Page 63 of Find My Way Down to You

Shortly after, things slow down. The pizzeria has almost emptied out. Only a smattering of customers here and there, mostly regulars.

“Order seventy-two for Thao!” Max calls overI am the son and heir of nothing in particular.

I slump next to her behind the front counter. Cooling sweat slips down my temple. My feet ache. Max looks just as exhausted. Junie steps out of the kitchen, towel on his shoulder.

“That was nuts.”

“Unbelievable,” I agree. “When’s the last time we were that busy?”

Max twirls her hair into a sloppy bun high on her head. “Not since before the thing with Hal.”

I blink at her. “Since the thing with who?”

“Hal,” she repeats.

“Who’s Hal?”

Max’s eyes widen just as Junie says, “Dude, not cool,” his face twisted.

I look between them, confused.

“August, don’t joke around like that,” Max says bitterly.

“I’m not—” The words stop cold on my tongue. I’ve seen that expression on Max before. And I know exactly what it means.

Who are you?

A familiar, unwelcome rawness scrapes at my chest.

The last time Max looked at me this way was not long after London died. Back then, I barely got out of bed to shower or change my clothes. All I did was sleep and cry and sleep more.

I missed almost three weeks of school. Max came to see me every day. She’d bring my class assignments, then sit with me for hours, talking even though I never had anything to say. The ache was too consuming. She didn’t seem to mind.

Except, one afternoon, she came by begging me to leave my bed for some ice cream and sunshine.

I couldn’t. No, I didn’twantto.

What would ice cream fix? A strawberry sundae wouldn’t bring London back. It was pointless.

Everything was.

That didn’t stop Max. Her stubbornness is as tough as iron.

Finally, I rasped,Go get fucking ice cream by yourself.

It all came without thinking—the impulsive words. My anger. And the impact was instant.

Tears welled in Max’s eyes. She didn’t cry in front of me. Maybe she didn’t at all. But she stared at me like she does now. Like she doesn’tknowme.

Like I’m no longer August.

Junie won’t meet my eyes. “Hal was one of us. He sat right there.” He points to the empty stool at the bar, then whispers, “All the time.”

I stare at the red gingham pattern, fading from years of use. I try to picture all the customers who’ve sat there. But I can’t see him.

There’s a hazy, heavy fog clouding my head. Everything else about the pizzeria is crystal clear. But that stool—who sat there—isn’t. I reach for memories of this Hal guy. Nothing appears.

Nausea roils in my stomach. It’s probably just hunger. I skipped breakfast.