“Figures.”
“Did you know your dad used to play the sax?”
I raised my eyebrows and turned to Dad, who looked sheepish. “For real? In the marching band or something?”
“That, and I was in a regular band too. Nothing serious, just a couple of guys who liked to jam and considered themselves the next Clapton and Kenny G.”
“I can see it,” said Gyver. I was glad he could, because I couldn’t. The marching band, yes, but a band band? I couldn’t imagine Dad being a Gyver—on a stage with people yelling and cheering his name. Mom loved to reminisce about how Dad had been the geekiest of geeks when they met, and how she’d taught him as much about being social and stylish as he’d taught her about statistics.
“We should play sometime,” Gyver said.
“I’d love to jam … as soon as I figure out where Mia’s mom hid my sax.” Dad reached out for a fist bump. I wanted to laugh or put my pillow over my face and die from embarrassment. “So, kiddo, now that you’re awake, what can I get you? Milkshake? Juice? How about some soup?”
I wasn’t hungry but Gyver would eat it, so I said “sure,” still staring at this stranger who looked like my father but was way more animated than I could remember seeing him.
“Be back in a jiff.” He whistled on his way out the door. Whistled.
“Who was that and what have you done with my father?” I asked Gyver.
“What?” he answered, shifting out of his chair and onto my bedside. “Your dad’s cool.”
“Since when are you guys BFFs? And how’d you learn he played the sax when I’ve never even heard him mention it?” I tried not to sound jealous.
“Mi, we carpool most days. Spend enough time in a sedan with someone and you bond.” He fiddled with the hospital bracelet around my wrist.
“What else do you know? What was his band called?”
Gyver laughed. “You can ask him, you know. He’d tell you.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, but part of me wondered if he would. It’s not like he’d lacked opportunities over the past seventeen years. Maybe, and the thought made me a little ill, he thought I wouldn’t care. Maybe, and this thought made me feel even worse, I wouldn’t have. Our relationship had always been based on tasks, not talks—we could do puzzles, play board games, use his telescope to find shooting stars—but anything deeper than “how was your day?” resulted in awkward pauses.
When Dad came back, he was bearing a tray laden with soup, milkshakes, three different bottles of juice, and french fries and wearing a guilty grin. “I know your mom wants me to go on a diet, but the fries smelled good.”
“I won’t tell,” I replied, breathing through my mouth because for me the fry smell was nauseating. “If you tell me more about your band.” I stifled a yawn and hoped I could stay awake long enough to hear his answer.
My phone chirped. Gyver lifted it from the bedside table, flipped it over, and scowled. “I think you’d better answer this one.”
“The cheering references too complicated for you?” I’d been here two weeks and the girls had left three days ago for Penn State. Their updates were prolific, silly, and bittersweet. Ally bawled when I told her I wouldn’t be back for camp. Hil called my mom and complained. Lauren promised to document everything and had bombarded me with photos and video clips.
Gyver handed me the phone, then stood and paced.
I looked from him to the screen. Ryan. So? He’d texted plenty before, and Gyver begrudgingly handled it when I was too tired or queasy. What was the issue?
I opened the message: Miss u. Can I drve up tmw?
What? I fumbled with the keys. No. Sorry. Not a good idea. Miss you too.
I put the phone down and debated whether I felt sad because I had to say no, disappointed because I wanted to see him, or thrilled because he missed me. I hadn’t decided or responded to Gyver when my phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Mia. God, it’s good to hear you.” Ryan’s smile warmed his voice and my cheeks.
“You too.”
“How ’bout I call in sick, borrow Chris’s car, and come up tomorrow. I don’t have the address, but you said Bridgeport, right? That’s about four hours from here.”
“Ryan—”
“If I left early, I could be there around lunch. I’d stay until midnight—your grandparents go to bed early, right? And I’d be back before work the next day. I’d be tired, but you’re worth it.”
“Ryan—”
“I miss you. Don’t you miss me?”
“Of course, but it’s not a good time.”
“C’mon. Your parents can’t exile you to Connecticut. They won’t get mad if I visit. Your mom loves me. Or they don’t even have to know I came. We can be quiet.”
My eyes stalked Gyver’s back. I blushed. He was in the room during what amounted to a booty call. How I felt about Ryan booty-calling was irrelevant; there was no way I could say yes, so there was no point in thinking about how good it felt to kiss him. Or even if I still wanted to.
My door opened. It did all day, all night. I didn’t turn and look.
“I wish you could; it’s just not a good time.”