Parallel

crossing his heart with his free hand. “And after the ninth one, they stopped. A few minutes later, I heard the phone ring inside, and a few minutes after that, Rose came out to tell me you’d been born. At nine-oh-nine on September the ninth.”
    Goose bumps spring up on my arm. That’s a lot of nines.
    “I’ve spent the last seventeen years trying to figure out what it meant,” he says then. “‘Just a coincidence,’ most people would say. And maybe it was. But I’ll tell you what, it sure didn’t feel like one.”
    “What’d my dad say?” I ask.
    “I never told him,” my grandfather replies. “Or anyone else.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because I wanted to be the one to tell you about it,” he says, giving my arm a squeeze. “When you were old enough to really hear it. As much as I love my son, he can’t keep a secret for shit.” I stifle a giggle. No argument here. “I always planned to tell you on your eighteenth birthday—9/9/2009 seemed fitting somehow—but I reckon you’ll be off at college by then. Figured I’d better tell you now.”
    “So if it wasn’t a coincidence,” I say when we start walking again, “then what was it?”
    “A sign, maybe. That your life would be special.” He chews thoughtfully on his cigar. “That’s what I always thought, anyway.”
    “Special how?”
    “That depends,” he tells me, his face suddenly serious.
    “On what?”
    “What you decide to do with it.”

12
    HERE
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 2009
(the day after Thanksgiving)
    “You owe me one,” Tyler says as soon as he opens his front door.
    “Here,” I reply, handing him a plastic container of yesterday’s leftovers. I look past him into the house. “Where is he?”
    “Basement.” He pulls open the blue cover and peers inside, surveying the contents. “I don’t see yams.”
    “They’re at the bottom. Below the parsnips. How does he seem?”
    Tyler plucks a green bean out of the container and pops it into his mouth. “Pissed as hell,” he replies, chomping on the bean. “So good luck with that.”
    Tyler steps back to let me inside. His mom, a concert pianist with a penchant for bright colors and expensive kitsch, has painted each wall of the foyer a different shade of magenta. Randomly placed shelves display various treasures she’s acquired over the years, only some of which are wall-appropriate. A hand-painted mask with a beaklike nose stares down at me menacingly.
    “So that’s why you were freezing him out?” Tyler asks. “You were screwing his brother?”
    “I’m not screwing him,” I say pointedly. “And I didn’t know they were brothers.”
    “Why didn’t you just break up with him like a normal person?” Tyler asks.
    “It’s complicated.”
    “Whose fault is that?”
    “I thought you were staying out of it?” I shrug out of my sweater and hang it on the banister. There are sweat stains on my T-shirt. Why am I so nervous? This seemed like a good idea when I orchestrated it during this morning’s six-mile sprint through my neighborhood. Having Tyler invite Josh over, pretending to just show up. It seemed like a brilliant plan. Now I’m thinking the endorphins may have led me astray, considering the guy I’m about to ambush promptly hung up on me when I called him last night.
    At least things with Michael are okay, if our sunrise drive to the airport was any indication. He was supposed to be in Boston with his high school friends until late Sunday night, but he told me he’s taking an earlier train so we can go to dinner when I get back to New Haven.
    “Should I stay up here?” Tyler asks, mouth full. He’s using his index finger to shovel broccoli casserole into his mouth.
    “No. We want him to think I just dropped by, remember? If you stay up here, it’ll look planned.”
    “Whatever. Either way, I’ve committed a major man-code violation. Luring him over here with PS3 so that his heartless ex-girlfriend can ambush him?” Tyler shakes his head. “I’m ashamed of myself.” He drags his finger back through the broccoli. “Then again, I’ll do pretty much anything for your mom’s leftovers.”
    “What if he won’t talk to me?” I ask.
    “I’d be more worried about what you’re gonna say if he will,” Tyler replies. “You gave the guy the deep freeze, then showed up on his front porch with his brother’s tongue down your throat.”
    “It was unintentional,” I insist.
    “If you say so,” he says. “How’s Caitlin?”
    “She’s