I park my bike against the porch railing, careful to avoid Agnes’s flower bed. I pull Freddie up with both my hands from where he sits on the stoop, and he kisses my nose.
“Good morning,” he says. The chill in the air covers his bare arms with goose bumps, but my body is still warm from the bike ride here.
Last night I stayed up for hours, playing out different scenarios of what might happen today in my head. But every time, I made the same decision.
As Freddie leads me inside, a huge yawn escapes me. “You wanna have breakfast?” he asks. “Or maybe lie down? Watch some TV?” I can see he’s nervous too, and that somehow eases my own nerves.
I’ve only seen Freddie’s bedroom in glimpses, which seems like a silly thing to get anxious about. But I am. “Let’s go to your room,” I tell him.
He swallows. “Is this you coming on to me?”
I grin. “Oh yeah.”
The dinosaur wallpaper border trimming the ceiling of Freddie’s room is definitely a leftover from the previous owners, but it’s easy to imagine little Freddie growing up in this room, too. He has a few rap posters up and an old calendar still set to September of last year, like he’d decided to stop keeping track of time.
His queen-size bed is a four-poster with green plaid sheets and beat-up Spider-Man pillowcases, which have undoubtedly known Freddie at least as long as I have.
The bed is rumpled but made, and it reminds me of the night we shared a bed in that disgusting hotel room. It feels like so long ago. The heartbreak I felt that night is a memory so distant I can hardly remember it being real.
I wait for him to close the door behind us, but then I realize: he doesn’t have to.
I take a quick step toward him, and then another. Him with bare feet and me with my boots on makes me even taller than usual. I dip my forehead down and let it rest against his shoulder. His fingers knead against my waist, like a cat’s paws.
My lungs shudder as I sling my arms around his neck. I respond with an openmouthed kiss and slide my tongue past his lips.
I want this. I’ve wanted it since that day we kissed in the locker room, but that doesn’t make this moment any less nerve-racking for me. Freddie’s . . . equipment is different from what I’m used to working with. What if I’m terrible at it?
He groans, deeply. “This isn’t why I invited you over. I mean, it is, but it’s not. It doesn’t have to be.”
He wraps his arms around me and presses me so hard against him that I can feel our ribs crash together.
“This is why I came over,” I say between rasping breaths.
I pull back and sit down on the edge of the bed, crossing my foot over my knee. I am suddenly dizzy. This is the moment when Freddie and I change our relationship forever. When we are more than childhood friends or Peter Pan and Wendy Darling. My fingers shake as I pull at the tight knots on my combat boots.
Freddie kneels down in front of me and places his hand on top of mine, stilling my nerves. He takes over the action of untying my shoes, and does so gently. Once he yanks off my first boot, he takes my other foot and places it on his thigh like how Hattie would before I knew how to tie my own shoes. After removing my boots, he removes my socks one at a time, and I swallow a giggle because I know my feet reek after the bike ride here.
But he doesn’t seem to care. He sucks the air right out of my chest when he kisses my knees through the holes in my jeans one at a time.
I take off my T-shirt and unhook my bra with one hand, and something about undressing myself evaporates a sliver of my anxiety and reminds me that maybe having sex with Freddie won’t be so different from my past experiences. As sweet as it was for him to help me with my boots, there’s something powerful about taking off my own clothing and choosing to reveal myself to someone as dear to me as he is.
Freddie, still on his knees in front of me, looks up. “If you’re not ready,” he says, “we don’t—”
I pull him up by his biceps and he’s on top of me. “I’m ready,” I tell him.
And so is he. Or at least his body tells me that he is.
I slip my hands under the elastic waist of his sweatpants and run my fingers down along his thighs. He sits up a little and takes off his tank top, revealing the acne scars on his shoulders. We both look down to the point where our bodies meet, and I place his hands on the button of my jeans and nod. Carefully, he undresses my lower half. I slide backward toward the head of the bed to help him pull my jeans off, and soon we’re both sitting there on his bed, completely naked.
Freddie stands, and I watch his hazy silhouette move in the early morning shadows. He opens his closet door and reaches for a shoe box on the top shelf. When he returns, he sits on the edge of the bed right next to me. I watch as he puts on a condom in front of me with expert precision, and I guess if I had one of those things, I’d want to make sure I knew how to properly protect it, too.
“They don’t really show that part in the movies,” I tell him. I guess it’s a moment that should be awkward, but it’s not.
He turns to me. “You’re sure? You can change your mind whenever you want.”
“I know I can.” My heart doesn’t pound with nerves. My fingers have stopped shaking. I am sure.
Freddie lies back with his head toward the foot of the bed, and I curl my body against his. He kisses me gently, and even here with the two of us completely naked, his kisses make my stomach feel like it’s full of feathers.
When he braces himself above me and asks me to say yes once more, it’s not a nod or a grin, but a firm confirmation. “Yes,” I tell him. “I’m sure.”
Afterward I slip on my underwear and borrow a T-shirt from Freddie. He yanks his sweatpants back on, and the two of us stand in front of his window overlooking the backyard with January sunlight streaming in. He kisses my forehead. My cheeks. My nose. My earlobes. My eyelids. My legs feel weak, but not in the same way they do after a morning of swimming laps.
We are the same people who chased each other across my sandy Mississippi beaches summer after summer and that we’re the same people who were so heartbroken just months ago.
I was so scared that by having sex with Freddie, I would lose part of myself—part of my identity. Instead, I’ve embraced another facet of myself. Life isn’t always written in the stars. Fate is mine to pen. I choose guys. I choose girls. I choose people. But most of all: I choose.
After a moment, we pull the curtains shut tight and crawl into his bed with the sheets wrapped around our shoulders.
Freddie falls asleep with his arms coiled around my waist and his forehead buried in the crook of my neck.
THIRTY-TWO
We sleep in late. Later than I ever have before. And when we wake, even though the world outside is cold—well, cold for Mississippi—Freddie’s room is hot with sunlight waiting to be let in.
Freddie makes us omelets with all kinds of ingredients I would never try on my own, like smoked salmon, cream cheese spread, capers, and fresh dill. I set the table and turn on Agnes’s radio and fill our glasses with fresh-squeezed juice. It might be lunchtime, but it’s still breakfast. It’s still our morning.
My heart is elastic. I realize it for the first time. For so long I thought there was a limit to how much love I could hold and who I could give it to. But life is so much more dynamic than that. Love doesn’t disappear when you give it away, and new love doesn’t make old love any less legitimate.
And that’s it. That’s what I’ve found with Freddie.
“What?” he asks, and turns to face me with the spatula in one hand.
I sink into a kitchen chair and press the tips of my fingers to my lips. I don’t even realize I’ve said it out loud. “I love you,” I tell him again.
He holds on to it for a minute. I can see him collecting my words and tucking them away. His brow furrows.
My heart pounds in my chest so violently that I wonder if he can hear it, too. But I force-feed myself Ruth-style logic. I didn’t say I love you to hear i
t back. It’s fine. I say it over and over again in my head.
“I think I love you, too, Peter Pan.” And then he just turns around and finishes our omelets, like he’s said the most normal thing either of us could imagine. It’s casual, and normal and perfect.
I slowly let out the breath I was holding. I want this to be my normal—to be my every day. A world where I don’t have to worry about my dad or Hattie or our rotting trailer or my dim future stuck here in this Neverland.
Maybe I can’t have that. At least not all of it. So I take his words and I save them for the chocolate box beneath my bed.
We spend the rest of the day curled up on the couch. I put my pants back on, but I’ve already gotten too used to walking around pantless, which is a liberty I don’t have in my own home.
When Agnes and Bart finally make it back home, they’re both a little too busy to notice us. But I can feel the difference even in the way we sit, and I can’t believe there’s not some glowing sign above our heads that reads: XXX JUST HAD SEX XXX. It was like that with Grace, too. Something about having sex with someone for the first time makes me feel like the whole world knows exactly what we’ve done.
Freddie clears his throat too often and spends more time staring at the ceiling than any sane person should.
Agnes sneaks up behind us and tickles each of our necks.
We both jump a little. Oh God. She knows.
“I like having y’all two around the house,” she says.
I laugh in a short burst. “Thanks for, uh, letting us watch your TV and eat your food.” And have sex in your grandson’s bedroom.
“Ya know,” she says, sauntering back into the kitchen, “Vivienne was a sweet girl, but she never came around the house. That girl was always in a hurry to be somewhere.”
“That’s because you always asked her too many questions,” calls Freddie over his shoulder.
I turn my head away from Freddie and cover my smile with my fist. I swell with pride a little too much at the fact that Agnes prefers me over Viv. And I’m thankful to her, too, for noticing the change between Freddie and me without making some big deal of it.
“What do you have to do tomorrow?” asks Freddie.
I turn back to him and rest my head on his shoulder, suddenly feeling much more comfortable with Agnes in the house. I’ve almost forgotten that my weekend is only halfway over. “I’m supposed to plan a baby shower for Hattie,” I say.
He laughs. “Yeah, I don’t even know where to start there.”
“Did someone say baby shower?” shouts Agnes from the kitchen, where she’s washing some of the china she swapped for in Biloxi.
“Yes, ma’am,” I call back to her.
She appears in the living room again, drying her soapy hands on her apron. “Oh, Ramona darling, if it’s not overstepping and if your mama doesn’t have any other plans, I’d love to help host a shower for Hattie here.”
I turn around in my seat and pop up on my knees. “Wait. Are you serious?” I shake my head. “And trust me. My mama doesn’t have any plans at all.”
She shrugs. “I don’t have any granddaughters—at least not ones I know of—and I’ve known you and Hattie since you were both just little bits.”
“That would mean so much,” I say. “To both of us! And it’d be a major help.”
“Well, good. It’s decided then.” She crosses her arms over her chest like she’s ready to get down to business. “Now, I think we can do some pink, but I really like the idea of doing different kinds of pastels.”
“I know Hattie likes lots of the baby stuff with stars and clouds on it. Oh! Or she said we could do a Mardi Gras–themed shower.”
“I like that idea quite a bit.” She nods. “Well, I think we’re gonna have to plan us a shopping trip.”
It’s not that I’m suddenly excited for Hattie’s shower, but I’m no longer dreading it, which is more than I thought was possible. After Agnes checks her calendar, we settle on a date.
I stay for dinner and Agnes makes too much spaghetti with Cajun sausage meatballs. After dinner, when I decide to head home, Agnes insists that Freddie take the truck and drive me home with my bike in the back and that I take home enough leftovers for everyone.
As we pull into the trailer park and the road turns into a path of rubble, I can hear a shouting match happening, which is nothing new, except the closer we get to my front door, the louder the shouting grows. We turn the corner in time to see Hattie throwing a potted plant on the hood of Tyler’s car just as he’s getting in the driver’s side. The ceramic pot shatters, leaving a dent.
“Oh, Christ.” I jump out of the passenger-side door and set the leftovers and my bag on the roof of the truck. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! What’s going on here?”
“Mind your own business, little sis,” says Hattie. Her face is splotchy with anger and her finger is pointed right at Tyler. “How am I supposed to expect anything from you? How are we supposed to count on you?” she asks him. And the we she speaks of does not include me. These are the questions I’ve been waiting for Hattie to ask for months, but now that she finally is, it’s strangely unsatisfying.
“I don’t want to be a maintenance guy for the rest of my life,” yells Tyler, his head sticking out the car window.
The door across the street creaks as Mrs. Pearlman joins the audience.
“And what else do you think you’re gonna do with your life? Huh, Tyler? You think you’re gonna go to some fancy college or become a famous bass player? You think someone’s going to pay you to test video games all day or some bullshit? I don’t even think that’s a real job!”
She picks up another plant and hurls it at his windshield. I hear a crack but can’t tell if it’s the pot or the glass.
“Should we call the police?” Freddie whispers.
I shake my head. For a moment, I’d actually forgotten he was even here.
Maybe in other neighborhoods, people call the cops for stuff like this, but not here. In my neighborhood, this is just another night.
“You think I want to wait tables for the rest of my life?” asks Hattie.
“No one made you keep it,” Tyler retorts. “You chose this. And now you’re no better than your whore mom.”
I hear a low ohhhh among the slowly growing crowd of onlookers.
“Don’t talk to my sister like that,” I shout.
For the first time, Tyler truly realizes I’m here. “Oh great,” he says. “The whole committee is here now. I know how you can’t make decisions without your carpet-munching sister. I can’t even believe you’d let that near our kid.”
A wave of disgust and hostility washes over me. I want so badly to make him feel as small and as dumb as he is.
“Hey!” Hattie shouts. She snaps her fingers at him and then slaps her hands on the hood of his car. “You don’t talk about my sister like that. This is about me and you.” I feel Freddie step forward behind me, but I push him back.
Hattie turns to me. “Ramona, go inside.”
“No,” I tell her. “For as long as he lives in this house with us and is part of your life, this asshole is my problem, too.”
“Well, lucky for you, because I’m out of here,” says Tyler. “One Leroux sister on my ass is bad enough.”
Hattie’s shoulders melt into a slouch, and I can see she’s losing her will. “Baby, don’t go. We can find you another job.”
I can’t understand why she would ever want him to stay, but I almost get why she might be torn between putting up with his bullshit and losing the father of her kid.
Tyler isn’t having it. “I’m done with this shit, Hattie. Call me when the baby’s born.”
The tears start rolling down her cheeks, melting her heavy clumps of mascara immediately into charcoal rivers. “Baby, I need you. We need you. You’re gonna be such a good daddy.”
I grit my teeth and try so hard to feel for her in this moment, but I can’t. I won’t. “Good riddance,” I say a little too loudly.
T
yler cranks the music up so loud his speakers crackle. He reverses out and what’s left of my dad’s potted plants on his windshield falls to the ground.
Hattie goes inside and slams the door, locking herself inside.
Freddie touches my arm. “Let me take you back to my place.”
“You should go.” I shake my head and pound on the door. “Let me in, Hattie!”
“I need to be alone!” she yells back.
“Come on, Ramona,” he says. “I can’t leave you here.”
“Please, Freddie. Just go.” I turn to him. “I gotta deal with this on my own.”
He pulls me close to him and whispers, “Call me if you need anything. Seriously, anything.”
We share a quick kiss in the shadows of the porch light.
I keep knocking on the door as he walks down the steps and leaves my bike there against the side of the trailer along with my bag and the leftovers before getting in Bart’s truck and driving away.
After a few minutes, the lock finally clicks and the door swings open. Hattie stands there, mascara running down her cheeks.
She stumbles into my arms and I hold her. Her belly presses against me, reminding me that I will always choose her even when she doesn’t choose me. The Leroux sisters. It will always be the two of us in the end.
THIRTY-THREE
The house is quiet until my dad gets home later that evening.
I sit on the couch with my world lit homework spread out on the coffee table.
He sits down in his chair. “Your sister home?”
I nod. “She’s in my room.”
He takes off his baseball cap and drops his keys inside before placing it on the table next to my papers. He chews away the cuticle on his thumb. Dad’s fingers get so dry they chap sometimes from washing his hands in the kitchen so often. He’s no good at putting on lotion and leaving them be. “She, uh, talk to Tyler at all?”