I shake my head. “There’s no such thing as good pain. You’re crazy.” But I keep her hand tight in mine.
She squeezes so hard that my hand starts to go numb, and it’s easy to imagine I’m holding Meg’s hand instead, talking her through a contraction, wiping her sweaty hair away from her face as she pushes her way through labor. “I’m here,” I tell her. “I know it hurts but it’ll be over soon. You’re doing great.”
She smiles at me and squeezes my fingers as she follows the doctor’s order to push again.
Is it possible to have a flashback to a moment that never happened?
The alternate universe only lasts a second, and then I’m back with Joni, and the tattoo guy is wiping off the last of the excess ink and showing her what it looks like in the mirror. Joni claps with glee, then he covers her shoulder in ointment and a bandage, she pays her bill, and we’re back in the car.
“Thanks for coming with me,” she says.
“No problem. It was fun…in a sadistic kind of way.”
“You want to go get some food? I could use a sugar boost after all the bloodletting back there.”
“Works for me.” Really, she could suggest crashing a wedding or shoplifting a mouse from the pet store or going to buy nipple clamps, and I’d probably agree. Tonight, I’m free.
We get grilled cheeses and milk shakes and a giant tub of waffle fries to share and sit along the lakeshore. It’s strange, hanging out with a girl who eats junk food. If I’d ever seen Meg eat a waffle fry, I would have collapsed in shock.
Joni tells me more about her family. Her dad and stepmom got married when she was four, and she has one full sister (Stevie, the girl I saw at her house), two stepbrothers (Elijah’s the only one who still lives at home), and two half-siblings—the Super Soaker twins. Her real mother died in a boating accident when Joni was two, so she never knew her.
“What’s it like having such a big family?” I ask.
“Loud.” She shakes her head. “I love my little brother and sister, but they’re intense, man. Always running around and screaming and demanding attention. I got the job at Whole Foods ’cause I was sick of being stuck in the house with them all the time. I guess I’m not a kid person.”
Not a kid person. Good to know. I make a point of taking a huge sip of milk shake so I don’t have to respond.
“What about you?” Joni asks.
I wait a minute for the brain freeze to subside, and then say, “Not really a kid person either.”
“No, I mean what about your family? Your life?”
I figure the best way to approach this conversation is to pretend the last year and a half never happened. Anything post-Meg is off limits. Anything pre-Meg is fair game. It’s still being honest—just with some restrictions. I tell Joni about my mom and my nonexistent dad and soccer and UCLA.
“Have you ever thought about trying to find your father?” she asks.
Gee, what a timely inquiry.
I don’t know if this information lies in pre-Meg green light or post-Meg red. It’s a little of both. I decide to be as honest as I can, without fully going there.
“Yeah. I’ve thought about it.”
“What would you say to him if you found him?”
What’s with all the questions? In all our years of friendship, Dave never once asked me about my dad.
I don’t know how to respond. We’re getting too close to the danger zone. I shrug. “What would you say to your mother if you could see her again?”
“Well, that’s different. My mother didn’t choose to leave me,” Joni says.
I suck in a breath.
“Oh shit, Ryden. I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.” She puts a hand on my shoulder.
I stare at the setting sun. “I know, I know, you say things you don’t mean. It’s a fault. You’re working on it.”
Joni sighs. “What I meant was what I would say to my mother is different because—”
“Believe me, I know all the different ways someone can leave you,” I bite out.
There’s silence as the last of the sun disappears over the horizon.
“Can we go back to having fun now?” Joni asks, her voice more unsure than I’ve ever heard it.
I glance at her. She’s looking at me with a hopeful grin, holding out a handful of Pixy Stix. I can’t help it. I laugh. Joni’s really freaking good at knowing exactly how to make me feel better—even when she was the one to make me feel shitty in the first place. “Another peace offering?”
“You could say that.”
I take a blue one. “Where did you get these?”
“From my bag.”
“What else you got in there?”
She holds it out to me. “See for yourself. I have no secrets.”
“Except for the tattoo,” I remind her.
“You know how to make that secret go away, friend.” She points to my eyebrow.