Before he can get the last word out, I’ve wrapped him in a three-way bone-crushing hug. “Thank you for coming, I—” My voice comes out strained and raw. I might be getting tears on his suit coat, but I just squeeze him tighter. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me, sir.”
Eric sniffs pointedly from within my boa constrictor embrace. “Dr. D’Angelo. Are youstoned?”
“Very much so, sir.” I release Eric, who’s now grinning.
“I’m proud of you, Julian. Who’s this little fella?”
“BonBon Jovi.” A beam of pure love shoots straight out of my chest. “My son.”
“Well, congratulations to the new father.”
The party’s winding down, with only a few clumps of family having beers and sharing Edna stories. “Are you and BonBon hungry?” Eric asks, squinting an eye at me. “It’s been a while since I partook, but I recall munchies being egregious.”
I shake my head in awe. “You are, simply, always on point.”
“Let’s go. I spotted a diner up the road on the way here. Pancakes on me.”
Ten minutes later, the three of us are seated in a comfortable booth at The Silver Dollar, an old mom-and-pop diner I used to go to with Aunt Edna every Saturday growing up. Eric couldn’t have known that, but it feels special, all the same. I get teary-eyed just looking at the giant accordion menu.
When the server reaches our table, Eric says, “Bacon for the dog, and pancakes for us. Blueberry for me, peanut butter for him. Extra whipped cream.”
“How much extra?” the server asks.
“Does it come in a bottle? Bring the bottle.”
The server salutes, and Eric turns back to me. “Okay, Julian, let me have it.”
I lay it all out. The whole saga. Aunt Edna’s passing, the fight with Nomi, her mystery illness, the feeling that Tonuto’s out to get her, my promising conversation with Dr. Riveras, immediately followed by Dr. Appa’s mind-exploding offer.
“AND I just found he’sdating my mom?!” I grab the can of Reddi-wip one-handed and spray it directly into my upturned mouth, which turns out, is pretty dangerous when you’re trying not to hyperventilate.
“Okay, don’t aspirate on that.” Eric pries the can of whipped cream out of my hand. “No wonder you’re stressed out and smoking joints at funerals. This is a lot.”
I don’t know if it’s getting it all out or just hearing wise, sage Eric, agree that what I’m going through is too much, but after a few minutes, I’m able to breathe again. This time, the emotional support whipped cream slides down my throat the way it’s supposed to.
“What should I do, Eric?” I feed BonBon the last of his bacon. He farts. “Bless you,” I whisper.
Eric smirks. “Well, you’re already nailing step one.”
“Which is?”
“Feeling your feelings. The only way out is through, my friend, and you’re doing a great job feeling your grief.”
I huff. “The one thing I wish I sucked at.”
“Well, usually you do,” Eric muses. “You’ve been letting your brain drive your whole life, from what I can tell. All strategy, no heart. Maybe letting your feelings take control for once would help.”
“My feelings want me to cry and eat canned whipped cream and adopt gassy dogs. Not the smartest.”
“Feelings don’t have to be true, or right, or smart. They just have to be felt.”
“I don’t have time to sit around and mope, Eric. I need to figure out what the fuck I’m doing so I can keep my life from imploding.” I fork a giant bite of pancake into my mouth, just to feel productive.
“Okay,” Eric says. “Let’s do a thought experiment. Imagine it’s next summer, and you’re happy. Form a picture in your mind. Where are you?”
“With Nomi,” I answer immediately.
“In Sparrow Nook?” Eric cuts a bite. “Philadelphia?”
