We sleep in late. Later than I ever have before. And when we wake, even though the world outside is cold—well, cold for Mississippi—Freddie’s room is hot with sunlight waiting to be let in.
Freddie makes us omelets with all kinds of ingredients I would never try on my own, like smoked salmon, cream cheese spread, capers, and fresh dill. I set the table and turn on Agnes’s radio and fill our glasses with fresh-squeezed juice. It might be lunchtime, but it’s still breakfast. It’s still our morning.
My heart is elastic. I realize it for the first time. For so long I thought there was a limit to how much love I could hold and who I could give it to. But life is so much more dynamic than that. Love doesn’t disappear when you give it away, and new love doesn’t make old love any less legitimate.
And that’s it. That’s what I’ve found with Freddie.
“What?” he asks, and turns to face me with the spatula in one hand.
I sink into a kitchen chair and press the tips of my fingers to my lips. I don’t even realize I’ve said it out loud. “I love you,” I tell him again.
He holds on to it for a minute. I can see him collecting my words and tucking them away. His brow furrows.
My heart pounds in my chest so violently that I wonder if he can hear it, too. But I force-feed myself Ruth-style logic. I didn’t say I love you to hear it back. It’s fine. I say it over and over again in my head.
“I think I love you, too, Peter Pan.” And then he just turns around and finishes our omelets, like he’s said the most normal thing either of us could imagine. It’s casual, and normal and perfect.
I slowly let out the breath I was holding. I want this to be my normal—to be my every day. A world where I don’t have to worry about my dad or Hattie or our rotting trailer or my dim future stuck here in this Neverland.
Maybe I can’t have that. At least not all of it. So I take his words and I save them for the chocolate box beneath my bed.
We spend the rest of the day curled up on the couch. I put my pants back on, but I’ve already gotten too used to walking around pantless, which is a liberty I don’t have in my own home.
When Agnes and Bart finally make it back home, they’re both a little too busy to notice us. But I can feel the difference even in the way we sit, and I can’t believe there’s not some glowing sign above our heads that reads: XXX JUST HAD SEX XXX. It was like that with Grace, too. Something about having sex with someone for the first time makes me feel like the whole world knows exactly what we’ve done.
Freddie clears his throat too often and spends more time staring at the ceiling than any sane person should.
Agnes sneaks up behind us and tickles each of our necks.
We both jump a little. Oh God. She knows.
“I like having y’all two around the house,” she says.
I laugh in a short burst. “Thanks for, uh, letting us watch your TV and eat your food.” And have sex in your grandson’s bedroom.
“Ya know,” she says, sauntering back into the kitchen, “Vivienne was a sweet girl, but she never came around the house. That girl was always in a hurry to be somewhere.”
“That’s because you always asked her too many questions,” calls Freddie over his shoulder.
I turn my head away from Freddie and cover my smile with my fist. I swell with pride a little too much at the fact that Agnes prefers me over Viv. And I’m thankful to her, too, for noticing the change between Freddie and me without making some big deal of it.
“What do you have to do tomorrow?” asks Freddie.
I turn back to him and rest my head on his shoulder, suddenly feeling much more comfortable with Agnes in the house. I’ve almost forgotten that my weekend is only halfway over. “I’m supposed to plan a baby shower for Hattie,” I say.
He laughs. “Yeah, I don’t even know where to start there.”
“Did someone say baby shower?” shouts Agnes from the kitchen, where she’s washing some of the china she swapped for in Biloxi.
“Yes, ma’am,” I call back to her.
She appears in the living room again, drying her soapy hands on her apron. “Oh, Ramona darling, if it’s not overstepping and if your mama doesn’t have any other plans, I’d love to help host a shower for Hattie here.”
I turn around in my seat and pop up on my knees. “Wait. Are you serious?” I shake my head. “And trust me. My mama doesn’t have any plans at all.”
She shrugs. “I don’t have any granddaughters—at least not ones I know of—and I’ve known you and Hattie since you were both just little bits.”
“That would mean so much,” I say. “To both of us! And it’d be a major help.”
“Well, good. It’s decided then.” She crosses her arms over her chest like she’s ready to get down to business. “Now, I think we can do some pink, but I really like the idea of doing different kinds of pastels.”
“I know Hattie likes lots of the baby stuff with stars and clouds on it. Oh! Or she said we could do a Mardi Gras–themed shower.”
“I like that idea quite a bit.” She nods. “Well, I think we’re gonna have to plan us a shopping trip.”
It’s not that I’m suddenly excited for Hattie’s shower, but I’m no longer dreading it, which is more than I thought was possible. After Agnes checks her calendar, we settle on a date.
I stay for dinner and Agnes makes too much spaghetti with Cajun sausage meatballs. After dinner, when I decide to head home, Agnes insists that Freddie take the truck and drive me home with my bike in the back and that I take home enough leftovers for everyone.
As we pull into the trailer park and the road turns into a path of rubble, I can hear a shouting match happening, which is nothing new, except the closer we get to my front door, the louder the shouting grows. We turn the corner in time to see Hattie throwing a potted plant on the hood of Tyler’s car just as he’s getting in the driver’s side. The ceramic pot shatters, leaving a dent.
“Oh, Christ.” I jump out of the passenger-side door and set the leftovers and my bag on the roof of the truck. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! What’s going on here?”
“Mind your own business, little sis,” says Hattie. Her face is splotchy with anger and her finger is pointed right at Tyler. “How am I supposed to expect anything from you? How are we supposed to count on you?” she asks him. And the we she speaks of does not include me. These are the questions I’ve been waiting for Hattie to ask for months, but now that she finally is, it’s strangely unsatisfying.
“I don’t want to be a maintenance guy for the rest of my life,” yells Tyler, his head sticking out the car window.
The door across the street creaks as Mrs. Pearlman joins the audience.
“And what else do you think you’re gonna do with your life? Huh, Tyler? You think you’re gonna go to some fancy college or become a famous bass player? You think someone’s going to pay you to test video games all day or some bullshit? I don’t even think that’s a real job!”
She picks up another plant and hurls it at his windshield. I hear a crack but can’t tell if it’s the pot or the glass.
“Should we call the police?” Freddie whispers.
I shake my head. For a moment, I’d actually forgotten he was even here.
Maybe in other neighborhoods, people call the cops for stuff like this, but not here. In my neighborhood, this is just another night.
“You think I want to wait tables for the rest of my life?” asks Hattie.
“No one made you keep it,” Tyler retorts. “You chose this. And now you’re no better than your whore mom.”
I hear a low ohhhh among the slowly growing crowd of onlookers.
“Don’t talk to my sister like that,” I shout.
For the first time, Tyler truly realizes I’m here. “Oh great,” he says. “The whole committee is here now. I know how you can’t make decisions without your carpet-munching sister. I can’t even believe you’d let that near our kid.”
A wave of disgust and hostility washes over me. I want so badly to make him feel as small and as dumb as he is.
“Hey!” Hattie shouts. She snaps her fingers at him and then slaps her hands on the hood of his car. “You don’t talk about my sister like that. This is about me and you.” I feel Freddie step forward behind me, but I push him back.
Hattie turns to me. “Ramona, go inside.”
“No,” I tell her. “For as long as he lives in this house with us and is part of your life, this asshole is my problem, too.”
“Well, lucky for you, because I’m out of here,” says Tyler. “One Leroux sister on my ass is bad enough.”
Hattie’s shoulders melt into a slouch, and I can see she’s losing her will. “Baby, don’t go. We can find you another job.”
I can’t understand why she would ever want him to stay, but I almost get why she might be torn between putting up with his bullshit and losing the father of her kid.
Tyler isn’t having it. “I’m done with this shit, Hattie. Call me when the baby’s born.”
The tears start rolling down her cheeks, melting her heavy clumps of mascara immediately into charcoal rivers. “Baby, I need you. We need you. You’re gonna be such a good daddy.”
I grit my teeth and try so hard to feel for her in this moment, but I can’t. I won’t. “Good riddance,” I say a little too loudly.
Tyler cranks the music up so loud his speakers crackle. He reverses out and what’s left of my dad’s potted plants on his windshield falls to the ground.
Hattie goes inside and slams the door, locking herself inside.
Freddie touches my arm. “Let me take you back to my place.”
“You should go.” I shake my head and pound on the door. “Let me in, Hattie!”
“I need to be alone!” she yells back.
“Come on, Ramona,” he says. “I can’t leave you here.”
“Please, Freddie. Just go.” I turn to him. “I gotta deal with this on my own.”
He pulls me close to him and whispers, “Call me if you need anything. Seriously, anything.”
We share a quick kiss in the shadows of the porch light.
I keep knocking on the door as he walks down the steps and leaves my bike there against the side of the trailer along with my bag and the leftovers before getting in Bart’s truck and driving away.
After a few minutes, the lock finally clicks and the door swings open. Hattie stands there, mascara running down her cheeks.
She stumbles into my arms and I hold her. Her belly presses against me, reminding me that I will always choose her even when she doesn’t choose me. The Leroux sisters. It will always be the two of us in the end.