I have been behaving carelessly.
Milo didn’t read Hollis’s text until Sunday morning. She’d sent it in the middle of the night, and he thought maybe she was making a Gatsby reference, but he couldn’t be sure.
Carelessly how? he texted back.
Three hours later he got Forget it. I’m good.
U sure?
Yup.
Milo wasn’t dense. He knew Hollis had issues. Issues with her dead mom, issues with the search for their donor. He wanted to tell her, “It’s okay. I’m a little effed up, too.” But Milo wasn’t one for deep confessionals. This was a guy thing, maybe. Or was it? Noah seemed to have no trouble pouring his heart out. Sharing his doubts about his father’s love—his fear that Josh was the favored son and that finding their donor would only deepen the rift in his family. Was Milo kidding himself? Could sending the letter have been a terrible mistake?
Well. It was too late now.
He’d told Suzanne and Frankie last night at dinner. “We found William Bardo’s address. He lives in Eden Prairie, Minnesota.”
Frankie, attuned to every nuance of every word that came out of Milo’s mouth, said, “We?”
“Uh-huh,” Milo said. “Me, Hollis, Abby, and Noah. It was a group effort.”
“I see.”
“We—well, technically, I—just sent him a letter.”
“Just?”
Milo took a casual sip of water. “I mailed it this afternoon.”
“Oh, Mi,” Suzanne said, rushing around the table to give Milo a hug. “Congratulations.”
“Congratulations?” Frankie said.
And Suzanne said, “Is there an echo in here?”
Frankie pressed her lips together.
“Ma,” Milo said gently. “It is kind of a big deal.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Frankie said.
God, it sucked. Hearing Frankie use that tone. Seeing the look on her face, like she’d just been slapped. Even after she hugged him. Even after she apologized for her reaction.
“He may not even write back,” Milo said. “He may not want anything to do with us.”
“One step at a time,” Suzanne said.
One step at a time.
Sunday afternoon, twenty-four hours after he’d dropped the letter in the mailbox, Milo was still waiting for the next step. And waiting. And waiting. Even though he knew that he’d missed the noon mail pick-up yesterday and that no mail would go out today. He didn’t know what to do while he waited. Trawling the Internet was no help. Each link was more discouraging than the last.
New Study Shows Sperm Donor Kids Suffer.
Sperm Donor Kids Are Not Really All Right.
Children of Sperm Donors Met With Hostility, Ridicule.
“Listen to this,” Milo said when JJ called. “‘Regardless of socioeconomic status, donor offspring are twice as likely as those raised by biological parents to report problems with the law before age twenty-five.’”
“Huh,” JJ said.
“‘They are more than twice as likely to report having struggled with substance abuse. And they are about 1.5 times as likely to report depression or other mental health problems—’”
“Dude.”
“I know. Who are these people? Don’t they think about the kids who might be reading their blogs? I mean … come on. Don’t they feel any—”
“Dude.”
“Yeah?”
“How long have you been reading that crap?”
“I don’t know. A while.”
“Stay where you are.”
“What?” Milo said.
But JJ had already hung up.
Twenty minutes later, he appeared on Milo’s front stoop. “This is an intervention.”
“I don’t need saving,” Milo said.
But JJ ignored him. JJ brushed right past him and into the kitchen, where Frankie was sitting at the counter, doing the New York Times crossword puzzle, and Suzanne was pouring herself a cup of coffee.
“Hey, Milo’s moms,” JJ said. “I’m taking Milo skating.”
Frankie looked levelly at JJ. “Skating?”
“Ice-skating. At Rockefeller Center.”
“Well,” Suzanne said, taking a sip of coffee. “That sounds like fun.”
“Good clean fun.” JJ nodded. “No controlled substances.”
Frankie shot him the hairy eyeball.
JJ held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
Oh, God, Milo thought. Not Scout’s honor. He braced himself for Frankie’s rant about the Boys Scouts of America and their historically ass-backward stance on homosexuality, but Suzanne made the save. “JJ,” she said. “Frankie and I have been meaning to invite your parents over for dinner. We’d like to get to know them.”
Frankie shot Suzanne a look.
“Cool.” JJ grinned.
Suzanne squeezed Frankie’s shoulder. “We’ll give your mom a call and find a night that works. Right, babe?”
Frankie gave a noncommittal grunt.
On their way out the door, JJ said to Milo, “I’m growing on them. Admit it.”
* * *
JJ rented Milo skates. He held Milo up by the hood of his sweatshirt because Milo couldn’t stand without falling. JJ used to be a hockey player. He showed Milo moves.
“Whoa,” Milo said, watching JJ spray ice through the air with a fancy stop. “You’re good.”
“I used to play for the NYC Cyclones,” JJ explained. “Premier league. Right wing.”
“What happened?”
He shrugged. “I got kicked off the team.”
“Why?”
He shrugged again.
“Weed?”
“Something like that.”
It occurred to Milo that JJ could be living a completely different life if he weren’t a pothead. He’d still be at the Buckley School. He’d still be playing hockey. He’d probably have a girlfriend, because—not that Milo had been checking him out or anything—JJ was a good-looking kid. He wasn’t dumb either. His grades definitely didn’t reflect his potential; they reflected his propensity to get high every day after school.
“Not to sound like your dad,” Milo said, “but do you think you should lay off the ganja?”
“You don’t sound like my dad.”
“No?”
“My dad has no clue.”
Milo nodded, but nodding threw him off balance and he had to grab the handrail.
“We don’t really talk, you know? Or when we do he just … doesn’t get it.”
“Right.”
“Anyway,” JJ said, “you don’t have to worry. Hollis already talked to me.”
“Hollis talked to you?”
“Yeah. We made a deal.”
“You made a deal … with Hollis.”
“Yeah.”
“Am I missing something?” Milo said.
Which is when JJ explained how Hollis had called him last night and they had talked for a long time, and how he had called her this morning and they had talked for an even longer time. And how they had discussed, among other things, “numbing” their feelings—JJ with weed, Hollis with Gunnar Mott, the football player she’d been hooking up with for the past month.
“Gunnar Mott,” Milo repeated.
“Yeah.”
“She’s getting busy with a guy named Gunnar Mott?”
“I know. I said the same thing. Anyway, we made a deal. She’ll stop hooking up with him and I’ll stop smoking weed.”
“Just like that?” Milo said. He was dubious, not because he questioned JJ’s word, but because he remembered learning about drug withdrawal in health class. Going cold turkey was no joke.
“We’re making a plan,” JJ said.
“A plan.”
“A four-week de-numbing plan. We’re sponsoring each other.”
“Huh.”
This whole time, they had been skating. Correction: JJ had been skating; Milo had been wobbling painfully along the perimeter of the rink, clutching the handrail for dear life. There were four-year-olds skating with more grace. Why hadn’t his mothers ever taught him how to skate? Or bowl? Or master anything remotely athletic?
“So?” JJ said.
“So?” Milo clutched the rail.
“What do you think?”
“I think you have a crush on Hollis.”
JJ spun around suddenly and started skating backward, grinning like an idiot. “I think you’re right.”
Hollis and JJ, Milo thought. It made sense, in a way. They were both a little odd. They were both a little broken. If being odd and broken together helped JJ stop smoking weed and Hollis stop hooking up with a guy whose name sounded like a soap opera character, who was Milo to argue?
JJ was looking at him, eyebrows raised.
Milo thought, He wants me to approve. He wants me to give my blessing. Milo nodded. “Cool.”
“She’s a whack-a-doo.” JJ did a spin move, spraying ice through the air. “But so am I.”
“Yes you are,” Milo said.
“And she’s smart. God, is she smart. She was telling me about all the books she’s read.”
“She’s a big reader.”
“I dig her, man. I know it’s too soon to tell, but I think she might dig me, too.” JJ’s grin widened. “She’s calling me tonight.”
“That sounds promising.”
* * *
When he got home and saw Suzanne and Frankie curled up together on the couch, Milo realized something. Everyone had someone but him. Suzanne had Frankie. Hollis had JJ. Noah and Abby—even if the relationships with their siblings were complicated—had Josh and Becca.
“How was skating?” Suzanne said, smiling and patting a spot on the couch. “Tell us about it.”
“It sucked,” Milo said. Then, “Why didn’t you ever get me skating lessons? I was the only person in all of Rockefeller Center who couldn’t skate.”
This was immature and also untrue. There had been at least a dozen Indian college students in NYU sweatshirts, wiping out all over the ice. But Milo was suddenly consumed with self-pity. He flopped onto a chair opposite the couch and dropped his messenger bag—with its stupid EpiPen and Benadryl inside—onto the floor. Why did he have to be allergic to everything? Why did he have to be so skinny? Why did girls like Hayley Christenson never notice him unless guys like JJ Rabinowitz waved her over and asked her for help on their stupid science projects? Milo’s stomach churned.
“You want skating lessons?” Frankie asked.
Milo snorted. “Yeah. Because I’m six.”
“Hey,” Suzanne said, looking at him. “What’s with the voice?”
“It’s the only voice I’ve got, Suzanne.”
“Since when am I ‘Suzanne’?”
“Mi,” Frankie said gently. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened. I just had a crappy time.”
It wasn’t even true. He’d had an okay time; he was just in a crappy mood because he was jealous. Okay, there. He’d said it. He was jealous of JJ and Hollis because—sometime in the past twenty-four hours, before Milo had even had a chance to respond to Hollis’s text—the two of them seemed to have made a connection that didn’t include him. Was it juvenile? Yes. Did it make any logical sense? No. But there it was.
“Want to talk about it?” Frankie said. She was using her My heart is open voice, her social worker voice. “We’re here for you.”
Milo said nothing. Of course he didn’t want to talk about it. When did he ever want to talk about anything with his mothers?
“You’ve got a lot on your mind,” Suzanne said. “We get it.”
“No, you don’t,” Milo said. The words came out so low even he didn’t hear them.
“What, honey?” Frankie said.
“You don’t get it.”
“What don’t we get?”
“What if he doesn’t write back?” Milo said. He didn’t mean to say it; he wasn’t even consciously thinking about it. The question just slipped out. “What if he doesn’t want anything to do with me?”
“Oh, Mi,” Suzanne said softly.
He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have sent that letter. It was stupid.”
“It wasn’t stupid,” Frankie said. “It was brave. I think it’s the bravest thing I’ve ever seen anyone do.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Frankie was probably just saying that. Trying to make him feel better. Because, come on, how brave was it to write a letter and stick it in the mailbox for someone else to deliver? It wasn’t like he’d appeared on William Bardo’s front porch and rung the doorbell. It wasn’t like he’d picked up the phone and called him. Still, Milo felt slightly less sorry for himself. Even though he didn’t have an athletic bone in his body. Even though he didn’t have a Someone. When Suzanne asked if he wanted meatballs for dinner he said yeah. Meatballs sounded good.