Bananapants: A Bonkers Romantic Comedy
Bananapants: Chapter 5

“Someone has to stand still for you to love them. My choices are always on the run.”

— Carrie Fisher, The Princess Diarist

Did Ava not tell them I would be coming?

I straightened away from the black cast-iron fence in front of their house. Breathing in. Breathing out. “Hi, Mr. Archer.” I forced the words past a tight throat.

Uncle Greg is what I used to call him, but I shouldn’t anymore, right? I’d left. We hadn’t spoken. I’d ghosted him and his family ten years ago. I didn’t deserve to address him that way.

Right?

I’d been so focused on coming face-to-face with my father and all that would entail, I hadn’t considered what it would be like to see and talk to Uncle Greg. He looked the same, but different. He had more wrinkles around his eyes now, laugh lines etched deep on either side of his mouth. I estimated we were the same height. I used to think he was so tall. I wondered if the last several years had likewise changed my father.

Probably no laugh lines.

But where my dad barely spoke, Ava’s dad had talked constantly and made us laugh all the time. We were always going on adventures, bike rides, car trips, hikes, hay rides, camping. You name it, he took us. And his observations were hilarious. He was sarcastic, dry British humor that was funny as hell, and he was the reason why I sometimes listened to stand-up comedy in order to fall asleep, even now.

He’d also insisted on teaching us how to weld and woodwork and take care of a car and garden and other tasks he referred to as “necessary skills in the coming zombie apocalypse.” Greg Archer had been a stay-at-home dad with Ava, the youngest Archer kid, and I loved going to her house. The three of us used to have the best time before I⁠—

Well, before I got sick.

Ava’s dad blinked several times, and it felt like an eternity. Now that I’d spoken, he appeared to be struggling to accept that I was real. I braced myself, frantically shoving away the jumble of thoughts, wishing the olanzapine had already kicked in, wishing I’d taken it earlier. Having a panic attack in front of people is fucking embarrassing, especially people I respected and liked as much as I respected and liked Greg Archer. His opinion would always matter to me, and I’d rather he never saw me again than saw me at my worst.

Unexpectedly, Ava’s dad rocked back on his heels, then propelled himself forward, coming at me with his arms wide open. “Oh my God. Desmond!”

Before I could say anything or react (or run), he engulfed me in a big hug, squeezing. Hard. My throat constricted but not from anxiety, like earlier. This was something else. My eyes stung. I forced myself to breathe in. I breathed out. Repeat.

He didn’t give me big, pounding pats on the back, like the guys at the boxing gym did during their weird version of hugs. He held me. Tightly. His hand came to the back of my head and he pressed his cheek against mine. I felt his chest expand with a shaky breath. I tried to swallow, blinking furiously against the unexpected liquid blurring my vision.

Hell, Raz. Get a hold of yourself.

“It’s so, so good to see you,” he said, his voice rough, and he took another shaky breath. When he finally leaned back, his eyes were glassy as they moved over me, inspecting me with obvious, happy excitement. “I don’t care why you’re here, I’m simply glad you are.”

Nodding, something in me relaxed at his guileless, pleased expression. I allowed a brief, tight smile, but my voice was untrustworthy, so I remained silent. I did finally manage to swallow.

“Come.” He kept an arm around my shoulders and turned toward the stairs. “Come inside. Not everyone is here yet. Kat and Dan, your cousins, Ashley and Drew and their youngest. Uh, let’s see, Ava—of course—and Grace are downstairs, catching up on a show I already binged. They made me leave so I wouldn’t tell them the ending.” His British accent had Americanized a bit more since I saw him last, and that fact made me sad for some reason.

Ushering me into the house, he continued. “I understand Korean and a little Chinese now. I can’t speak it though. Except for curse words, those are essential in every language. But it helps singing along with K-pop so I’m not one of those losers, slurring the words I don’t know.”

Despite everything, I huffed a silent laugh because that was exactly what he used to do when we were kids. He’d slur along with the Korean lyrics but never sing the English ones. Once, he’d forced Ava and me to learn a K-pop idol dance with him. He’d been so proud of himself that he was better than us. Meanwhile, Ava and I couldn’t stop laughing—at him—enough to focus on the steps. I think we were six or seven. I was sure he had a video of it somewhere.

We stopped inside the door and he took the bag I’d been carrying, opening it up and inspecting the contents. “Potato salad. Nice. Both Southern- and New York-style. Good job covering your bases, exactly like I taught you.” He lifted the roses from the shopping bag and inspected them. “Yellow. For Ava, I presume?”

“They’re for all of you,” I managed to croak out, gesturing to the bundle. “Not for, uh, her.”

“Let’s say they’re for her, shall we?” He pushed the roses at me and I had no choice but to accept them. “While you’re in town, we should go running together.”

“You still run, Unc—er, uh, Mr. Archer?”

“Only my doctor and children consider me geriatric. And why are you calling me Mr. Archer? It’s worrying.” He grimaced. “You sound like one of Ava’s suitors. I hate those guys. They shock so easily. No sense of humor, especially about legal matters. Greg is fine, not Uncle Greg. We’re not related. Yet. Take your shoes off, this isn’t a barn.”

I didn’t know whether to grin or grimace at the mention of how Greg disliked Ava’s numerous boyfriends. The idea of them getting to spend time with her, spending time with Greg and Fiona, felt overwhelming at that moment. In the end, I both grinned and grimaced as I methodically, carefully focused on toeing off my shoes. Greg closed the front door. I know this because I heard it close.

“Wait a second. Who is this?”

Turning at the sound of my uncle Dan’s voice, I discovered he was also approaching with open arms, his big, crooked grin on display making his nose bend a little to the right. He’d broken it at least five times. The man was built like a boxer and had the neck tattoos to match.

Recovering quicker this time, likely because I saw Uncle Dan at least twice a year—never by choice—I accepted his embrace more easily.

Uncle Dan’s mom, Eleanor O’Malley, hadn’t been related by blood to me, but I’d been raised thinking of her as my grandmother along with my father’s mother, Grandma Katherine. My mom didn’t have a mom. Eleanor had been happy to step in and take over the role. I still considered Eleanor’s husband, Eugene Marks, my grandpa and visited him at his old folks’ home in Boston once a month without fail, no matter what I had going on. We played chess. He won half the time.

Both Nana Eleanor and Grandma Katherine had lived in South Boston, same neighborhood. My father had grown up with Dan O’Malley, and they’d ended up as business partners. All through childhood, I’d called him Uncle Dan and his wife Aunt Kat, and I did consider his three kids my cousins.

I know, I know, lots of people, lots of names. The important point is, I considered Uncle Dan and his family my family, as though we were related by blood, even though we weren’t.

His hug was also devoid of jolting back pats. He didn’t hold me as tightly or for as long as Mr. Archer—Greg—had, but he stepped back and reached up to grab my face, as was his habit. “Fuck you, kid. You look great.”

“Thanks.” I responded on autopilot. For once, I was relieved to see him. He and my aunt would be little islands of familiarity today. If all else failed, I could pass the two mandatory hours talking to him about Boston traffic, or to my aunt Kat about cheese. Unless my cousin Rebekah was here.

“Still all sunshine and rainbows, I see.” He smacked my face lightly and let his hands drop. “Those roses for Ava?” His crooked grin widened. “About fucking time.”

I fully grimaced. “They’re for every⁠—”

“I thought we agreed they’re for Ava,” Greg called over his shoulder at me as he walked toward the kitchen, my potato salads in the bag dangling from his fingers.

I was so confused. Why was Greg being this way about me and Ava? My parents and her parents and all their friends—most of whom were supposed to be gathered here today—used to say we were betrothed upon birth, but I’d always taken it as a joke.

“They’re for everyone,” I said again, taking a deep breath and rubbing my chest with my free hand. This anxiety felt different. Sharp rather than hard and dull and omnipresent. What is this?

Despite turning the corner and now being out of sight, Ava’s dad’s voice carried to us, saying, “Let me have my little fantasies, Desmond. I’ll be dead in thirty years, and without grandchildren thanks to you lot.”

Before I could process his words, Uncle Dan waved me forward. “Get in here. You look spooked. You need quiet and a damn minute. Come with me to the back porch. They got that flavored sparkling water shit you kids like.”

Dutifully, and still carrying the yellow roses, I followed my uncle to the porch, taking quick stock of the living room as we walked through and replaceing the space mostly the same as before. The old leather couch had been replaced with a white fabric one. Two of the lamps were new. The coffee table was different. Focusing on what was different and what was the same helped me distract myself from the pinching in my chest.

I named three colors: white couch, brass lamp, red blanket. I named three sounds: dishes clinking, low unseen voices, a door opening. I inhaled and named three smells: lemon wood polish, baked beans, the roses in my hand. The 3-3-3 rule is a mindfulness technique to help cope with anxiety, one I’ve used since I was a kid.

“Didn’t know you were coming. Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask why you’re here. I know the rules. First rule of the Desmond Conversation Club is to not ask any questions about Desmond,” my uncle said as we stepped through the French doors to the back porch.

As I’d done with the interior of the house, I dispassionately cataloged the porch and backyard, what was the same, what was different, and identified three colors, three sounds, three smells. Insomuch as was possible in the moment, I was pleased to see the swing set and playhouse still sitting in the same spot, but the big oak we used to climb was now a stump. I frowned.

“It was diseased,” Uncle Dan explained, apparently following the direction of my thoughts. “They had to cut it down or it might’ve fallen on the house.”

“Yeah. Best to cut it down, if it was diseased,” I managed to say, my eyes sliding to his.

His features free of expectation but full of curiosity, Uncle Dan handed me a can of sparkling water straight from the cooler and opened a beer for himself. I breathed out slowly and leaned a hip against the porch rail. I opened the can. I sipped the water. I pressed the cold drink to my wrists. I wasn’t hot outside, but the cold, wet aluminum can gave me something to focus on other than my uncle’s inspecting gaze, the beat of my heart, and the next two hours.

In a low, steady voice, he talked about his work, about Aunt Kat, and about traffic in Boston. I listened without really paying attention, concentrating on breathing—in and out—the cold object in my hands, three colors, three sounds, three smells, and that’s it. Everyone was inside the house, and I appreciated the distance from other people right now. I also appreciated that no one else had come out to the back porch.

Then, after a time, he said, “Your dad ain’t here yet. You can stop sweating.”

I nodded absentmindedly, feeling a little clearer, better. “Where’s Rebekah? She here today?”

“Ah, no.” My uncle scratched the back of his neck. “She’s got a business conference or something in LA.”

My eyes widened before I could catch the expression. “Wait, what? Rebekah has a business conference? In LA?”

“Yeah. Get this.” Uncle Dan put his hand on my shoulder and leaned closer. “So you know how her mom was always so fucking stressed about Rebekah and school? Like, all those fucking tutors?”

“Yeah.” I nodded, not batting an eye at his colorful language because he’d been the main source for all of mine.

Uncle Dan cussed. A lot. A lot more than I did. I’d only been raised from fifteen years onward in South Boston, but he’d spent his entire youth there. I don’t think he even noticed how many f-bombs he dropped when speaking. My nana had been the same. Case in point, guess what baby Dan Jr.’s first word had been?

“Well, Rebekah graduates from high school a few years ago, right?” Uncle Dan let his hand drop so he could arrange his index finger and thumb in the universal sign for an inch. “And I mean barely. She barely graduates. By the skin of her fucking teeth, she gets her diploma. And so she starts working as a temp for this video game company, JEP is what it’s called, does those online games with the magic and spells. But you know how Rebekah was always drawing and stuff? Instead of doing homework, we’d replace notebooks filled with sketches.”

“Yes. I remember.” I’d been much the same.

“She entered a contest to design a new video game character at the company. Long story short, she was a runner-up. They hired her in the art department and now she does that all the time.” Uncle Dan hit me lightly on the chest, like There you go. Whadya think about that?

“She works for a video game company designing characters?”

“Yeah.” Uncle Dan chuckled. “And of course I can’t say to your aunt Kat, ‘I told you so.’ Like, we fought all the time about Rebekah. I kept saying, ‘Back off the kid and let her do her own thing,’ you know? Kat didn’t want to hear it. She worried about Rebekah’s future, how’s she gonna live? How’s she gonna take care of herself?”

I said nothing, but to anyone who didn’t know him very well, his rhetorical questions would’ve likely struck them as strange. Aunt Kat owned the majority share in a giant, gabillion-dollar pharmaceutical company based in Boston and Uncle Dan, as my father’s business partner, was also worth buckets of money. They probably had a money vault somewhere Scrooge McDuck wanted to swim in.

But, like my parents, my aunt and uncle subscribed to the Warren Buffett approach to parenting. We kids needed to make our own way, replace our own path, and that path wasn’t going to be a yellow brick road paved with gold bars provided by our parents.

“So let that be a lesson to you, Des.” Uncle Dan nodded, his eyes wide with sincerity, like he’d imparted some great wisdom during his monologue.

I didn’t follow, so I asked, “A lesson?”

“With your own kids, don’t make up your mind for them. Give them structure, don’t let them turn into mindless consumers, but let them do what brings them joy. As long as they’re learning and creating, they’re good. You know?”

“With my own kids,” I echoed flatly, lifting an eyebrow at my uncle. Did he really think there existed a possibility I’d have my own kids one day? The whole time we’d been standing here, I was measuring and counting my breaths, waiting for the antipsychotic to do its job. Yeah, it had been seven years since I’d had to take it. Yeah, I’d been mostly stable for those seven years. But, eventually, I would have a relapse. It was only a matter of time.

This was why I never sought out Uncle Dan. He knew my history, had a good idea of my current profession, and yet he was still bringing up this fairy-tale bullshit. I studied the gray hair at his temples where before it used to be dark brown. The old man must’ve gone senile.

“Don’t give me that look, asshole. This fucking guy.” He hit my chest again. “Hey. Your great-uncle Zip had kids. If that dickwaffle can have and raise children, anyone can have children.”

“Right, right. Sure, sure.” I thought about my great-uncle Zip and his metal headplate. He used to wow us kids by sticking magnets to his face, but his basement smelled funky as hell. “But should they? Isn’t that the real question? Just because a person can procreate doesn’t mean they should.”

“Found your voice finally, huh? Then let me ask you this, what’s the alternative? All screwed up people shouldn’t have kids? If that’s the case, no one would have kids. No. One. Your cousin Cillian wouldn’t be here, that’s for sure.”

Cillian O’Malley was my only blood-related cousin. His mother was my mom’s sister, Jem Morris. His father was Uncle Dan’s older brother, Seamus O’Malley. This meant both me and my sister Natalie, as well as Dan and Kat’s kids, had Cillian as a blood-related cousin.

“You think that was fair? Do you think Cillian had it easy with Aunt Jem and your brother Seamus as parents?” I asked without thinking—obviously still somewhat thoughtless and agitated—and then immediately regretted the questions.

But they were reasonable, valid questions, right?

Neither Aunt Jem nor Uncle Dan’s brother had ever been what one might call stable. In fact, Aunt Jem—like me—had been diagnosed with bipolar. Unlike me, hers was bipolar 2—the “not as bad” kind—and she’d been diagnosed in her twenties, not in her teens. Aunt Jem had taken meds for it while she’d been incarcerated but stopped when she got out. She’d liked being hypomanic, didn’t want to give it up. Because she was—as my dad often said growing up—a complete fucking psycho.

“What are you saying?” He turned to face me fully. “You think it would’ve been better if Cillian had never been born?” For the first time since I arrived, my uncle was looking at me like I was crazy. “Cillian was mostly raised by my ma, your nana—before she died, God rest her soul—and your grandpa Eugene. Wasn’t he? That kid had love, still has love, and you’re asking me about whether he had it easy? Of course he didn’t have it easy. Who the fuck does?”

Clamping my mouth shut, I sipped my water, counted to one hundred, and let my uncle rant and lecture, as he liked to do when he felt like I’d said something naive or made a dumbass statement. Unlike some of my parents’ friends I grew up with, Uncle Dan never seemed to sugarcoat his honest opinions because of my condition. I loved and hated that about him.

Presently, he snorted without humor. “What should we do, Desmond? Replace humans with Dan Jr.’s or your uncle Matt’s robots, a perfect new creation that makes no mistakes and doesn’t malfunction? I mean, why live at all if we can’t be perfect and pain free, amirite? Get a load of this fucking guy.”

He cupped my cheek just as he’d done when I’d walked in and gave it a tender, patronizing pat like I was still eight. “Thinks he knows better ’cause he’s been through some hard shit. I’ll tell you a secret: everybody goes through hard shit, Sherlock. Everyone on this planet stinks with it. But should the human race cease to exist? Should we give up on making babies because of something that might happen, at some point, later in life, or maybe not? There’s a difference between being responsible and being a whiny little bitch who’s afraid of making a single fucking mistake and therefore walks around feeling all superior because they never did anything to hurt nobody. Guess what, they probably never did anything to help nobody either. But they probably think those two things are the same.”

To me, it all sounded like ignorant preaching, especially since he couldn’t fully understand my perspective on the subject. It was easy for him and people like him to say, Go ahead, get married! Find a nice woman and settle down. Have kids! Do your best. Trust it’ll all work out.

What I had was genetic. Sure, there was no guarantee any kids I might have would inherit it, but there was no guarantee they wouldn’t. But, as I’ve mentioned, I don’t argue with people. I pretend to agree and then do whatever I want.

So, I said, “Okay, Uncle Dan.”

His eyes narrowed but he smiled. “Still doing that, huh? That thing where you agree but then do and think whatever the fuck you want?”

Fighting a sudden and very real grin, I repeated, “Okay, Uncle Dan.” It was the olanzapine kicking in, pushing away the jumble of destructive and overwhelming thoughts, quieting them, giving me distance from the chaos, letting me breathe without having to think about it. Praise Jesus and all his angels in heaven for second-generation atypical antipsychotics.

“What are we gonna do with you?” he muttered, shaking his head, sighing loudly, then chuckling again. “I still love you, though, you little shit.”

Being present in the moment—finally—I couldn’t stop the size of my grin as I said, “I love you too, Uncle Dan,” like a smart-ass.

“You better. Jesus, you’re still fucking cute when you smile, you know that? So goofy, it’s contagious.” As though to illustrate this point, he laughed—a deep, rumbling sound—at the sight of my now uncontrollable grin. “Look the same as you did when you were six, just with all your teeth. This is some fucking cutie-pie shit.”

He was right, I did sometimes have a goofy-looking smile. But only if it was real. I looked, in general, like a cheeseball when my grin was sincere and wide or when I laughed uncontrollably. Likewise, my real laugh must’ve been funny sounding too. Not like a donkey laugh or anything like that, but something about it made other people crack up. At least, my family and Ava had always told me so.

When I was really little, my dad—not a particularly funny guy—used to make me laugh in order to get my mom and sister to laugh. He’d say, “Fastest way to get everyone smiling is to get Desmond laughing. It’s contagious.”

“It’s good to see you, finally.” My uncle’s eyes moved over my face, like he was saving this goofy image of me for later. “Now go replace Ava. I think they’re in the basement. She’s the reason you’re here, right?”

In more ways than one, said a stupid voice in my head. Which I ignored.

His question reminded me, I’d forgotten to start the timer on my watch.

My happy expression waning, I gave him a parting nod and left my can of water on the porch, checking the current time as I left. For reasons I didn’t allow myself to scrutinize too closely, I decided I would start the two-hour timer from the moment I saw Ava.

I’d give myself two hours with her. Two hours. I’d leave after two hours.

And that would be it.

After a short period of contemplation, I left the paper-wrapped bundle of yellow roses on the coffee table in the living room. No way was I walking into the basement carrying Ava’s favorite flowers. This wasn’t me overthinking and making things complicated. This was me ensuring she didn’t overthink or assume I wanted to make things complicated. Not that she would. I mean, she might. But, then again, maybe she wouldn’t.

She probably wouldn’t. Whatever. I shouldn’t have bought the flowers in the first place. So why’d you buy the flowers?

Shaking off the question instead of entertaining possible answers to it, I opened the door to the basement. The muffled sounds of swelling music and dialogue in Korean met my ears. I descended the stairs, slowing as I neared the bottom.

Feeling what I was certain could be classified as a normal level of anxiety given the situation, I paused on the last step and peeked around the corner, wanting to get a lay of the land before announcing my presence. As though magnetized to her, Ava was the first thing I saw. She lounged on the sectional sofa eating her favorite brand of potato chips.

She wore black leggings and a maroon-colored T-shirt with white writing I couldn’t read. She also wore a sad expression. I frowned.

“Why am I here?” Ava asked no one, then whined under her breath something that sounded like, “Just to suffer.”

I pulled my stare from her miserable expression and searched the room for the source of her discomfort. The Archer family’s TV room looked exactly as it always had except one corner of the previously pristine black faux-leather Ikea sectional had been gnawed on by an animal, likely their dog, Rainbow Rambo Rousey. The shredded fabric stretched over the now-visible wood frame.

“I’m suffering,” Ava said pitifully, bringing my attention back to her.

“What’s wrong this time?” Grace asked, sounding beleaguered. Ava’s older sister sat on the shaggy white-and-gray carpet covering the floor, her back to the couch. She looked exactly the same. People used to say her features were doll-like, and they were right. Grace was short like her mom, with cute-as-a-button features, except for her huge eyes. She’d dressed as a murderous Betty Boop doll for Halloween a few times, and creeped us out. I’d drawn her portrait once and her face was too symmetrical, like it had been machine-made.

Grace’s gaze suddenly connected with mine. She blinked, flinching back slightly, her lips parting. Then her eyes widened, moved down my body, then made a slow return trip. The side of her mouth tugged up with an extremely small smile that didn’t look voluntary but did look dazed, her cheeks growing pink and her eyes somewhat bracing when they met mine again.

I didn’t miss or misunderstand the meaning of Grace’s series of expressions. I’d always been irritatingly good at reading most people, their mood, their thoughts, especially when my own feelings weren’t involved. Ava’s older sister was startled and confused by what she saw when she looked at me, just as much as she liked it.

I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable by remaining silent and staring, so I moved my hand through the air in a quick, benign wave. “Hey.”

Grace returned the small wave. “Hey,” she said, then cleared her throat. “You’re—uh—here.”

On top of bracing, I detected lingering surprise unrelated to my exterior. I suspected Ava had told Grace I’d be coming. I also suspected Grace didn’t fully believe I would.

Nodding once, I shoved my hands in my pockets. “Yep.”

Before Ava’s sister could respond, Ava moaned pitifully, “My ship is sailing in the wrong direction.”

“Ship?” I asked.

Grace opened her mouth, but Ava cut her off. “Second-lead syndrome.” Not yet looking at me or saying hi, Ava lifted her hand toward the TV and pointed accusingly, like she expected someone to intervene and fix the situation. Potato chip crumbs fell from her fingers.

“He’s not the second lead. He’s the villain.” Grace plucked a cloth napkin from a tray on the floor next to her and tossed it to her sister. “You’re getting chips everywhere. Wipe your hands.”

Ava ignored the napkin in favor of sucking the salt and chip remains from her fingers. Their conversation—and the room—faded as my attention zeroed in on the very important movements of Ava’s lips and fingers.

“Whatever,” Ava’s lips said. “He’s got the sauce.”

“He’s a drug lord!” Grace yelled at her sister, the sharpness and volume of her voice pushing me out of my Ava-finger-licking stupor.

I was fifteen again, fixating on things I shouldn’t.

I shook my head, laughing at myself and the direction of my thoughts. Maybe two hours of Ava exposure was too long. Maybe I should lie, say I’ve been here two hours already, and leave now.

“Or, or—and hear me out.” Ava sat up on the couch, facing Grace fully, using her I’m-entirely-reasonable-and-you’re-the-crazy-one tone, which had always pissed me off. “Perhaps he’s pro-legalization and this is how he protests the government’s flawed policy on⁠—”

“He’s a walking red flag,” Grace seethed, much more worked up than I’d ever expected to see her about anything, let alone a TV show.

Ava reclaimed her lounging position on the couch. “You know I’m color-blind.”

“He dropped an elevator on the heroine to test her strength!” Grace flung a hand toward the TV. “That literally just happened!”

My eyes turned to the screen and, sure enough, a tiny woman was struggling to lift a whole damn elevator. It must’ve been a superhero show.

“Okay, okay. You’re right.” Ava’s sad sigh had me looking at her, and I tensed at the sight of her protruding bottom lip. An active pout.

She hadn’t always made this face. She’d started doing it as a preteen, with me especially, when she discovered the results it yielded. Her passive pout was distracting, but her active pout made my insides rearrange themselves. Why I’d found this look so mesmerizing made no sense to me then, like it made no sense to me now.

“Then I have only one question.” Ava sat up fully. “Look at that guy. Seriously, look at him. Are you looking?”

“Yes,” Grace answered flatly. “I’m looking.”

“If bad, why so sexy?”

Grace grumbled something unintelligible, her gaze full of exasperation seeking mine. She stood, her doll face grim. No longer smiling or blushing, she walked over to the stairs and therefore me.

I backed up, giving her room to walk on by. She stopped when she reached me, placed a hand on my upper arm and squeezed. “This is the reason my sister has never dated anyone seriously. K-dramas have ruined her, Desmond.” She lowered her voice and leaned in close, as though imparting a crucial secret for my ears only. “She sees red flags as red carpets. Until some morally gray man in a three-piece suit replaces her in the rain and gives her an umbrella, she’ll never be satisfied. We’re counting on you.”

My eyebrows jumped high on my forehead. Uncertain how to respond, I said nothing, which seemed to be what Grace had expected.

She squeezed my arm again, meaningfully, her eyes warm with commiseration and something else. “Truly, it is good to see you, Des. You look—uh, you look very—uh—very good.” She cleared her throat again, her gaze moving to the stairs behind me, rushing to add, “And so I’ll trust her bananapants self in your capable care.” Grace dropped her hand and hurried up the stairs.

Leaving me with Ava. Alone. In the basement.

Just like old times.