He Must Like You

by Danielle Younge-Ullman

  “Ha. Good luck with that.”

  “And . . . Libby, I haven’t seen Perry in a really long time, but we were buds.”

  “Oh, barf.”

  “No, but . . . maybe I could talk to him. Sometimes guys are just dumb, and they don’t realize their attentions are unwelcome. I see it in the bar all the time. Not only that, sometimes their attentions are welcome, and people hook up, fall in love, live happily ever after. So it’s tricky. But I think if I just explained it to Perry, he’d feel bad about it.”

  “Oh, you naive man-child,” I say, shaking my head. “Perry knows his attentions are unwelcome. He doesn’t care. Trust me. How about you focus on Mom and Dad.”

  “All right.”

  “Are you ready to go in?”

  Suddenly Jack is shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and looking anxious.

  “Don’t worry, Dad’s asleep,” I say. “He spent half his day on the phone haranguing a series of customer service representatives trying to get them to replace something he broke himself, on purpose. If only he’d been a lawyer, he’d have been literally paid to argue, and we would be so rich by now.”

  Jack’s broad chest rumbles with a laugh that’s like a warm blanket.

  “Anyway, he conked out on the couch downstairs after all that, and we’re just waiting for him to wake up revived and remember about Perry, and start wreaking havoc again. Because that’s the pattern when he’s like this: get up, wreak havoc, sleep, repeat.”

  “Fun.”

  “Yeah,” I say, and sigh. “Anyway we can probably sneak you in to see Mom first. Don’t be scared—I’m not sure she’s even really that mad at you anymore. And if she is, I’ll bet she forgives you the second she sees you.”

  He shrugs, and something in his expression triggers a realization.

  “She knew you were coming, didn’t she! You told her and not me?”

  “Well you weren’t answering my calls or texts,” he says, hands up defensively. “And I thought she might want some . . . emotional preparation. I’m sorry!”

  “It’s fine,” I say, shaking my head. “Explains a few things.”

  Then I take his arm, and he hefts his overnight bag over his shoulder and follows me inside.

  When we walk into the kitchen, Mom gasps in the general direction of Jack’s beard and the wild straggle of hair curling just past his shoulders, clutches at her chest, and then says, “You’re so hairy!”

  Jack and I both burst out laughing.

  “You didn’t warn her about the facial hair?” he asks me. “I know you saw photos.”

  “It’s not something you just drop into conversation.”

  “It’s still me, Ma,” Jack says, and holds out his arms.

  She bursts into tears, throws herself at him, and clings for a good five minutes while he pats her back and says nice, calming things. Meanwhile, I keep a lookout for signs of Dad emerging from the basement.

  “Dinner,” Mom finally gasps, and pulls away. “We should have dinner. I’ve almost got everything ready.”

  “How can I help?” Jack asks.

  She’s already set the dining room table with all the fancy things we never use, just like she did in January for the dinner where they announced that my education money was gone and they were kicking me out. I can’t help feeling that the more effort my mom makes for a meal, the worse it’s going to go.

  “You two start putting the food on the table and I’ll go . . . ah . . . get your father. Just . . . don’t stand near the top of the stairs, Jack, or you might give him a fright.”

  “Roger that,” Jack says.

  “And try not to upset him,” she adds.

  I snort.

  “No guarantees there, Ma,” he says with a nervous glance at me.

  “At least until after dinner?”

  “I’ll try.”

  Two minutes later Jack and I are standing anxiously behind our customary chairs in the dining room, listening to Mom chivying Dad up the stairs, and Dad grumbling and groggy and saying something and not being hungry.

  “But I told you, I have a surprise,” she’s saying as they reach the top.

  And then they round the corner and Dad stops in his tracks.

  “Surprise,” Mom says in her cake-with-tragedy voice.

  “Here we go,” I say under my breath to Jack.

  Dad’s expression goes from irritation to confusion to shock to joy to pain to something that might be fear, and then finally settles (predictably) on flinty.

  “We taking in strays?” he says to Mom.

  “No, Rick, it’s—”

  “I know who it is,” he barks. “What’s he doing here?”

  “He . . . Jack . . .” Mom casts me a wild look as though this reaction is a surprise, then says, “Jack came for dinner! He’s here for dinner.”

  “Yes, dinner,” I say. “All the way from Greece.”

  “Isn’t that nice?” Mom chirps.

  “Hi, Pops,” Jack says without a trace of his usual bemusement.

  “They don’t serve dinner in Greece?” Dad says.

  Jack is gazing at Dad like he’s thrown—not, I think, by Dad’s rude reception of him, but from how Dad has changed. He’s aged kind of suddenly over the past couple of years, but it’s not just that. Some essential spark is gone from him. It’s happened right in front of me, in increments, but I imagine it must be a shock for Jack.

  “Food’s great in Greece,” Jack says. “I came to see you.”

  “Me!”

  “All of you.”

  Mom gestures for us to sit down, and three out of the four of us move to pull out our chairs. Dad, though, stays where he is.

  “If you’re here to say something,” Dad declares, pulling himself up, “then say it.”

  Jack glances from Mom, to me, then back to Dad, and the two of them share a long, loaded look. Then Jack backs abruptly away from the table and says, “How ’bout you and me go for a drive, Dad? I’m not hungry yet anyway.”

  “Oh, so now you want the car,” Dad says.

  “No,” Jack replies, refusing to rise to the bait. “I rented one. Smells new and it’s got a big engine—you’ll like it.”

  Jack starts toward Dad, slowly as though not to spook him.

  “Come,” he says, voice gentle.

  “But . . .” my mom practically wails, “dinner! And you just got here . . .”

  “I’ll be back, Ma,” Jack says as Dad lets him take him by the arm and propel him toward the front door. “Dad and I just need to have a talk first.”

  “But . . .”

  “You two go ahead and eat while everything’s still hot.”

  “Well,” I say as we listen to them drive off. “What do you think—did that go better or worse than the last meal we had in here?”

  Mom doesn’t respond.

  “I’m thinking worse,” I say, “since the dinner didn’t actually even occur.”

  “This isn’t a joking matter,” Mom says, her tone flatlining.

  “Oh, come on—what did you think was going to happen? That we were going to pretend the last few years didn’t exist?”

  “Yes!”

  “That never works, Mom.”

  “It always worked in my family,” she says, drifting back toward the dining room table and staring wistfully at it. “Things happen, you can’t fix them, so you simply step over it and carry on.”

  “And how close is your side of the family these days? How often do you all hang out?”

  The answer, as she well knows, is never.

  “That’s beside the point,” she says.

  “You know what they do at Emma’s? They debate. For fun. They even argue sometimes—not just one person ranting and everyone else having to listen—everybody gets a turn. They have rules, and pe
ople jump in to referee if needed. It used to freak me out. But they work things through. They listen to each other, and by the end of it they sometimes agree to disagree, or if it’s something they have to make a decision about, they take a vote—very democratic—or her parents use veto power. But they usually resolve things, and half the time they end up laughing. Can you imagine?”

  “No,” she says, and sinks into her chair. “Sounds exhausting.”

  “And this isn’t?”

  “Oh, this is, too.”

  “You know what?” I say, looking at the table. “I’m lighting these candles. What the hell are we saving them for anyway?”

  Mom’s perfect posture collapses—a sign of how disappointed she is, and I get matches from the kitchen and light the candles that have never been lit.

  “And I’m starving,” I say, “so I’m going to eat.”

  “May as well,” she says with a gloomy expression on her tired face.

  “And,” I add, ready to press my luck, “I’m having a glass of wine.”

  “Pour me one, too.”

  So I pour for us and we pick at our food, a now-sad meal of Jack’s favorite foods—macaroni casserole, ribs arranged in a fancy, upright circle on a bed of greens, mini pizzas, plus vegetable skewers with cucumber, olive, tomato, and feta that are clearly meant to invoke Greece. We sip the wine and listen for the car returning and don’t even bother trying to make conversation. As the sky outside sinks to full dark we pack dinner up and put it in the fridge. Then Mom produces a chocolate cake, sets it in front of her, sticks a fork straight into it, and starts eating.

  “All right, then,” I say, and then I grab my own fork and we sit there eating cake by candlelight, and waiting.

  And waiting more.

  Dad and Jack finally arrive back after eleven, to find Mom and me sitting in the dark living room.

  “Jesus Murphy!” Dad exclaims when Mom snaps on the one light that has a good bulb in it, and then Jack laughs like he’s a drunken, busted teenager coming in after curfew. They’re both in one piece and the tension between them seems less, but Jack looks sad and Dad looks weary and diminished.

  “You could have texted,” I say, sounding exactly like the busted teen’s parent.

  “Sorry, Lib,” Jack says, “I left my phone in my pack and it’s probably on silent.”

  “We ate the cake,” Mom says, all of her fake cheer gone. “And if you want dinner, you’ll have to get it yourselves.”

  “We’re good,” Jack says. “Uh, sorry, Ma.”

  “I’m going to bed,” Dad announces, and without further ado, he leaves.

  The three of us stand for a few quiet moments, listening to Dad’s footsteps as he heads down the back hall to his and Mom’s bedroom, and then to the door closing.

  “Well . . . ?” I say in a soft voice to Jack.

  “It’s taken care of,” he says.

  Mom gives a gasp of relief and goes to hug him, but I’m not satisfied.

  “What, exactly, is taken care of?”

  “All of it,” Jack says over Mom’s shoulder. “Well, not your problem with Perry. But Dad’s not going to write or post anything, and he promised to stop with RicksNotRolling, and take down all his accounts.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope,” he says, seeming to puff up a bit. “I handled it.”

  “Huh,” I say.

  “What?” he says.

  “It’s just . . . you have one conversation and, boom, everything’s fixed?”

  “Just the old Jack magic,” Jack says with a grin I don’t quite believe.

  “This is not a matter for jokes and charm, Jack,” I say. “Seriously.”

  “Are you even happy I’m home? Cause you’re being pretty hard on me.”

  “Being easy on people hasn’t been getting me anywhere.”

  “Libby, shhh,” Mom says, wringing her hands.

  “Look, of course I’m happy you’re here,” I say, lowering my voice but not stopping. “But you’ve been gone a long time. Things are different. Worse. And some of the things that are different and worse are because of you. So, like, if you cause a problem, I’m not sure you get to win a prize for coming back to solve it. But I also doubt that you have solved it.”

  “Libby!” Mom says again.

  I turn to her. “Come on, Mom, Dad’s not well. You know that. The stuff he does—the arguments, the troll stuff, systematically destroying an entire dresser this morning—that’s not normal. But they’re also not the problem, they’re symptoms of whatever the problem is. So whatever it is you said or did to get him to stop, Jack, maybe he will stop those particular things, but he’ll just find something else.”

  “I think my being here is going to help, though,” Jack says. “At least to heal our relationships. I hope.”

  Mom is nodding and looking at Jack like he’s a hero.

  “How are we supposed to heal when you just go off in the car for a secret conversation, though?” I ask. “When Mom and I are literally shut out of the entire process? That’s bullshit.”

  “Please, Libby, I’m tired.”

  “You’re tired!”

  Mom shushes me.

  “Yes, I’m tired. We can talk more tomorrow, I promise,” Jack says, his eyes pleading. “I’ve been awake for almost twenty-four hours.”

  I exhale, and try to let it go. “Fine.”

  “All right, Jack, you poor boy,” Mom says, coming alive with purpose. “I’ve got your room ready. In fact it’s been redone! Unfortunately there’s, ah, no dresser because your old stuff got taken from the curb and the new one . . . but it doesn’t look like you have much luggage anyway. Let’s get you settled. You’re staying for a few days, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, Ma, don’t worry.”

  “So, we’ll have time to talk tomorrow. Bedtime for everyone,” Mom says, and then wags a finger at me, “and you let your brother sleep.”

  Jack gives me a semi-reassuring wink, then yawns.

  And with that, she hustles him downstairs, leaving me standing there, wondering why I don’t feel any better.

  26

  A BIT OF BLACKMAIL

  I’m still in the front room, sitting in the dark again texting with Noah, when Jack comes tiptoeing back upstairs fifteen minutes later.

  I put the phone facedown and whisper “Hey” as he makes his way toward the front door, and have the satisfaction of making him jump yet again.

  “When did you get so lurky and sneaky?”

  “You’re the one sneaking, I’m just sitting here.”

  “Yeah, lurking!”

  “No, texting.” I hold up my phone. “Not the same.”

  “If you’re not too furious at me, wanna come outside? Turns out I . . . need some air.”

  “I’m not furious. Just frustrated. I’ll come.”

  “Okay, but . . . truce?”

  “Truce.”

  I let Noah know, then leave my phone at the door, and Jack and I slip quietly into our shoes and duck out.

  In the middle of our front yard under the red maple tree is one of those bench swings of the everlasting-plastic-with-canopy variety. It sits tilted on an angle, facing both the driveway and the street, and far back enough to have a view of the front door as well.

  It’s almost always too buggy, too hot, or too cold to sit out there, but tonight is just right—too early in the season for bugs, but warm enough if you have a sweater on, which we both do.

  “You think this thing’ll still hold us?” Jack says as we approach the swing.

  “Live dangerously and sit on a count of three?” I suggest.

  He takes my hand and we back our butts toward the bench.

  “One, two, three,” he says, and then instead of sitting down slowly and gingerly as I planned to do, he drops down hard and fa
st, dragging me with him, and then kicks back hard like he’s daring the swing to either crack or tip over. The plastic seats moan ominously as we rock backward, and the whole thing sways, but holds together.

  “You idiot,” I say with a gasp.

  Jack pushes us off again, and we swing in a more reasonable arc this time.

  “Remember when you tried to do an underdog with this?” I say.

  He winces at the memory. “Worst crash ever. What parents get this as a swing for their kids, though? What’s wrong with a tire swing? Or a good old-fashioned wood plank?”

  “I think Mom imagined she was going to sit out here and read or something. It wasn’t really for us.”

  “Huh.”

  “So . . . what’d you say to Dad?”

  “Whoa, I thought we had a truce.”

  “We do. What did you say?”

  “Man, you’re stubborn,” he says with a sideways glance at me.

  “Family trait.”

  “Ha.”

  “So?”

  “I just said . . . what I told you before. That he should stay out of this Perry thing and let you handle it your own way, that I knew about the online stuff and it has to stop. And he agreed.”

  “Just like that? You were gone a long time.”

  “Well, it did take some . . . discussion.”

  “I think you’re keeping something from me. I’m not twelve anymore, and frankly that was too easy.”

  “Easy!”

  “Yes, easy. He’s had one negative consequence after another—no career, no job, no friends left, no family who’ll tolerate him except us. We’re knocking ourselves out here doing damage control, and damage prevention, and we are getting damaged ourselves in the process. And then you—someone he’s furious with—come home and spend a couple of hours talking to him and he agrees to everything you say. What am I missing?”

  Jack puts his foot out to stop the swing and looks at me.

  “You’re right, you’re not twelve. So maybe you’re old enough to understand that I can’t tell you,” he says, and then looks away and starts pushing the swing again.