by Claire Adams
“He’s not my boyfriend!” Tara snapped.
“Yeah, right. I saw those pictures you put up of the two of you at the beach.”
I went over to Tara and pulled her up. “Are you okay?” I asked.
“I really fucked up my ankle,” she said, looking down at it. “Shit, it’s already swelling. Dammit! This sure as shit isn’t going as I planned it.”
I hunched over a little so she could throw her arm across my shoulders and take some of the weight off her injured leg.
“If he’s not your boyfriend, what the hell is he doing here, then?” Michael asked. “And why the hell did you tell me he was your boyfriend? Why the hell would you post fucking pictures of the two of you on Facebook together?”
“He’s my boyfriend,” I said. “And he’s here because I asked him to be because I know how much of a scumbag you can be.”
“I think it’s time you hit the road, bro,” Graham said. “There’s really no reason for you to be here.”
Michael gave him a defiant look, but we all knew he wasn’t going to try to fight Graham. There was no way in hell he’d have any chance of beating him.
“You’re a piece of work,” he said to Tara. He started to walk down the sidewalk. “You really are. Don’t ever get in touch with me again.”
He turned and walked off.
“What a dick!” Tara said. She looked at Graham. “I didn’t know you were part of our covert operation, too.”
“I’m not,” he said. “But I had a feeling I better make an appearance.”
“We were handling it,” Tara said. “But we do appreciate you showing up.”
“Right.” Graham nodded slowly. “You can barely even walk.”
“I rolled my ankle. Just give me a minute.”
He looked at me. “And what about you? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine!” I did, in fact, feel fine, probably a whole hell of a lot better than Tara felt with her swollen ankle.
“Help me over to that bench,” Tara said. She hobbled over and sat down, gingerly stretching her leg out in front of her.
“That’s not looking so great,” Graham said.
“Forget about my ankle.” Tara grinned at me. “Let’s talk about the most exciting part of tonight.”
“And what would that be?” I asked. “You nearly getting an abducted by your ex-boyfriend?”
“No! I’m talking about you referring to Graham as your boyfriend! You might’ve thought you snuck that one by me, but no way!”
“Oh,” I said, barely remembering that I’d said it. “Well, I only said it because Michael was trying to say that Graham was your boyfriend, not because he’s actually mine ...”
Graham laughed. “Am I being fought over? I don’t mind being your boyfriend, you know. I’ve never actually officially been someone’s boyfriend, but I wouldn’t mind giving it a shot. For you.”
Tara squealed. “Ahhh, I love it!”
“You would?” I asked.
“Of course I would. You’re worth it.”
I felt my face start to get warm. “Really? I mean, yeah, of course I would love it if you were my boyfriend!”
“Oh, you two are so cute,” Tara said. “Give him a kiss!”
“Well ... okay!” I said, going over to him. But instead of just standing in front of him, I jumped up, wrapping my legs around his waist, his arms around my neck. “I’m supposed to kiss you,” I said. “Since you’re my boyfriend and all.”
He grinned. “Be my guest.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Graham
I have a girlfriend.
Having never had a girlfriend before, I found myself randomly thinking this thought at various times throughout the day. I might have been brushing my teeth, or getting into the truck, or even doing work on a customer—and that thought would suddenly be there.
Such as right now, standing here behind the counter at work. I’d just hung up the phone with someone who’d scheduled an appointment for this weekend when the thought crossed my mind and brought a smile to my face.
“What?” Helena asked, looking at me suspiciously. “You’ve been grinning like a fool since you got here.”
“Sorry,” I said, not feeling sorry in the least. “I should go listen to some death metal and watch some Russian fail videos to make sure I’m grimacing for the rest of the day.”
She laughed and shook her head. “You know what you should do? You should go through some of that mail on your desk out back. It’s getting out of control. I’ve done what I can for you—I opened it and sorted it into piles. But I’m not your secretary, either, you know. And the pile just keeps getting bigger and bigger.”
“Right,” I said. “I know. I’ll get to it. And I appreciate you going through it and at least getting me started. That makes it a little less daunting.”
She smiled. “You sure as hell don’t strike me as the type to be intimidated by a pile of papers. They’re on your desk.”
But it was intimidating, if only because I knew how long it was going to take me to go through all that shit. It would be so much easier to just chuck it all in the trash—I mean, recycling bin.
I walked back to the office, where I was confronted by that looming pile of papers. A lot of it I was actually able to get rid of, almost right away—the credit card offers, the junk mail, the grocery store circulars. That took care of a lot of it, and I immediately felt better.
There was a small stack of envelopes that Helena hadn’t opened, with a Post-it note on top: These look official and/or finance- related—thought I’d better leave them for you. H.
I picked up the first envelope. It was from the bank that I’d taken out a loan with to start the business. I had the loan payments automatically deducted from my bank account each month, so I hadn’t received much correspondence from the bank, other than the monthly statements, which I didn’t look at but saved in a folder for the accountant. I opened the envelope, pulled out the papers, and was about to slide them into the folder. For some reason, though, I looked at the first page before I put them in, and I saw: 00.00. As in, that was the statement balance.
What?
I looked more closely. The loan was completely paid off, but I hadn’t expected that to happen until late next year.
It must be some sort of clerical error. I didn’t feel like getting on the phone with the bank, but I knew if I didn’t, I’d forget about it and then this would probably come back to bite me in the ass. Even though it was clearly the bank’s mistake.
“Fuck,” I said, probably more aggravated than I should be. But who the hell wants to spend half their day listening to shitty Muzak while they’re on hold with their bank? But I’d have to take care of it. Just not today.
I have a girlfriend.
Today, I was feeling too good to deal with any of that shit.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chloe
I was on my way back home from the art center when I got a call from Claudia, my mom’s friend and owner of the gallery where the art show was going to be.
“Chloe!” she said. “How are you?”
“Hi, Claudia. I’m good,” I said. “Just leaving the art center right now, actually.”
“Oh, that’s great. How is your piece coming along?”
“I had a few false starts,” I said. “But it’s coming along pretty well. It should be ready in time for the show.”
“Excellent. I’m expecting a really great turnout. The last show we had went so well; this one shouldn’t be any different. It’s a really exciting opportunity.”
“I’m definitely looking forward to it,” I said, pulling into the parking lot. “I’m a little nervous, actually.”
“Oh, that’s entirely normal. You’re not the only one, trust me. But you’re talented, and there is no doubt in my mind that whatever you’ve come up with is going to be absolutely phenomenal.”
It made me feel better to hear her say that, until I remembered that she’d never actual
ly seen my work before and was just going off of whatever my mother had told her. I sighed. “Well, I really do appreciate the opportunity you’re giving me.”
“Of course! Your mother couldn’t stop raving about your work, so it was a no-brainer to give you a spot. I love having the chance to help out up-and-coming artists. You wouldn’t be the first one that I’ve helped, you know. Think about what you’d like to price your piece at, too. Oh, I’ve got to run, dear, I’ll talk to you soon.” She hung up before I could reply.
I tossed the phone down onto the passenger seat; my head felt like it was spinning a little. I knew I should just be grateful for the chance to actually be in the show, but I felt myself starting to have doubts about the whole thing. There were probably a lot more artists who were more worthy of having a spot in the show than I was, yet just because my mother was friends with Claudia and “couldn’t stop raving” about my work, I was given the spot.
When I got home, both of my parents were there, waiting for me, it would seem. They were sitting in the living room, my father in his wingback chair, my mother on the couch.
“Hi,” I said.
They both had rather grim expressions on their faces. My mother also had a big glass of wine.
“Hello dear,” she said. She took a big sip of wine. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” I said cautiously. “How are you guys?”
“Chloe,” my father said. “Come in here. Have a seat.”
I sat down, knowing that I wasn’t going to like whatever it was they were about to say.
“So ... I can tell this is going to be more than just a friendly little chat.” I swallowed, trying to quell the anxiety that had started to build in my chest. There was nothing for me to feel anxious about; I hadn’t done anything wrong. I knew this, yet there was part of me that felt as though they were about to blame me for something. I’d disliked this type of anxiety so much that it was my main motivation as a kid to always do what was expected of me. But now, it seemed, it didn’t matter what I did; my parents would find something to take issue with.
“Chloe,” my father started, his tone dripping with irritation, “this has all gone on long enough. Frankly, I’m getting sick of having this conversation with you. You’re a young woman who could have a bright future ahead of her if she stays on track. And as your parents, it’s our duty and responsibility to make sure that happens. We would not be very good parents if we simply stepped to the side and let you conduct yourself however you wanted. We’re not saying that you need to mindlessly follow everything we say. In fact, I feel as though we’ve given you quite a bit of freedom.”
“How so?” I asked.
My father looked genuinely surprised. “How so? Did we or did we not agree to let you go to that art school you so badly wanted to attend? Who’s financing that? Who’s paying for your living expenses?”
“I appreciate all of that—you guys know that. But I kind of feel like you’re only okay with what I do so long as it’s what you want.”
“That’s absolutely untrue.” My father pursed his lips and shook his head. “If you were doing exactly what we wanted you to do, art school wouldn’t have been on the table in the first place. I have an appreciation for the arts, Chloe. Your mother does too. But it’s very hard to make a living as an artist, and because we want to see you do well in life, I feel as though we need to steer you in a different direction. And this path you’re headed down now, seeing this guy, that’s just got to stop. And it’s got to stop now, because I am tired of having this conversation with you.”
My mother was quiet, staring intently into her wine glass. I took a deep breath and tried not to let my own irritation show on my face. “I know, Dad. And you’re not the only one who is getting sick of having this conversation.”
“Yet it doesn’t seem to be getting us anywhere, does it? Because I find myself saying the same thing, again and again. So I’m going to nip this in the bud, right here, right now. You are not to see Graham again.”
My mouth dropped open. “What?”
“You heard me, Chloe. But just so there is no confusion, I’ll repeat myself: you are no longer allowed to see Graham. End of story.”
I looked over at my mother, who hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t she told me the night I came home and found her sitting outside that she didn’t think Graham was that bad? That he seemed nice? That we would all have to try again another time to get together? But now, she was just looking down at the fabric on the couch cushion, as though she were considering whether or not she wanted to reupholster it.
“You can’t tell me that,” I said. “You can’t tell me that I can or cannot hang out with someone. I’m not a child.”
“You may not be a child, but you’re living under my roof. I’m financing your education, and your apartment. Even though I don’t agree that a person can really have a future in the arts—not a profitable future, anyway. But it’s something that you always felt strongly about, and I wanted to support that. Because I want what’s best for you. And I knew how badly you wanted to go to art school. You may not realize it, but these things cost money.”
“Of course I realize that!” I snapped. “I’m not an idiot, even though you seem to think I am.”
“Then you can understand why I don’t want you hanging out with someone like Graham. He’s not the right person for you, and it just seems unproductive to be spending your time with someone that you are ultimately not going to end up with.”
I could only stare at him in disbelief. He was talking with such certainty that it almost made me doubt myself. But how could he know? How could he know that Graham wasn’t right for me? That we wouldn’t end up together?
“You really have no idea what you’re talking about,” I finally managed to say. And that was the thing with my dad: he was always used to being in charge, in control of his situation, knowing what the outcome was going to be. And I’d always just got along with it, because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. “You can’t stand that, can you? You can’t stand the fact that I am doing something you don’t necessarily agree with. Even though I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m not doing anything that’s hurting anyone.”
“This is hurting me,” my father said. “It pains me a great deal to see you headed down the wrong path. And as your parent, it’s my duty and obligation to try to set you straight.”
“You can tell yourself whatever you want, but you’re not right.” I shook my head. “I know for a fact that you are not right, at least not in this situation. Graham is a good person.” I looked at my mother. “Mom, you’ve been bugging me this whole summer about how I haven’t really dated anyone and how worried you are about that, and now I finally find someone that I actually like—and that wasn’t offered a job if he’d go out with me—and you guys are unwilling to accept that! I can’t believe it.”
“You don’t know each other that well,” my mother finally said. “He may not be who you think he is. And what’s going to happen when the summer is over? He’s going to stay here; you’re going to go back to school. Long distance relationships hardly ever work out. You’re taking a gamble on someone that you barely even know.”
I stood up. “Yeah, well, I’m willing to take that chance. You guys wouldn’t be happy with anyone unless you picked him out yourselves. But guess what? It’s not your life. And you can’t tell me what to do.”
“Then you are not allowed to live in this house,” my father said calmly.
My mother gasped. “John! We’re not throwing her out.”
“You’re right,” he said. “We’re not. We’re allowing her to make a choice. Just because she’s over 18 doesn’t mean she doesn’t have to follow the rules of the house, Claire. We are by no means, though, throwing her out.”
They both looked at me, my father expectantly, my mother pleadingly. Neither really thought I would leave, though. There was a part of me that didn’t think I would do it, either. But what choice were they giving me? I was 2
1, not 12.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll go.”
“Chloe, you can’t—” my mother started to say, but my father shushed her.
“Let her go, Claire. She’s making her choice, and we’re not going to stop her.”
“I think it’s really unfortunate that it’s come to this point,” I said. “I haven’t done anything wrong. You guys are acting like I’m some sort of criminal or drug addict or something. I’ve met someone that I actually like, and I’m spending time with him. So what if he doesn’t happen to fall into the same socioeconomic class as us? So what if he doesn’t look exactly how you think he should? I didn’t realize you would be so closed-minded.”
There was a part of me that knew my parents really only socialized with other people “like them,” but I had always assumed that they’d be welcoming to others, especially if they actually got the chance to know them. But now it seemed like they weren’t even willing to go that far.
My father started to say something, but I’d heard enough. I walked out of the room. I went upstairs and dug through my closet for my duffle bag. I threw in some clothes, went and grabbed my toothbrush from the bathroom, found my purse, and then trotted back downstairs. They were both in the living room, arguing. I paused at the bottom of the stairs, out of their line of sight.
“I’m going to tell her she doesn’t have to leave,” my mother was saying.
“You’ll do no such thing.”
“But John, we can’t throw her out! Where will she go?”
“Claire, it’s not our problem. And Chloe knows she is always welcome here so long as she is willing to follow the rules. If she wants to come back tonight—fine! We’re not asking that much. She’s making a big deal of it because she feels she needs to take a stand, but she’ll come around.”
“I just ....” My mother’s voice broke and I knew she was about to start crying.
“I’m leaving,” I said. I debated whether or not I should go in there, but decided against it. Nothing I said, short of promising to never hang out with Graham again, would change my father’s mind, and nothing they could say would change my mind, either.