by Kate Davis
I open the door a crack to check whether there’s anyone standing in the hall and stare into the most faithful pair of eyes any person could ever wish for.
The coast is clear.
“Sammy, come on. Hurry up,” I urge my dog who won’t budge from the spot.
I sigh. The problem with Pomeranians is they aren’t just cute as a pie and know it. They also aren’t very good at following commands.
“Come in now.” I put on my most severe tone and frown at her, but it’s useless. She’s more scared of rain puddles and manhole covers than of me.
“Sammy, now,” I hiss and cringe inwardly at how stern I sound. I feel so bad for taking this tone with her, but all I get in response is some panting and the complete opposite of what I want her to do. To my dismay, she lies down, front paws crossed, and keeps staring at me.
“You little bugger. I know you understand me.” I kneel down and reach to grab her. “That’s it! You’re so getting professional training—as soon as I can afford it.”
“You okay there?”
I look up to the one guy who seems to be everywhere tonight. He’s leaning against the wall, dangerously close to the picture of me clad in the most hideous prom dress and an even more unsightly haircut. Thank goodness taste is that one good thing that comes with age.
“I was—” I stand to my feet and run a hand through my hair, lost for words. Obviously, I can’t admit that I was hiding.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to tune in. Your mother showed me the garden and the new landscaping, and I just helped your dad set up the barbeque.”
New landscaping?
When did that happen and how come I know nothing about it?
“Great.” I nod as though I know what he’s talking about.
“So.”
“So.” I nod again.
“What are you up to in there?”
“Me? Nothing.” I peer behind me, like I’m really busy with something, and realize how guilty I sound.
Shane’s lips twitch. “Is that your bedroom?”
“No.” Shoot, I lied. I send up a silent “sorry” to the Almighty. I’m so sorry, Father. “Okay, yes. But you can’t come in.”
“Why not?” He inches closer and reaches to pet Sammy’s ears. The little traitor seems to enjoy it a little too much and rewards him by licking his fingers. I pick her up and possessively press her to my chest.
Yes, why not let him in?
“Because.” I hesitate. It’s not like I need to be ashamed of anything. I’m an adult woman with a teenager past. Mom’s done a great job of tidying up after I left and took half of my belongings with me. And the other half wouldn’t be so bad…were it not for the walls.
Yeah, about that.
See, I really don’t want him to see my walls.
Think of my chance at appearing sophisticated all flying out the window the moment he steps in. Once he sees my Justin Bieber posters, I’m sure he’ll be running for the hills. It was just a brief phase. A few weeks, maybe. A couple of months tops. (Okay, a few years, but he really wasn’t that bad!) I wasn’t really that great a fan, but for some reason I caked my walls with posters of him. Maybe because it really hit a nerve with Mom who called it idolatry. She even called in Pastor Rick to “talk some sense into me and make sure I wasn’t possessed or anything”. I was a rebellious teenager and so I refused to take Justin’s smug smile (that kind of looks a bit leery, come to think of it) and sweaty foreheads off the walls.
I should have listened to Pastor Rick because my rebellious streak has just come to bite me in the backside.
As though it’s suddenly become her life mission to embarrass the heck out of me, Sammy tugs really hard at the hem of my top, her teeth coming dangerously close to ripping a hole into the fabric. I have no choice but to put her down while yelling, “Stop it, Sammy.”
The top’s all I brought with me and there’s no way I’ll be changing into anything belonging to my mother and let Shane see me, unless he’s into onesies and shoulder pads. Let’s face it, the chance is nil because no grown-up man with his marbles in the right place would find those attractive.
As I jump aside, I twist my ankle and land on my backside not so gracefully.
“Are you okay?” Shane throws the door open and steps in, reaching to help me up.
I rise to my feet and test my ankle. “I’m fine,” I say and instantly regret it.
Apparently, the fact that nothing’s broken seems to be Shane’s invitation to glance around, his gaze immediately settling on the Justin Bieber disaster. His lips twitch and his face turns slightly red, as though he’s trying his hardest to keep back his laughter and barely succeeding.
“Don’t say a word,” I mutter. “Seriously, don’t!”
“What?” He shrugs. “I wasn’t going to. Obviously, everyone has their vices. In your case, it seems to be the former heartthrob of every thirteen-year-old girl and Canada’s most famous export.”
“I wouldn’t call it a vice, more like—”
“Is it too late now to say sorry?”
“Sorry for what?” I look at him, unsure where he’s heading.
He’s put his hand over his heart and is peering at me from under dark lashes. “Can we still be friends?”
That’s when the penny drops. He’s quoting lyrics at me.
“Oh, for crying out loud.” I roll my eyes. “I wasn’t a fan, okay. Not like that. I was just trying to annoy my mother.”
“With Justin Bieber? Did you go to his gigs and everything?”
I nod and cringe inwardly.
He laughs. “You were really bad. I’m surprised she didn’t send you to boarding school.”
“She threatened, but Dad wouldn’t have it. He said worse things happen there, like teachers polluting your mind with their ‘free thinking’. Don’t ask what that is because I never wanted to get into a discussion about it with Dad. Anyway—” I walk toward the door in the hope he’ll get the hint.
“That’s my clue,” Shane says. “Sammy, want to go for a walk?” He throws my dog one of his looks and the little traitor is following him out like someone’s just waved a piece of cheese in her face.
I can’t believe it. I’ve been training her since day one (well, maybe day three), and yet I can never ever get her to do anything, not even go for walks, unless I say one of the magic words. She met the guy five minutes ago and already she’s putty in his hands.
Let’s face it.
My life’s a mess. I can’t get the job I’ve been paid to do done. I can barely afford rent and might soon have to move back in with the parents. I can’t impress some guy who I shouldn’t be trying to impress in the first place.
And worst of all, I’m not even my dog’s universe, even though isn’t that what every Pinterest picture about animal love is trying to sell you?
My life’s in shambles.
As I sink onto my bed and look up, all I can see is Justin’s face leering at me. For some reason, I begin to laugh so hard tears are streaming down my face.
Chapter Ten
What can I say? Mom’s party is a disaster. By the end of her little gathering, I’m a nervous wreck because she exhausted all my good intentions to “honor thy parents” within the first hour. First, her sharing my private stuff with the world. Then, her blatant attempt at matchmaking which sort of continued during the entire evening.
It’s after midnight. Shane’s the last guest and ready to leave. Thank goodness!
For a moment, I envy him and consider asking him to find some excuse to take me along, maybe something like ask me out for a drink. Or he can’t find his way back home. Or the taxi fare’s too high for him alone and he needs someone to split the bill.
But I can’t just ask a guy to lie for me so I can get away from my parents! My faith may be a little shaky and sometimes eludes me altogether, particularly when things don’t turn out my way. But my mother and Pastor Rick were good at talking fear of the Lord into me so the commandments are always at the
back of my mind.
Like, don’t lie!
Don’t be a stumbling block.
Pastor Rick always compared repentance with a bank loan. There’s only so much of it you can borrow. At some point you’ll have grieved the Holy Ghost so much it’ll close up office, disconnect her phone number, and that’s that. You’ll have committed the unpardonable sin for which not even Christ can atone.
So, thanks to Pastor Rick’s colorful illustrations, I’ve been trying to avoid freeloading on the Almighty’s repentance.
“Shane,” my mother yells from the kitchen door. Today she’s been particularly generous with the sherry, which shows in her rosy cheeks and the earsplitting sound level of her voice. “You’re not thinking about leaving, are you darling?”
I glare at her. “Mom, I’m sure Shane’s busy and needs to get home. It’s Saturday night. He might have other plans.” I shoot him a questioning look. Does he have plans? Not that it’s any of my business, but given the noise level in his apartment, it is a very likely possibility.
“I don’t,” Shane says.
Oh!
A smile creeps up my face. Seriously, I shouldn’t be so happy, particularly when his lack of a date on a Saturday night means nothing. I mean, he could have canceled to come here and he might see her tomorrow. Or next week.
And yet, I can’t help myself.
“Then stay,” Mom lulls. “Stay the night. We have a guest room.”
Which is sort of a broom closet with a bed and barely any space to get out of it. And don’t get me started on the wallpaper. It’s like someone tried to cram all the flowers in the world onto one wall…and succeeded at it.
“I can lend you clean underwear,” Dad chimes in, helpful as always, while I cringe. Yeah, only my parents would think offering your underwear to strangers is normal.
“Or he could just sleep naked, and Mom could just throw his clothes into the automat and have them dry by morning,” I say.
Shane raises his brows at me, amused. That’s when I realize my blunder. Not only did I encourage him to stay; I also suggested he sleep naked.
“Obviously, I wasn’t—” I mumble.
“What a fabulous idea, Samantha, darling,” Mom says. “Your best this year.”
“You don’t need to—” I say to Shane, my eyes imploring. I want to yell, go away, go away. You can’t be here for breakfast. In my parents’ house bad things happen at breakfast.
“In that case, how can I decline?” Shane keeps staring at me with that amused glint in his eyes.
Come on!
I fight the urge to groan. He’s doing this on purpose, letting me embarrass myself, and in the privacy of his home, he’s probably laughing his head off. Or telling his friends all about it while they’re laughing their heads off.
“Fabulous.” Mom claps her hands, excited like a child. “Let’s get you settled in. You can share the bathroom with Samantha. Please feel at home. Our casa is su casa.” I’m pretty sure the saying doesn’t quite go like that. The sherry’s talking, filling in the blanks of her intoxicated mind. “Breakfast is served at eight.”
“Sounds good.” Shane’s still looking at me while my face is slowly starting to feel like the beetroot growing in my mother’s vegetable patch.
“If it’s too early, let us know and we’ll save up some food for you. We always do, given that Samantha often doesn’t get up before noon.”
“Really?” Shane cocks his brow, amused.
“I’m not lazy or anything,” I mumble. “I sometimes write during the night, and it can get quite late.”
“You’re a workaholic.”
“I wouldn’t describe myself as such but—” I shrug and leave the rest open to interpretation. Better let him think I’m this incredibly creative person that can’t stop hammering away on her keyboard, bursting with ideas, than the sad reality which is I watch way too much reality TV while trying to string a few sentences together that rarely pass the following day’s editing.
“Let me show you the way.” Mom interlinks her arm with his, dragging him along as though she’s about to give him the grand tour of the castle. What should last all of five minutes will probably take her at least half an hour, given that she’ll most likely stop at every imitation of famous paintings hanging on our walls.
As I watch her lead him away, with Dad in close pursuit, I hear Dad say, “And this is the Le Havre by Monet. You’ve probably never heard of him, but he’s very famous. A true artist, best known in France because that’s the only nation that truly values real art. They might not know anything about BBQs, but they know their painters and cheese.”
“Trust me, we know,” Mom says. “We went to Paris last year, and that was a disaster, let me tell you…”
As their chatter remains a distant echo in the hall that would carry even a hamster’s chewing noise, I sigh and shake my head wondering what could possibly go wrong next with my life.
Chapter Eleven
I’ve been up since dawn, even though I could barely get any sleep last night as I was constantly aware of Shane sleeping next door. By eight sharp, I’ve showered, done my hair, done my makeup, and changed into a clean pair of jeans that’s become a little too tight around the middle. But you can barely tell. Last night’s top is doing a great job at covering it up, and the jeans do emphasize my legs, which aren’t really long or anything…just nice.
As I enter the open kitchen area, I find Shane sitting at the table next to Dad, sharing a newspaper between them. Mom’s hovering in the background, busying herself with whatever’s frying in the pan (with Mom you can rarely tell by the smell, it can go any way).
“Good morning, sleepy-head,” Dad says, barely looking up from the sports section.
“I’ve been up for hours.” I slump into a chair, my mood instantly taking a dive for the gutters.
“It’s fine, darling. You’re such a hard worker, you rest as long as you need,” Mom says, pushing a mug with black coffee into my hand. “Eggs?”
Oh, is that what the gooey brownish thing is?
Shane looks up and our gazes meet. There’s something in his eyes, something I can’t pinpoint. My throat dries up. “I’ll pass. I’m not hungry.” I take a sip of my coffee and barely get the liquid down my throat without choking on it.
“Shane, darling?” My mother asks, holding the pan in one hand and a spoon in the other, waiting hopefully.
“Trish, you’re feeding me so well, by the time I leave I won’t fit through the door.” He winks at her and holds up his empty plate so she can heap spoons of whatever concoction that is onto his plate, all the while chuckling.
I look at him with doubt. He can’t be serious. My mother’s cooking is good, always has been. Just not after she’s had a few drops too many of sherry and her taste buds have shut down for the day or week. I always know to steer clear of her food on those days.
“You should try this. Best eggs I’ve ever had.” Shane loads up his fork and holds it across the table, up to my mouth, his eyes fixed on me.
I look at the fork, then at him, then back at the fork. Seriously, why is he sharing his food with me? There’s only one answer: he’s trying to get rid of it and doesn’t want to hurt my mother’s feelings.
I take a bite and chew slowly, painfully aware of my constricted throat.
This is good. As though to agree, my stomach grumbles in response.
“Not bad,” I say and swallow down.
“I’ll make you some,” Mom immediately offers.
“No need, Trish. You sit down, you’ve done enough. Enjoy your morning,” Shane says and gets up. “Samantha and I will sit outside in the garden, get some fresh air and sunshine while we’re sharing my plate.”
Without waiting for my answer, he leads the way, confident that I’ll follow. I catch my father’s meaningful glance at Mom and her smirk back at him.
“Stop it,” I hiss at them. “You’re embarrassing me. He’s seeing someone. I know it because I live next door and
can hear all about it through the walls.”
“There’s no ring on that finger, darling,” Mom says.
I sigh and retort, “You shall not covet, remember that, Mom?”
She raises her chin defiantly. “Pastor Rick says—”
“You told Pastor Rick about this? When did you do that? Or is the guy living in our walls that he hears everything?” I hold up my hand, stopping her. “You know what? On second thought, I don’t want to know.”
I find Shane in the backyard, sitting at the table with Sammy in his lap. He’s feeding her scraps of eggs while scratching her behind her ears.
“Seriously, you don’t have to be so forthcoming to them, you know?” I take the seat opposite him and regard my dog who pays no attention to me.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Shane looks up for a moment, frowning. “Your parents are great. I wish my parents were still here.”
“Your parents are—” I catch his pained expression and feel bad for thinking badly about mine. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugs. “It’s fine. It happened a long time ago. I was a child. I barely remember them. My grandparents raised me. They did a great job, but there were times when I missed having a normal family like all the other kids in school. Your parents seem to love you a lot.”
“I guess,” I mumble.
“No, they do. This morning they couldn’t stop talking about you, telling me about your achievements and how great a writer you are.”
My cheeks are on fire.
Shane probably thinks Mom and Dad couldn’t stop gushing out of parental love, while they were probably trying to sell my best attributes like you would try to make a horse stand out at the local bazaar. I can’t but wonder whether they mentioned the state of my dental work.
“They made you sound like a great daughter.”
I snort. “Did they also mention how high I can jump and how much load I can carry?”
“What?” Shane shoots me a confused look.