Finding Mr. Brightside Read Free Page B

Labradoodle.”
    “Understandable,” Juliette says to the dog, scratching her ears. “What’s her name?”
    “‘The dog.’”
    I tell Juliette about how we tried several different tennis-related names—including Volley, Lettie, and Billie Jean King—but none of them stuck. I’ll be the first to admit: boring story. But Juliette thinks it’s a good example of how “naming anything is impossible,” so maybe not.
    “Want to sit down or something?” I ask.
    She nods. We head toward the living room, sitting on opposite ends of the leather sectional.
    “Do you still play tennis a lot?” she asks.
    “Quit,” I say, sprawling out across the cushions, my preferred state of being these days.
    “Why?”
    I’m honest with her about my lack of motivation, explaining that my dad had enough ambition for the both of us. After he was gone, I didn’t have anyone to remind me there was a hungry group of runners-up just around the corner, waiting to steal our trophies, so we better get up a little earlier for practice tomorrow.
    “Sounds like you made the right choice,” Juliette says softly.
    “Really?”
    “No idea,” she says. “I was trying to be supportive…?”
    We share a laugh—she gives me most of it, holding herself back. Why is she here, again? And why does she smell so good, even from over here, like … fancy laundry detergent and green tea extract? Meanwhile, the dog rolls over and allows Juliette access to her furry underbelly.
    “You two really do seem like old friends,” I say, failing to stifle my yawn.
    “Maybe we met in a past life.”
    The idea of reincarnation sounds peculiar coming from her—she doesn’t seem like the “back in the day, when I was a butterfly” type.
    “Maybe you and I crossed paths in one of those lives, too,” I propose, as casually as possible.
    Juliette purses her lips like a girl who’s been making this expression for centuries, thinks about it for a second, then surprises me by saying, albeit reluctantly, “Sure. But I think I might’ve been a whale.”
    “You’ll never believe this, but me, too.”
    She’s almost smiling as she rolls her eyes.
    “Do you think we could’ve been friends?” I ask.
    “Friend ly , yes,” she allows. “Assuming our whale parents weren’t associated back then.”
    I hold up my hand. “I’m almost positive they swam in separate pods.”
    She looks at me curiously, for a split second, before breaking eye contact.
    We chat for a while longer until a warm blanket of mononucleosis falls across my body … disregard, it’s an actual blanket, Juliette has brought over my mom’s favorite throw and is covering me up. Damn you, Paxil.
    “You don’t have to go.”
    She starts to say something, stops.
    “Were you this good-looking of a whale in our other life?” I ask her, one eye half open. I wouldn’t bet money that I’m speaking English anymore. “What I mean is, would you have dated an ordinary whale like this?”
    She sits down on the floor beside me, rests her head on the edge of the cushion. She looks like she’s been fighting sleep for a while. I want to tell her to let it win, but turning it into an official competition probably wouldn’t help.
    “I’m guessing I was an emotionally unavailable whale back then, too,” she says. “But I would’ve considered going on some kind of date with you, yes. Someplace where the water is warm.”
    “Now you’re talking.”
    Content, I make my best approximation of a joyful whale noise. I may be beached right now, but I’m excited about my life for the first time in a long time. Even if it’s a past life, in whale form.
    Juliette says something else that I really want to process, but I’m drifting away, having some sort of hallucination now, seeing my dad in his casket—his cheekbones, broken in the accident, reconstructed with some sort of goopy mortician’s wax. Mom’s panicking. She can’t remember checking a box saying YES to an open casket; thinks maybe