She burrowed against me. “Johnny might decide to leave again in the morning.”
“I know.”
“I slipped an AirTag into his backpack.” Cori sighed.
A rough laugh escaped my throat. “Me too.”
She smiled, and I felt like I’d won the lottery. We separated somewhat, maintaining the sliver of distance we’d always kept as teenagers. She produced a remote control and, without discussion, put onThe 40-Year-Old Virgin, which I recalled we both held as a top-ten favorite.
“Do you remember the last time we watched this?” she asked.
“No. You do?”
“Uh-huh. Your senior year, my junior. I’d been babysitting Mari the day before Thanksgiving. Your mom found out Johnny and I had no plans because our mom never did anything on that day. The only turkey I’d ever had said Oscar Mayer on it. María made us come over—invited Mom too, but of course she decided toworkinstead—so Johnny and I spent that day with you all. Your whole family was there, all your brothers and sisters. I remember thinking that Johnny and I were lucky to be a part of it, to have the chance to celebrate a realThanksgiving. And it never felt like we were intruding. You Deckers just absorbed us. That night, after everyone had gone to bed, you and I watched this movie downstairs. Johnny was asleep next to us. And the reason I remember is because it was a perfect day. Even though you were all far in it with Chi-chi at that point, and Johnnywas getting high a lot, it was still one perfect day in the middle of all that. Capped off by this ridiculous movie. And it stuck in my memory because those perfect days were scarce back then. I think I made myself hold on to them because I needed the reminder that they were possible.”
“That’s deep, Cori.”
At the twinge of sarcasm in my voice, she hit me with a pillow. “Extremely deep, fuckyouverymuch.”
I deflected rather than admit I knew exactly what she meant. In the middle of the shit, good days were reality without context.
We watched the movie in silence for an hour until Cori spoke again.
“So total subject change—”
“Hmm?”
“Some of the older kids at the Center asked if the teen late night on Friday could be a dance. I told them yes, and I’d like to make it special. Hire a DJ. Grab a few dozen pizzas. I was hoping you’d help me string up lights and hang a disco ball and decorations or something.” She spoke enthusiastically, but then she deflated. “I don’t know. Some of these kids are so jaded. They might think it’s dumb.”
I reassured her, “It’s a great idea, Cori. And you know better than to let the hard kids get to you. The ones who act tough and talk down about stuff like dance decorations probably appreciate them deep down. I’m speaking from experience here since I was one of those little assholes. And of course I’ll help. I think I have some string lights left over from a job, and I bet Mamá would let us dig through her Christmas decorations.”
“My plan is to use my own money for the DJ and pizza, call it a donation, since the Center doesn’t have the budget. I’m trying not to do that too much because I know Rosa doesn’t like it, but I don’t think she’d mind this.”
Cori crossed her arms over the throw pillow in her lap. She seemed relaxed for the first time that night. Hopefully, putting on a dance for the teens would be a nice distraction from everything else going on. For both of us.
Before the end of the movie, she fell asleep. I gently removed her from where she’d pressed up against my side, pulling a throw blanket over her before standing.
She stirred without waking, and I impulsively ran my thumb over her cheek. I wanted to taste her, wanted to place my lips on that soft skin. Instead, I leaned down and whispered into her ear, “Goodnight, Cori.”
Driving home, I thought about that perfect day she’d described. The last Thanksgiving before I got locked up.
Growing up in the neighborhood felt like one of those machines that goes nuts during an earthquake, needles moving wildly up and down. For sure, we enjoyed the highs. The perfect days. But there was always this underlying stress. Just like with the machine, the line never went perfectly straight.
That was why you could never let yourself get too comfortable. You knew better than to expect any sort of sustained happiness. Because the lows always came. Always.
Chapter twenty-two
Cori
Johnny grinned at me from where he sat at the table, eating a bowl of cereal. I didn’t think he was sleeping very well because he’d woken up early every morning since he showed up on my doorstep five days ago. But at least he hadn’t run off. On the contrary, it seemed like he was determined to stay hidden in my house.
“Why do you have almond milk and oat milk, but not milk milk?”
“Milk milk?”
“Whatever, cow milk.”
“I think you mean dairy milk, and I guess because I don’t like it as much. I like ice cream and cheese and all that, but regular milk isn’t as good as oat milk for cereal and in my coffee.”
