“He nearly married hissister!” I say dramatically, and understanding lights up Zach’s face.
“You’re talking aboutLe pontagne!” There is visible relief in his face, and a smile crawls across it.
“Le something montagne,”I say, glancing at the DVD case in my hand. “Le somethingshitagne.Though my mom lovedit.”
Zach laughs now, and even though it seems like something he does easily, I feel proud. He slides the movies from me and puts his elbows on the counter, leaning forward. “So therealverdict? I promise I won’t mind. You can tell me if you hated it.”
I can’t. Not with his dancing eyes and his lips tilted up in a half smile, on their mark, ready to full-on sprint into a grin.
“It was good,” I say carefully. “Kind of confusing.”
Zach watches me, nodding slowly.
“Like, I just didn’t get what made the guy snap when he’d been so normal the whole movie.”
He nods again, squinting to take in what I am saying.
“And it was fake. Really, really fake.” He is fully smiling now. “I think I saw the ketchup bottle in the corner of the screen once.”
“I know!” Zach laughs, elated. “It’s fucking fantastic.”
His laugh is contagious and I laugh, too. There is a ding then as a customer, a middle-aged woman wearing a high ponytail and gym shorts, comes in to return a pile of DVDs.
“So what else do you have?” I ask. I didn’t lie to Zach. The moviewasgood. Weird, but good. And different. More importantly, it gave me an excuse to come back here today.
“I could tell just from looking at you that you’d appreciate it,” he says as we walk to the Horror section.
What doesthatmean? “I look like a slasher chick?” I joke.
His eyes take in all of me, and his cheeks redden the slightest bit. “Just, you know, someone who would understand.”
I don’t know what it means, but I like that answer.
I follow him to the checkout, and someone who looks like a carbon copy of Zach in thirty years comes out to join us. He is just as tall, his hair a reddish brown and thin on top.
“Oh, damn, I’m so sorry,” the man says, addressing me. “He’s pushing Ciano on you?”
“He’s not pushing,” I say at the same time Zach says, “Shelikesit, Dad.”
The man—Zach’s dad—raises both hands in surrender. “It’s an acquired taste. But at least he’s giving you one DVD at a time, not the whole collection.” He turns to his son. “You could do that, you know. They’re not exactly in high demand.”
Zach keeps his eyes on the computer when he says, “I want to hear what she thinks of each one.”
“Oh,” is all his father says.
Oh,is all I can think as Zach hands me the DVD, signature smile in place. And then I am stumbling out the door, heart fluttering a little bit. I’m trying to figure out how other girls manage to mount bikes while wearing a skirt, praying he isn’t watching me.
Hoping he is.
AFTER
January
Since he’s just gotten back from his trip—and I guess he wanted to see me after he heard about the bus crash—I spend Tuesday night at my dad’s, even though I rarely see him on weekdays.
My father lives in a tiny apartment, in the busiest part of downtown Lyndale. He isn’t in it often, but even when he’s home, when he’s not flying, it’s not my favorite place in the world. I love my dad, but I feel like we exist on separate islands. Like with my brother, whenever we are in a room together, it’s as if there’s this enormous gulf, a wedge between us that nothing can fill.
The sad thing is, I remember that my dad was my favorite person in the world when I was a kid. I remember him hoisting me into the air, letting me walk with my feet on top of his in the grocery store, teaching me to ride a bike in the driveway of our old house on the east side of town. He bought me my first viola. He called me Sunshine, in what remains of his lilting Caribbean accent, because he said I lit up every room I walked into. And I didn’t walk, Iburstinto every room, according to him.
