They Hate Each Other

by Amanda Woody

“Ramírez?” Jonah flutters his eyelashes at me. “You do care about me!” I am going to concuss him myself.

I’ve never paid the night sky much attention. It’s too overwhelming, too panic-inducing. Too lonely. “That’s amazing,” I whisper. Jonah turns his back to me. I turn my back to him. No, I’ve never liked the stars. Maybe, though, they’re not so bad.

“Oh,” he says when he sees how hard I’m crying against Aunt Noelle. She motions violently at him, her expression venomous. “Hmm. Well. I’ll just.”

“According to the laws of marriage,” he says, nudging his glasses up his nose like a giant dork, “I am legally your uncle. Sorry to break it to you.”

“How does it feel?” Hanna asks, jostling my shoulder. “To finally be getting your shit together?” I laugh. I don’t say, I feel like I want to tell Jonah.

My favorite nights are the ones in his sunroom—a wide, glass-paneled space looking out over the backyard. Once, I come over and find a trail of glow-in-the-dark stars winding out of the living room. This immediately irritates me, because what right does he have to act so cute, and how dare he be so romantic? I storm through the house, following the trail, and see him sprawled out in the sunroom on a fluffy quilt. “I know it’s not the best town to stargaze in,” he tells me, smiling. “But we’ll be warm.” I collapse beside him. “This is so corny. I could eat this shit off the cob.”

Mrs. Ramírez is way different than her husband. She has this atmosphere reminiscent of Hanna’s, only more intense and mature. I think she’d happily use me as a mop, and I would thank her for it. Her dark eyes make me feel like I’m being dissected. It’s awesome.

“George said your butt is flatter than the state of Kansas,” he tells me. Fuck George, though.