Page 31 of Don't Tell Me How It Ends
Mr. Jackson walks out from behind the car and turns up the music. “It’s how we pass the time out here. Gotta name every artist and song before it ends. Tillone of usdon’t know,” he says through a smirk that reminds me so much of his son.
“…And this manknowsI know this song,” Ro finishes.
“I don’t need your outta tune self serenading me like you’re finna ask me to go steady. I need aname,” Mr. Jackson says, clapping his hands together to drive it home. “You ain’t got that, take your L like a man and stop embarrassing yourself in front of Kaia here.”
That shuts Ro up quick. His arms cross above his head and his eyes dart back and forth as he racks his brain. The notes are fading out. There are only a few seconds left, and at this point we all know Ro’s not getting it. Mr. Jackson’s already doing a celebratory dance that ages him by about a decade, while Ro looks like he could flip the Beamer with his bare hands.
“Have You Seen Her,” I must say out loud, because both their heads whip around to me. Since they’re still waiting, I follow it up with the winning answer. “The Chi-Lites.”
“The Chi-Lites!” Ro echoes, walking over to high-five me. He’s still clasping my hand in the air when he turns toward Mr. Jackson. “We’re taking that point. Kaia’s on my team now.”
“Oh, it’s like that,” his dad says, laughing.
“It’s just like that.”
“Okay, I see you,” Mr. Jackson says. “I’m gonna give y’all that one, but next time I’m bringing your mother. Then you know it’s over.”
Ro flinches. “Damn. If you thought my dad was bad…”
“Chi-Lites,” Mr. Jackson says as he adds myKto Ro’sRon the leader board, like it’s nothing. “Your parents did all right with you.”
“My mom,” I say, correcting him. “Breakup songs are our unofficial family anthem.”
“I hear that,” he says, even though he can’t possibly know the half of it. “Now if you two will excuse me, somebody’s gotta do some work around here. Y’all can go do your victory lap inside.”
—
“Your dad’s great,” I say as soon as the lobby door closes behindus.
Ro smiles. “He’s a piece of work.” But behind the jab, all I hear is love. “So, what’s up? You said you have something for me?”
“Yeah, I was out and remembered I had this on me.” I reach into my pocket for the questionnaire. “I think you mentioned wanting to see it, so I figured…”
Ro’s eyes light up like a kid on Christmas, but as he reads it, the humor on his face morphs into something else.
“Shit, this is intense. I thought it’d ask favorite movies or something. Not ‘Describe your childhood trauma and how it fucked you up.’ ”
“It does not say that,” I say, laughing. “But itisa lot. Zola’s a lot. She swears if two people compare their answers to these questions they’ll—”
“Lose their will to live?” Ro says, looking either terrified or impressed. It’s too soon to say which.
My laughs comes out like a bark, but Ro’s reaction to the sound looks like pride.
“I think in therapy that’s called a breakthrough,” I say, still smiling.
Ro moves behind the register. “I didn’t realize therapy and matchmaking had so much in common,” he says, fishing a pen from between the rows of the keyboard. “But I’m down.”
He’s folded over the counter as he scribbles words onto the questionnaire that was meant to be mine. I don’t stop him. For some reason nothing feels as important as reading Ro’s answers to these questions I’ve been mocking all day.
“How many guys are filling this out for you?” he asks, without looking up from his work.
“Three. But they’re not doing itfor me.They don’t even know me.”
His head snaps up, eyes locking with mine. “Then why are they doing it?”
He asks it so earnestly, like it’s the most obvious question in the world, but I don’t have an answer. Unless you count figuring out ways to blow them off, I haven’t spent much time thinking about these guys at all. Let alone trying to determine their motivations for agreeing to this. So I say something I do know to be true.
“My sister can be pretty convincing.”
