Little Blue Lies by Chris Lynch Page B

that she’s going to be the happy heartbreaker for the rest of her life, but she didn’t win, and she’s working every possible shift at that stupid shop and she’s walking dogs to the moon and back, and I hope that that makes her the happiest heart-breaker in the solar system, but frankly I have no insight into this situation, nor into any other situation that involves Junie Blue, other than that every situation involves Junie Blue and every situation involving Junie Blue is making me blue.”
    I take another gulp of the beer and peer over the rim of the glass at my chastened-looking father sipping his water through a straw.
    â€œYou’re upset,” he says wisely.
    We stare across at each other for several seconds, both drink glasses remaining like shields in front of our faces.
    And I laugh. “Yeah, Dad. I guess I am.”
    â€œLove is like getting fat, O. If you take a long time building it up, it takes a long time burning it off.”
    I shake my head at the depth of his wisdom. “It’s like fat ?”
    He laughs. “Yeah, that might not be my best work there.”
    â€œYou ever been fat, Dad?”
    â€œOh, God, no.”
    â€œSo, then, how—”
    â€œUnless you’re still going with the metaphor. Simile? Whatever. If fat means love here, then, oh, God, yes. I am fat inside out for your mother. Make no mistake, Son. I am a blob for your mother.”
    â€œWow. What can I say? That’s just sweet as hell. And no, I don’t think I want any dessert, thanks.”
    â€œAh,” he says, calling for the check. In seconds he is paying and signing, and as I finish the scraps and dregs, he fills the conversational void. “So, you don’t believe she’s got the ticket?” he says casually.
    â€œThanks for lunch,” I say, and beat it out of there before he has even calculated the tip. He’s shockingly slow with numbers.

Six
    I have just about convinced myself that I can move on. By “move on” I mean I can have thoughts that don’t entirely revolve around Junie. I can consider my father’s offer of a job for life—no—and the prospect of college—not yet—and what that leaves me for near-term options—beats the squat out of me—without my mind being paralytic with concerns and worries and speculations about the existence of lovely June.
    And then my phone does that thing that it does. Message.
    I’m coming over.
    It’s from her.
    And just like that, as if all the psychological masonry that I had just carefully tapped and pointed into place has been rocked with a 6.5 tremor, I come spectacularly to rubble again.
    I jump out of bed, grab some clean underwear—that’s right, this time I was doing exactly the type of mind-clearing exercise they think I’m always doing—and I get dressed as if I am going to Wimbledon or boating or my own baptism, butin my bright beautiful whites I am confident that this is the sunny reboot of my summer right here.
    The doorbell rings, and I hear my mother padding to the door—but sorry, Mom, I cannot be denied—and I take three stairs at a go and practically break my ankle at the bottom, but I wobble and careen to the door first and fling it open on the wrong, wrong, wrong shade of goddamn blackened Blue.
    â€œWhat are you doing here, Ronny?” I say.
    â€œIs that what passes for hospitality in this house?” he says.
    â€œYes,” I snarl.
    â€œNo,” Mom says, extending her hand to shake the beast’s big meaty paw.
    â€œYou have lovely hands,” he says, and he kisses one of them. A noise comes straight through my stomach wall, like when you need to retch but you fight it down. I won’t fight next time. “Lovely artist’s hands.”
    â€œIs there something I can do for you, Mr. Blue,” she overpolites.
    â€œMr. Blue is a weenie Bobby Vinton song from the 1970s. I’m Ronny.