Call It What You Want

by Brigid Kemmerer

  “Hey,” he says. His voice gives away nothing, and it’s too dark to read any emotion in his eyes.

  I stop at the porch steps. He’s framed by warm light from the interior.

  “I was about to break in,” I say. To my surprise, my voice is a little breathy.

  “Go ahead,” he says. “Take me down.”

  My pulse steps up. Standing there, a hint of innuendo in his voice, he’s hotter than the day is long. I’m tempted to tackle him.

  I don’t have the confidence for all that, though. I hesitate.

  “I was kidding,” he says, as if he wasn’t clear.

  “I know.” My brain clicks, and for an instant, he’s not Rob Lachlan now, he’s Rob Lachlan from a year ago. We were from two different worlds once: popular boy and nerdy girl. We’re still from two different worlds: cop’s daughter and criminal’s son.

  Either way, I’m never going to be a girl like Callie, and Rob’s never going to stop being Rob Lachlan, regardless of what his dad did. Last night, I was a little loopy from the beer. Tonight, I’m completely sober—and I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing here.

  “It’s cold out,” Rob says. He pushes the door open a little wider. “Want to come inside?”

  “I don’t … I don’t know if I can,” I say in a rush.

  He goes still. “Oh. Okay. It’s fine.”

  “No! Wait.” He’s getting the complete wrong idea. “Not because of your father.”

  Now he looks wary. “Then because of what?”

  “Because you’re you and I’m me.” A line forms between his eyebrows, and I can tell that’s not any better. “Rob. I don’t—you’re—you’re …” I gesture at the house, at him, at our epically different lives.

  “Maegan.” He rolls his eyes, then steps back and holds the door open wide. “Shut up and come in.”

  Rob doesn’t move as I walk past him, which is a good thing, because I was worried he’d try to kiss me. That wouldn’t have been bad, but my brain needs a minute to parse this all out.

  Since the outside of his house looks so grand, I expected the interior to be the same: oil paintings and mahogany furniture and crystal vases or whatever rich people have.

  Instead, the inside of Rob’s house is startlingly bare. No paintings. Not even pictures on the wall. The front door opens into a wide foyer with a beautiful slate floor and floor-to-ceiling shelves, but they’re all empty. Beyond is a family room with one sofa and a nearby recliner. A small television sits on an end table—but at one point a massive big-screen must have hung over the fireplace, because the brackets are still there. To the left is a kitchen my mother would die for—all white marble countertops, gray ceramic tile, and brushed nickel hardware—but no appliances sit on the counter aside from a tiny plastic Mr. Coffee. Even the trash can, plain white plastic, looks out of place.

  “I know it’s weird,” Rob says from behind me.

  I turn to face him. “It’s not.” But it is.

  He must know this, because he offers a little shrug. “It’s weird to me. Like I’m living in someone else’s house.”

  I get it. It looks like squatters live here, but I don’t say that. I doubt it looked like this when Mr. Lachlan was a pillar of the community.

  “You grew up here, right?” I say.

  “Yeah. But … it wasn’t like this. Even now, I feel like we’re living on borrowed time. Mom says they can’t take the house away from us, but …” He shrugs. He clearly thinks “they” can take the house away.

  I glance around the mostly empty rooms and realize he probably watched “them” take away everything else. It must be awful, to have no idea what his future holds. I know what I want—or at least what I always wanted: college for sure, with a focus on math and engineering. The school counselor said that the SAT company can’t report the reason my scores were invalidated, so I don’t think college is entirely off the table, but along with everything else, it’s a constant source of guilt. One wrong decision, and my life skidded off the path.

  But I made my choice. Rob didn’t. He’s not responsible for what his father did.

  As soon as I have the thought, I wonder where his father is.

  “There’s a Harry Potter marathon on,” Rob says. “If you want to watch a movie.”

  I wonder what expression is on my face, because he winces and says, “Or not.”

  “We can watch Harry Potter.” I can’t decide if I’m making this awkward or if he is. He’s not his usual stoic, confident self, and it’s throwing me. “Rob?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Where’s your dad?”

  “Oh. Upstairs.”

  Can I see him? I don’t say the words, but I want to. Not because I want to gawk at him, but because it’s weird to know there’s someone else in the house.

  “I’ve never brought anyone here,” Rob says quickly. “Not since … before.” He shakes his head and rolls his eyes a little. “It’s not like it was. It’s …”

  I wait, but he doesn’t finish that statement.

  “Don’t be embarrassed,” I whisper.

  Color finds his cheeks, and he looks away. “It’s impossible not to be. Living in this house … it’s ridiculous.”

  “You can’t help your family,” I say to him.

  He makes a face, then reaches out to take my hand. His thumb traces my knuckles, and I nearly shiver. “I’m glad you came over.”

  “Me too.”

  We stare at each other for the longest time.

  “Do you want to see him?” Rob finally says. “I can take you upstairs.” He grimaces. “I hate this. I feel like I’m talking about a pet.”

  He’s not wrong: he sounds like he’s got a tarantula or a pit viper. His voice is so foreboding that a chill locks my spine into place, but I don’t want to take the cowardly way out. He has to live with his father. I can look the man in the eye and say hello. “Okay. If you want.”

  “If you want to leave—after—it’s okay.”

  “Now you’re scaring me.”

  Rob doesn’t say anything to that, which isn’t encouraging. He uses his grip on my hand to tug me toward the stairs behind the kitchen. The rest of the house is as bare as the front. We pass a dining room with a simple table and four chairs, then a completely empty room with floor-to-ceiling windows that must have once been an office. This is the only room missing meticulous paint and flooring. The walls are bare white, unlike the trendy grays and blues of the rest of the main level. Carpeting has been torn up, leaving aged hardwood floors that haven’t been refinished.

  I think of his story about finding his father. I wonder if it was in there.

  “Mom says we’ll probably sell it soon,” Rob says, as if the silence has grown too heavy, “but it’s tricky with all the lawsuits and stuff.” Uncertainty rings in his voice. I can’t imagine living with that kind of precarious future, not knowing what the next day would bring. I squeeze his hand.

  He squeezes mine back and stops me at the top of the staircase. “It’s stupid, but I didn’t realize how lonely I was until I wasn’t.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” I say softly.

  “Come on.”

  He leads me down a short hallway to a closed door, which he opens without knocking. That surprises me—who doesn’t knock?—until I see the man in the wheelchair next to the window.

  I should have asked what to expect. I knew his father was impaired in some way, but for some reason, I was expecting something like a stroke patient, with weakness on one side, or someone with the mental capacity of a toddler, who wouldn’t be able to speak well. Dad had a police officer friend who was shot in the head and survived, and while he wasn’t able to return to police work, he was able to function as an adult.

  Rob’s father is none of those things.

  I wasn’t expecting a man who looks like an older version of Rob, with slightly graying hair and a dent in his skull. I wasn’t expecting a blank stare or the clicking machine affixed to a pole beside him or the t
ube disappearing under the waist of his clothing.

  I wasn’t expecting the faint smell of urine mixed with something more medicinal.

  “We usually park him in front of the TV at night,” Rob says, “but it’s hard to get him upstairs by myself, and Mom didn’t want to have to deal with it when she gets back. I put him by the window because it seems better than staring at the wall. If I put him in bed, he just falls asleep, and that means he’s up at four a.m.”

  I swallow. “That makes sense.” It doesn’t make sense at all. My voice sounds like it’s coming from someone else.

  “It doesn’t seem to make a difference either way,” he continues. “Sometimes I wonder if we do all that for ourselves, you know what I mean?”

  No. I have no idea. I had no idea he was living with this. I turn and look at Rob. His expression is frozen somewhere between resignation and fear.

  “You take care of him,” I say. “I don’t think—I don’t think I knew that.”

  “Mom does most of it. We have nurses that help.”

  “Does he respond to anything?”

  “Not the way you mean. He can feel pain, for sure. Sometimes different things will set him off or make him upset. But calling his name or something? Never.” His eyes shift to his father. “Dad! Hey, Dad!”

  Nothing. After a moment, the man blinks. The machine continues its rhythmic clicking.

  I look back at Rob. I’ve been so worried about Samantha and how our family is going to continue, regardless of her decision, but that’s nothing like this. I imagine my father in a chair like this, unaware of who I am or what’s going on around him. Rob Lachlan Sr. committed crimes against dozens of people, but he was still a father. He was still Rob’s father.

  On impulse, I shift forward and throw my arms around Rob’s neck.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, and the words don’t sound like enough. “I didn’t know.”

  He’s so withdrawn when it comes to his family that I’m surprised when he doesn’t pull away and instead hugs me back. I’m even more surprised when his breathing shakes. “You’re the second person to spontaneously hug me today. I must look pathetic.”

  “You’re not pathetic.” I hold on, as if I can feed him a single strand of hope just by virtue of physical contact. “You’re not, Rob.”

  “I am.”

  I press my face into his shoulder. “You’re not,” I whisper. “You’re not. You’re not.”

  His chest expands as he inhales, a warm rush of his breath against my hair as he says my name. “Maegan.”

  Abruptly, he pulls back. “Come with me.” He takes my hand and drags me back through the door, down the hallway a few feet, and into another darkened room.

  I barely have time to identify our surroundings before he takes my face in his hands and kisses me. He’s more sure of himself than last night—if that’s even possible. But there’s no hesitation today, no uncertainty. He’s gentle and warm and his mouth is so addictive. I’m dizzy with the taste of his breath, and I’m glad for his hands at my waist when he draws back.

  “Sorry,” he says pragmatically. “He might not know what I’m doing, but I still don’t want to kiss you in front of Dad.”

  I give a soft little laugh, and he catches my lips with his. The house is so quiet, and we’re not exactly alone, but I’ve never felt more sure. It’s like we’ve carved out a space beside reality, where we can hide from the real world for a little while. When his hands slide under the edge of my shirt, my insides seem to melt.

  He leaves my mouth to kiss his way down my neck, his slender fingers tickling the bottom of my rib cage. I gasp and giggle, but he holds me in place.

  “Who—who spontaneously hugged you first?” I ask him.

  “Owen Goettler.” He barely stops kissing my neck long enough to answer.

  “Did you make out with him too?” I tease.

  “No.” Rob’s hands go still, and he draws back far enough for moonlight to spark in his eyes. We’re in a bedroom. His bedroom, I realize, as I spot lacrosse gear piled in a corner and school books scattered across a desk under the window. “Do you want to go back downstairs to watch a movie?”

  I have no idea how to answer. “Do you?”

  His mouth quirks. “I asked you first.”

  I blush and look down, studying the ribbed pattern of the sweater he’s wearing. “I’m okay with whatever you want to do.” My blush deepens as I consider what that means in his bedroom, of all places. “Mostly whatever,” I amend.

  “Mostly whatever.” He kisses me again, more slowly this time. His body presses into mine, his hands stronger suddenly, holding me against him. He’s so sure of himself that he steals my breath with every kiss.

  When his hand slips under my shirt again, I pull back. “I feel like—I feel like I need to define mostly whatever.”

  He smiles and pauses, his hands going still, his forehead resting against mine. “Go ahead.”

  There’s no urgency in his voice, no disappointment. No expectation. Of all the things about Rob that take me by surprise, this must top the list: he’s respectful. Chivalrous. Thoughtful. Patient. There’s no entitled pawing at my chest, no fumbling to get my jeans unbuttoned.

  Some of that is intrinsically Rob, I’m sure. But some of it had to come from his parents. It’s bizarre to think of a man stealing from half the county but also teaching his son to be respectful of women.

  I’ve been quiet too long, because a line appears between Rob’s eyebrows, and he pulls back an inch. “Maegan, we don’t have to do anything. We really can go watch a movie.”

  I blush and look away. “No. It’s not that. I was thinking about how you’re very respectful.”

  I expect him to take that as a compliment, but he freezes—then frowns.

  “What?” I say softly. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s stupid. It’s—” He makes a disgusted noise, then turns away from me to drop onto the side of the bed and run his hands through his hair. “Sometimes I think of these things my father used to say, and it was completely the opposite of what he did. So then I wonder what’s wrong with me, that I’d listen to anything he’d say.”

  I join him on the bed, sitting gingerly on the edge of the mattress. “What did he say?”

  “It’s not—it’s not like that.” He hesitates.

  I wait.

  Finally, he turns and looks at me. “Okay, like this. One time, we were all at a party at the club, and Connor saw a girl he wanted to talk to. His dad said something like, ‘You want her, go get ’er.’ ” He rolls his eyes.

  “That sounds about right,” I say.

  He looks startled. “What?”

  “That sounds like the kind of thing a guy like Connor would hear from his dad.” I pause. “He sits on the quad every morning and girls fawn all over him. They used to fawn all over you, too.”

  Rob looks abashed. “Well. I couldn’t help that.”

  “You poor thing,” I tease.

  I expect it to make him smile, but he doesn’t. “Go on,” I say. “I interrupted. Your dad wasn’t all ‘Go get ’er, Tiger,’ like Connor’s?”

  “No.” His entire frame is tense. “Connor went to talk to her, and she wasn’t into him. It got really awkward, because she tried to walk away, and he kept going after her. He’s not usually like that, but his dad was right there, watching. When he finally gave up, his dad said something like, ‘A real man would have gotten her number.’ And my dad said, ‘A real man has no right to take what’s not offered.’ ”

  The words drop like a rock. Rob turns and looks at me. “I’m sorry. I got too heavy. I ruined the moment.”

  “No, Rob—”

  “How am I supposed to reconcile that?” he demands. “Am I supposed to hate him? Love him? Does he get a pass because he wasn’t a womanizing asshole? Or could I turn out like him because I’m not one, either? Was he some kind of psychopath? Like, is that how he got people to trust him? I don’t get it.”

  I take his han
d, and I’m surprised to find it’s trembling. “Rob,” I say. “You aren’t like your father. You’re kind. You’re smart. You’re not him. You’re not a thief. Do you understand me? You’re not.”

  “You’re wrong,” he says, and his voice almost breaks.

  I don’t understand. “I’m what?”

  “You’re wrong.” He pulls his hand out of mine. “I’m not a good person.”

  “Rob, you are a good person.”

  “No.” His voice has deepened. He turns and looks at me. “I’m not. Do you understand me? I’m not.”

  A chill winds through my chest at the intensity of his words. “What do you mean?”

  “I am a thief.”

  “What?”

  “I’m a thief. I stole money from the cash box of a fund-raiser last week. I used a cheerleader’s credit card to order shoes. And last night—” He breaks off and shoves himself off the bed, then opens a dresser drawer to swipe something out of it.

  I’m frozen on the edge of his bed.

  He grabs my wrist and pulls out my hand. “Here.”

  Two earrings drop into my palm.

  I recognize them immediately. They’re the earrings that were sitting on the ledge of the hot tub at the Tunstall house.

  “Rob,” I breathe.

  “I stole them,” he says. “And I was going to sell them.”

  I swallow. All the heat has left my body, leaving a brick of icy tension to settle in my abdomen.

  Rob’s a thief. He’s admitting it. He’s proving it. I’ve been defending him to my friends, to my father, when everything everyone warned me about is true.

  The earrings are practically weightless, but they burn against my palm. I don’t know if I should take them with me or leave them. I don’t want to be a part of any of this. Much like Samantha’s secrets, I don’t want Rob’s, too.

  I stare at him. “You were going to sell them?”

  “Yes.” His eyes are searing mine, like he expects me to make sense of it, but I can’t.

  “You stole them when we were together? Were you using me to get in that room?” All the breath rushes out of my lungs as I reevaluate the whole night at the party. “Did you use me to—”