Dad leaned in toward Harry. “I hate delays.” He paused. “How are you doing?”
“I’m good.”
Actually, he was good. And strangely calm. Just as well, since the ER doc had said no Klonopin. Or maybe he’d been through so much in the last few days that there was nothing left to worry about. He’d done a college trip without Mom or Dad. He’d been on a plane and he’d been admitted to the hospital—all without his parents. Okay, so the whole thing had been a disaster of near-biblical proportions and he’d almost gotten arrested for assault and battery, but he’d done all those things and survived. And now he was going home. He’d practically lived a whole decade in the last two days. Best of all—he was proud of himself. Maybe he really was ready for the scary stage of life labeled “College.”
“I used to hate delays,” Harry said.
“How did you cope?”
“Music.” He pulled out his right earbud, put it in Dad’s ear, hit “Play.”
“‘Waterfront’ by Simple Minds.” Dad cocked his head. “It came out the year your grandfather died. After the funeral, Uncle Tom and I took a road trip down to Brighton Beach. We listened to that song over and over on the drive. Tom loved it.”
“I do too.”
Dad sat back, crossed his feet at the ankles. A slow smile settled on his face. “Would you make me up a playlist when we get home? Joy Division, ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart,’ some old New Order, ‘Waterfront.’ That Coheed and Cambria song you’re always playing.”
“‘The Afterman’?”
Dad nodded. “And anything else you think I might like.”
Interesting turn of trust. Dad never let anyone choose anything for him. “How do you feel about U2? There’s a song called ‘Sometimes You Can’t Make It on Your Own.’ Bono wrote it about his dad. You do know who Bono is, right?”
“Really?” Dad raised his eyebrows, then glanced toward the departures board.
“The other trick—if you’re getting super anxious—is to avoid checking the departures board. That gets you locked into the cycle of worry, so, you know, everything escalates.”
“You’re quite a professional at dealing with all this, aren’t you?”
Harry watched his right leg kick to the side. He hadn’t been aware he was ticcing. “I don’t think about it, Dad. I mean, I’ve been doing this my whole life.”
Dad looked at his hands. “Do people treat you differently when you have a label?”
“Depends. But some people are asshats no matter what.”
“I’m not good at letting it all hang out. I can’t see myself explaining to someone that I have . . . a handicap.”
“Then don’t.”
“But you do.”
“Dad, Tourette’s isn’t really something I can hide. Most people have me pegged as odd before I’ve opened my mouth. Tell people what you want them to know.” Harry shrugged. “Or don’t. It’s totally up to you.”
“How do you deal, though, when people judge you?”
It was as if the world had melted away to just them and the snowflakes dancing in the black void beyond the airport windows.
“I tell myself I’m not my diagnosis, that I don’t really care what people think, just like I don’t care that I have Tourette’s. It’s far more of an issue for you and Mom than it’s ever been for me. There’ll always be dicks like Steve in my life, but then I have friends like Max. Well, I don’t have another friend like Max, but you know what I mean. I think if you do have this OCPD thing, it just makes us two messed-up guys against the world. I’m good with that. How about you?”
“Acceptance.” Dad fiddled with his glasses. “That’s an interesting concept.”
Dad’s phone pinged with a text. He shuffled around in his seat, pulled out the phone, slid it back into his jeans pocket.
“Everything okay?”
“Robert. No doubt he wants to talk about my job. As in, whether I still have one.” Dad put his phone away.
“You’re not going to answer him?”