“Wow. Okay.” He turns around, leaning back against the porch railing to look at me. “I was coming out here to ask why you were acting so weird, but I see I need to keep things present tense.”
I have so many questions about what the hell is going on that my thought stream has just turned into static white noise.
“You’re staring at me like you don’t know where you are.” Andrew takes a step forward. “I was going to give you some shit, but I’m genuinely worried that you’re suffering some sort of head injury and not telling us.”
“I’m just a little foggy today.”
He grins, and his matching set of dimples make a delightful entrance. Pressing his steepled fingers to his chest, he says, “I’m Andrew Polley Hollis, which was the worst combination of middle and last names for a seventh grader. You call me ‘Mandrew.’ I fiddle with sound equipment at Red Rocks for a living. My little brother is kind of an asshole. I am the one man alive who likes neither scotch nor beer. You and I used to play vampires when we were kids and didn’t realize the marks we were leaving on each other’s necks were hickeys.” He gestures to his body. “Six two. About one eighty. Aries. This”—he points to his head of curls—“is natural, and a constant mess.”
“The hair has a mind of its own?” I grin. Are we flirting? This feels like flirting.
Shut up, brain.
“Inside you’ll find your father, Daniel Jones, obstetrician, owner of a newly broken tooth. He is notoriously uptight about his hands, and tells a lot of very disturbing stories about childbirth. Your mother, the one who keeps feeling your forehead, is Elise—you look a lot like her, I might add. She is a worrier, but actually pretty funny, and someday her paintings are going to sell for more than this place is worth, mark my words.”
I nod, impressed alongside him that Mom’s career is flourishing. He waits for me to say something, but I gesture for him to continue because Andrew’s voice is hypnotic. It has a honeyed depth with just the barest scratch around the edges. Honestly, I’d gladly listen to him read me the dictionary.
“My parents, Ricky and Lisa, are also inside.” He grins wolfishly at me. “Dad is the guy taking your father to the dentist. The most important thing to remember is that none of us should eat anything Mom bakes. My mom, Scandinavian in heritage and temperament, is a brilliant writer. But unlike Elise, who is a cooking goddess, Lisa is not, as we say, skilled in the kitchen.”
I grin. “Or with a camera.”
Andrew laughs at this. “Kyle and Aaron Amir-Liang are the two perfectly groomed gentlemen with the genius five-year-olds. I’m not exactly sure what’s happening with Aaron’s hair this year—it seems to have disappeared and been replaced by a permanent black space above his head.” He pauses, lowering his voice. “And was he wearing leggings?”
A bursting laugh escapes me. “I think he was. I guess we can be glad he’s moved out of the designer sweatpants phase? That was . . . a lot of information about Uncle Aaron that teenage Mae did not need.”
Andrew snaps. “It’s a good sign you remember that, though. Now, I don’t need to tell you that Kyle is an award-winning Broadway performer and used to be a backup dancer for Janet Jackson, because he’ll undoubtedly mention it himself sometime tonight.”
I laugh again, biting my lip. I’m sure I’m exhibiting the wild-eyed bliss of a contestant on a game show who’s just won a million dollars. My memory never gets Andrew right. My brain doesn’t know how to make that green of his eyes, doesn’t believe cheekbones can be so sculpted, dimples so deep and playful. Andrew, in the flesh, is always such a shock to the system.
“Last year Zachary learned about death when his goldfish kicked the bucket. He walked around like a tiny grim reaper telling us we’re all going to die someday. Kennedy knows the capital of every state or country in the world,” he says confidentially. “She says some of the smartest things to ever come out of this group, and we don’t let anyone give that little girl any crap. She’s going to be the first president on the spectrum, mark my words. But hopefully not the first woman.”
“I think you’re right.”
“Let’s see . . . your brother, Miles, though . . .” He winces playfully. “He’s smart, but I’m not sure he’s looked up from his phone in the past two years. If you want to have a conversation with him, you might want to consider strapping his phone to your forehead.” Leaning in, Andrew searches my eyes, and my heart drops through the porch. “Does any of this ring a bell?”
I reach to smack him. “Stop it. I really am fine. I’m sure it’s just the altitude messing with me.”
Andrew looks like he hadn’t considered this, and to be fair I hadn’t, either, before the words came out, so I mentally high-five the handful of remaining neurons that appear to be doing their job up there. Footsteps rumble behind us, and Benny’s shaggy head pokes out onto the porch. He steps out to join us, shivering in only a thin bike shop T-shirt.
“Hey, Noodle,” he says, brows up expectantly. “Sorry to interrupt. Can I grab you for a second?”
• • •
I guess I can’t fault Benny for pulling me aside when I’ve given him at least ten pleading SOS looks since our arrival. We head inside, and I melt in pleasure at the heat of the entryway relative to the brilliant chill of the winter twilight. With the voices of everyone filtering down the hall, and Andrew’s proximity fading, reality descends: somehow, I think I’m here again.
My brain screams, This isn’t normal!
Intent on getting us as far away from everyone else as I can, I head for the stairs leading to the upper floor of the house. Turning to Benny, I put my index finger over my lips, urging him to be quiet as we tiptoe upstairs. In silence, we round the banister, shuffle down the hall, and climb the steep, narrow steps to his attic room. When I was little, I was afraid to come up here alone. The stairs creaked, and the landing was dark. But Benny explained that if the stairs leading up to the attic were as pretty as the rest of the house, everyone would find the treasures hidden up there.
With my heart pounding out a thunderstorm in my throat, I jerk him inside and close the door.
His turquoise bracelets rattle together when he comes to a stumbling stop, brows raised. “You all right?” he asks, genuine concern making his accent bleed the words together.
For the second time today—How long is today?—I wonder what my face looks like.
“No, I don’t think so.” I listen for a few seconds, making sure no one has followed us up here. When I’m satisfied we’re alone, I whisper, “Listen. Some crazy stuff is going on.”
He gives me a knowing wink. “I’ll say. You and Andrew seemed pretty flirty out there. Is that what you wanted to talk about? Has something happened?”
“What? No. I wish.” I point to the chair in the far corner by the windows and flap my hand until he takes the hint and sits down.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and fixes his attention on my face. The calm assurance of Benny’s focus is like a numbing salve to my frazzled nerves.
“Okay,” I begin, pulling up another folding chair and sitting across from him, knee to knee. “Have I ever given you the impression that I am—how should I put this? Mentally impaired?”