Page 85 of Play Nice

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It’s a rare occasion that I don’t want to think or talk about myself, but tonight is one of those rare occasions. Instead, I ask Austin questions about himself. He shares and I listen. Really listen.

His father’s death was unexpected and hard. His older brothers are overachievers, both assholes but in different ways. His mother was diagnosed with MS when he was a sophomore in college. He’s got an insane amount of student debt that he’s doing his best to chip away at. He’s had two long-term girlfriends—one in high school and one in his early twenties who he thought he’d end up with. They lived together. He was the one to call it off, which he claims is worse because now he has to live with wondering if he did the right thing. She just got married to a guy in his second year of residency.

After they broke up, Austin moved in with his mom.

“It’s not easy to meet people when you live with your mom,” he says, shrugging, then sucking down the last of his milkshake.

Maybe, but women don’t care. It’s a confidence issue. Charlie Manson didn’t own property, and he was only five foot two. But he had charisma. And good hair.

I think I might think about Charlie Manson too much.

“Are you on the apps?” I ask him, stabbing at a soggy fry.

“I was,” he says. “It’s demoralizing. Are you?”

“God no,” I say, laughing. “I have no trouble meeting people.”

The way he looks at me, I understand that he’s sincerely invested in whatever this is between us. It’d be so much simpler if he wasn’t.

I resent him for not being able to keep this casual.

Why, as a man, wear a slim gold chain if you’re open to commitment? That’s the universal symbol for fuckboy. A chain like that comes with a box of ribbed Trojans and a habit of liking Instagram models’ bikini pics.

I know what to do with guys like that. I don’t know what to do with him.

Never fall in love. It’ll ruin your life. More motherly wisdom. Funny, what memories stick.

“How’s your milkshake?” he asks me. “I’ve never had a strawberry milkshake before.”

“You’re missing out,” I say. “You want a sip?”

He shakes his head. “That’s okay.”

There’s an awkward pause as I fiddle with my straw.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” he says. He doesn’t wait for me to respond. “Are we hanging out because you like spending time with me or because you don’t like being alone at the house?”

I take a beat. “Both.”

He laughs. “Fair enough.”

Another beat. “I…I got that other copy of my mom’s book. I started reading it today.”

“What’s that like?”

“It’s pretty…I don’t know. It’s whatever. I can’t figure out if it’s me, in the book, or some fictional character named Cici. I can’t…I can’t remember a lot from that time. I mean, I was seven. How much do you remember from when you were seven?”

“You. I remember you.”

“Wow. Cute.”

“Sorry.” He looks up at the ceiling, runs his hands through his hair. “Um, I haven’t really thought about it. Some, I guess?”

“Some. I have some memories. And then I have my sisters and my dad telling me what happened. I’ve been hearing their versions for so long, believing their versions for so long. And now, now I have my mom’s book. And then, even if I said or did any of the things she wrote about, it could have just been for attention. But…”

A chance to tell him—to tell someone—the truth. Here and now. It’s not all fiction. The haunting is real.