Later I find Levi in his room, putting clothes neatly into his dresser. His door is wide open, so I let myself in and sit on his bed.
“Want to talk about it?” he asks. It’s like he senses me, because I haven’t made a sound.
“Hell, no.”
“You have to talk about it eventually.”
“Eventually doesn’t mean today.” I pat the bed beside me until he joins me. He tucks his arms around my middle and lays us backward, his nose pressed to my shoulder. My eyes are level with his wild hair, but I can hardly see it through my tears. So instead I thread my fingers into it, my lips on his forehead, waiting as teardrops silently drip onto his skin.
He only squeezes me tighter.
“He wants you around the house more,” I eventually say, sniffling wetly.
“That’s…possibly the best thing I’ve heard in a long time.”
“Why?”
“It means your dad likes me more than I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. I’m the one who had a shitty dad all my life—what was I supposed to expect?”
I shake my head, lips rubbing gently back and forth across his hairline. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to expect from all this stuff, either.”
“What…stuff?”
“Dating.”
He puffs a breath onto my shoulder, leaving chills to crawl their way up and down my spine. It feels altogether too pleasant. (I don’t have the emotional capacity to think about that.) “Well,” he says, quietly. “I can stop by once a day if that will make him happy.”
“I’m sure he’ll be way too happy for his own good.” (I say it as an act of rebellion; I know there’s no such thing as too happy for someone who’s dying like my father is dying.) “But are you sure you can fit it in?”
“Bee,” he says, in that gentle tone reserved for me. “Of course.”
“Well, do what you can. He’ll be happy either way.”
My ears are hit with a sudden wave of “Forever Your Girl” by Paula Abdul. We sit listening, silent, for a whole minute before we burst into laughter. Levi rolls onto his back so we’re both looking up at the ceiling, our legs dangling off the edge. Once again, his feet touch the ground. Once again, mine do not.
“You’d better not be laughing at me,” Suzie says, entering the room. Her hands are covered in flour.
“Oh,” Levi says, laughing harder. “Not at all.”
“Levi Brenton.” She says it with such severity that we both stop and lift our heads to look at her. Then she grins. “No more tears tonight, Bee. Let me teach you my ways, with the help of a personal favorite.”
I smile. “I’ll be right in there. Thanks, Suzie.”
She leaves us alone, dancing off to the beat of her music. Levi stands up, hands anxiously adjusting his plain gray tee by pulling on the hem. I totally notice the gray accentuating his form, how lean he is, how nicely toned his arms are, and I want to pull him back to me.
I stand instead. “Hey, Levi?” I ask, tentatively.
Levi takes my hand. “Hmm?”
“I haven’t told Gretchen yet. I just don’t know...how.” I’m whispering, even though there’s no reason to. I know I should feel ashamed for not telling her, but my fear of what she’ll say, of her sadness mirroring mine…I’m not ready for it.
He nods and swallows hard. “It’s not going to be easy. Want me to be there when you do tell her?”
“I just don’t want to talk about it, remember?”
“Oh, I remember. And I’m just reminding you that your denial has to come to an end soon.”
“I’m not in denial,” I protest, slightly hurt by his (all-too-true) accusation.
He shakes his head. “You’re not talking about it because you hope you’ll wake up tomorrow and it will all have been a lie.”
He’s hit the problem in the head, but I’m not ready to confess. I shrug it off. “It’ll be hard no matter what, when, or how.”
“I know,” he whispers. “But for now, let’s bake. Pauluzie is waiting for us.”
I laugh (half-heartedly) at this name combination, taking his hand. “We wouldn’t want to disappoint,” I say, even though my feet are stuck to the floor and my will to move is weak.
Levi seems to notice my hesitation, because he grabs both of my hands and, walking backward, starts to dance. I roll my eyes (my way of getting rid of tears), but his movements pull me in. The beat of the music carries me, and Levi knows all the lyrics (of course he does), and hearing him sing the words “forever your giiiirl” makes me laugh.
“Don’t laugh at me,” he says. “I had no choice but to memorize this song.”
“You can’t even blame this one on childhood,” I say, lightness coming back into my step. “This is all since the divorce.”
Laughing, he accepts the bowl of unmixed ingredients Suzie hands to him and lifts himself up onto the counter. The heels of his Chuck Taylors hit the cupboards, hard enough that his mom says, “Levi, don’t kick the cupboards—you’ll scuff them up.”
“Mom, Mom,” he says over the blaring music. “I will repaint them if I have to. Just let me live a little.” Then he winks at me, pulling me into the little spot he’s made between his legs. I rest my head and shoulders back against his chest, elbows on his thighs. He brings the bowl around to my front so that he’s mixing the dough and holding me. It feels so good to be here that I could cry in relief.
“Hey, Mom, how about a song we all know?” he asks.
Suzie obliges, and after a second of silence from the iPod, Freddie Mercury starts to sing, mournfully and soulfully.
“Now, Bohemian Rhapsody I can definitely do,” I say, and start to sing the next part of the verse. Levi joins in, chuckling, and after one more stir he gives the bowl to his mom and lets me lick the spoon. All I can think is, Levi, like his name is a blessing, like it’s a kiss or a lifeline or a photograph. I’m also thinking, So the baking thing really does work, as I lean into Levi’s embrace.
I let his warmth envelope me.
I stay one more hour, which means I get sent home with a warm plate of cookies. I bring them into the kitchen with me, feeling lighter than I have since my beach day with Levi. I set the plate of cookies down on the counter. “Astrid, Millie?” I ask, but when I turn, I realize they’re already there.
I also realize they’ve been waiting for me, and that they’re crying. Millie leans against Astrid for support, but Astrid doesn’t seem too strong, either.
“Hi, girls,” I say quietly. What else am I supposed to say? They know now; there’s nothing for me to say.
Millie bursts into tears again. I’m carried into their arms by my own need for comfort, wrapping myself around them and into them until we’re entwined, a sister-pretzel, all of us crying over our father. Our tears mingle and mix; our hiccup-sighs are almost a harmony. Then Tom joins us. He wraps his long arms around all three of us girls, kissing my forehead. His sigh is heavy, and it shakes, and that hurts me more than anything.
Not for the first time, I wonder when our hearts will break, or if they’re just dissipating, inch by inch, until there’s nothing left.
Chapter 29