop, Jonah? Don’t give me that face. This is not embarrassing. My intestines are like an active volcano.” Olivia has been away for the last year at UCLA, but the pandemic forced her home even before the shutdown. Olivia has Crohn’s disease, which, for her, is basically a constant inflammation in her bowels, and it puts her at greater risk. The occasional brie is one of the few fatty foods she’ll allow herself. That and Chips Ahoy! chewy chocolate chip cookies, but only when under duress. “I’m going to have to origami my toilet paper for who knows how long. Death by a thousand tiny wipes.”
“I bought you some moist towelettes at the gas station,” I proffer, then sigh. “They only had one pack, though. And it’s travel-size.”
She takes a deep breath and examines me. Her eyes are sharp and small and hazel like our mom’s had been . . . minus the warmth. “It all just seems a little . . . odd for you,” she says finally, picking at her teeth.
“The embarrassing handling of a negotiation—”
“No,” she corrects, analyzing some residual broccolini. We had that for dinner two days ago. “That’s standard fare. I meant the actual gumption to negotiate with a stranger. You screamed ‘Stranger Danger’ every time someone walked by us in a parking lot until you were twelve. You’re neurotic.”
A diagnosed neurotic, in fact. First came the GAD: generalized anxiety disorder. That one sucks, but it’s the panic disorder that truly kicks my ass. I earned that label in eighth grade following my first public panic attack. They kept going from there, chipping away little pieces of me. And they led, of course, to the big one.
“I wanted toilet paper—” I murmur.
“Jonah.”
“Okay, I wanted to keep talking to her,” I admit. “I . . . well . . . I think we had a moment.”
It was the loose strands of hair falling around her cheeks. It was the way she spoke . . . the confidence and the easy lopsided smile and the way her eyebrows arched and fell in a second conversation that was surprisingly easy to decipher: vaguely amused, this boy is an idiot, vaguely amused, this boy is an idiot . . .
And yeah, they never indicated: Oh, he’s cute. Or: I wish he would ask for my number. God, I wish I’d asked for her number
. A last name. A chance. All I have is Max.
Olivia is rubbing the bridge of her nose. “I hate when you slip into reverie. Jonah.”
“Sorry,” I mutter. “I just can’t help but think she was the one. Except less melodramatic. But also possibly not, because I keep picturing her turning around and I think I can hear music.”
“It’s a pandemic, dickwad. Not the start of Twilight. I am immunocompromised.”
Olivia overenunciates this like I’ve never heard the word. Like Kate hasn’t already said it to me four hundred times this week, as if we are protecting the last Siberian tiger. It wasn’t exactly helping my stress levels in the grocery store. Kate sent me in because she was on a work call, and she told me to be careful and not to touch anything but, like, that’s what shopping is.
“I know,” I say.
“And you’re not exactly a pillar of stability—” she starts.
“I know.”
Olivia gives one last gavel tap, takes her glasses off, and begins cleaning them with her disturbingly brittle robe. I await my sentence.
“You’re a dipshit,” she pronounces.
“Thank you.”
“This is a horrible idea. Forget about her. Join me in my super bubble and wait out the apocalypse in isolated, heart-numbing misery like an intelligent young man.”
I wave her on impatiently.
“Fine,” she says. “You want to see her again. I need toilet paper. I think we can solve both our problems in one fell swoop. You said she worked as a personal shopper. So, we simply find out which company she works for, procure an order from said Max, and voilà. I can wipe my ass, and you can make one of yourself.”
I frown. “This sounds a little . . . stalker-y.”
“I prefer sleuthing, but call it what you will.”
“Don’t you think she’s going to figure out the incredibly unlikely coincidence?”
Olivia pauses. “Possibly. But I want toilet paper. Do you want to see her or not?”
“Well . . . yeah . . .”
She starts down the hallway, her aquamarine bathrobe fluttering out behind her like a cape. “Follow me.”