Mrs. Thompson rolls her eyes. She seems like I woke her from a nap and she just wants to crawl back into bed. “You’re too late.” She grips the doorknob, pulling the door close as if in protection. “Clara passed away a few months ago.”
“Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry! What happened?”
“I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well today, so forgive me if I don’t give you the details of my daughter’s death.” Then Mrs. Thompson yanks the door and slams it in my face.
Chapter 7
I fill Nick in as we get dinner ready. “I can’t believe she’s dead,” I tell him. “God, she was so young and talented. It’s just awful, you know? And I wonder how she died. I mean, was it an accident, like with my mom? Or was it cancer, like with your mom? Or, what if. . .” I swallow back my words because they’re too terrible to utter.
Nick is standing at the stove and he looks away from the food he’s preparing, toward me. “What if, what?”
I stare at the apples I’m slicing. Little bits of core and seeds are splayed across the cutting board, victims of my knife. “What if I caused it, somehow? Like, she never recovered from her husband’s betrayal, and that led to her death?”
“No,” Nick states flatly. “Don’t think that way. Even if that’s what happened, it would be her husband’s fault, not yours.” Nick flips the grilled cheese sandwiches over with one hand and stirs chicken soup with the other.
I grip the edge of my kitchen knife like I’m using it as a weapon. “Yeah, but I still played a part in the whole thing. And I’m pretty sure that I knew he was married, you know? Maybe I just chose to ignore it.”
“Even still, you didn’t know he was married to her.”
“Yeah, but -”
“But, nothing.” Nick turns off the stove and puts sandwiches on our plates. “I get why you feel bad, but Rocky, you have to let it go.”
I nod and separate out the sliced up bits of apple cores, which I then send down the disposal to their violent, pulpy end. “So who sent that email, if it wasn’t Clara?” I say this as I flip on the disposal switch, raising my voice to compete with the grinding.
“Some crazy Holdout fan, most likely.”
I turn off the disposal and the silence is like the end of a headache. “Yeah, I suppose.” But my gut tells me something different, something I can’t articulate. I decide not to try when I look at Nick, and notice that his hair is sticking up a little and he has a big crease between his eyes, a sure sign of his own bad day.
We carry our food into the living room and eat in front of the television. A new episode from the current season of The Holdout is on and Nick insists that we watch it. Most of it goes by in a blur because I’m still thinking about Clara’s mom. But I pay attention when the contestants mention me and my historic freak-out at Island Assembly.
“I’m never going to live that show down.” By now we’re sitting on the couch, dinner dishes cleared and our feet resting on our blue crate coffee table.
An advertisement for their twin fashion survival-themed show, The Standout, pops up.
“That’s the show you ought to go on,” Nick says, pointing at the screen. “You’d be great. You could design dresses made from skittles or shower tiles, or whatever weird thing they’d make you do.”
“Nope. I’m never going on another reality show again. It’s you and me, here in Des Moines.” I pat Nick on the knee to emphasize my resolve and use the remote to shut down the TV.
The front door slams and Andrea comes stomping in. She heads straight for her bedroom, but our house is small and the only route is through our cozy, cramped living room. “Why are you home so late?” Nick asks.
“What are you talking about? It’s not even nine!” Andrea keeps walking, but Nick gets up and follows her down the hall. Her bedroom is only a few feet away and our walls are thin, so I can hear their conversation clearly, no matter where they stand.
“It’s just after nine, but that’s not the point. You weren’t home for dinner and I have no idea where you’ve been.”
“I was studying at Callie’s house.” Andrea’s tone broadcasts her resentment; obviously Nick’s interrogation is extremely unjust. “Is that okay with you?”
I pick at a loose thread in our couch cushion, while in the other room Nick is forcing himself into deliberately patient, measured breathing. “It’s fine; I simply want you to let me know.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she answers, and as I tug the stubborn cushion thread free, I can picture Andrea’s eye roll. “I’m a big girl. Besides, you and Robin need your alone time.”
Nick’s voice is unyielding. “Come on, Andrea. We’re talking about returning a phone call or a text. That’s not too hard, is it?”
I yank out that thread, and now - oops - more threads come out and I just created a little hole in the fabric. Meanwhile there’s a pause. Andrea must be struggling to find some argument against Nick’s extremely reasonable request. After a moment she gives up the fight. “No, that’s not too hard. Sorry.”
He mumbles something, and as he comes back into the living room, I shift my seat so that my bottom covers the scene of the couch crime. Nick sighs and collapses into me. “I love my sister; I do. . . but is it wrong to wish that you and I were living on a remote island, just the two of us?”
“It’s not wrong.” I run my fingers soothingly through his hair. “You’re so noble; it’s really kind of hot.”
Nick lifts his head and looks into my eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m serious. I love how you take care of Andrea. If my dad had wigged out after my mother died, neither of my brothers would have let me live with them.”
“Well, Ian would have been too young. But you don’t think Ted would have taken you in?”
There’s a precarious moment of silence as we both consider Nick’s hypothetical question. Then the bubble pops and we both laugh at the ridiculousness of the idea. Ted has never been the warm, cuddly sort. I push Nick off me, sit up, and pull both of us to standing. “He’d maybe have taken me in, but only if there was something in it for him.”
“Have you told him about the wedding yet?” Nick asks.
“No, not yet.” I guide Nick towards our bedroom, where there’s no danger of Andrea disturbing our privacy.
“Don’t you think you should?”
“I’ll call him,” I murmur, pulling Nick inside and shutting the bedroom door. For now, I can shut out the rest of the world as well, and that’s all I want to do. As long as I’m here with Nick,
I am happy like a bride should be happy, one who doesn’t question how the world works or what else, besides love, compiles her destiny. I have what I need.
Chapter 8
A couple of weeks go by and I become consumed with wedding plans, which includes sketching out designs for bridesmaid's dresses. Isobel is tall and curvy, Lucy is petite, and Andrea is a beanpole. I’m at my studio, trying to design something that they’ll all look good in, when my phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.
You’re too good in the bedroom.
Okay, strange, but not exactly threatening, so I figure it’s some failed attempt at sexting, meant for someone else’s phone. I delete the message.
Minutes later, another text:
You’re also too late.
I start to respond with a Who is this? But I drop my phone. Every cautionary tale I’ve ever heard about cyberstalking ends with the same moral: Do. Not. Respond.
Instead, I call Nick. He picks up on the first ring. “What’s up, Beautiful?”
Even the sound of his voice relaxes me. “Hey, remember a couple of weeks ago, when I told you about that email that could have been from Clara?”
“Yeah. . .”
“Well, it was sort of threatening, like she’ll destroy my life if I don’t dump you, and - ”
“Wait.” He inhales and I picture him rubbing his temples. “She threatened you? Why didn’t you say so before?”
“B
ecause, it seemed stupid and I didn’t want either of us to worry. Plus, I changed all my passwords, so it’s not like she can do anything. Plus, I mean, well, she’s dead.”
“Forward me the email,” Nick insists.
“Sure, if I didn’t delete it. But Nick, I’m getting these weird texts. You don’t think the two could be related, do you?”
“I don’t know. Forward them to me too.”
“Okay.”
I don’t know what Nick is going to do about this, how he’s going to protect me in ways that I can’t protect myself. But that’s the joy of being in a relationship; you can share your concerns so they dissipate and lessen in intensity. After I find the original email still in my inbox, and forward that and the texts to Nick, I’m able to forget about it all for a while. Why worry when there’s nothing I can do?
But I do worry about letting my brother Ted know that I’m getting married. Nick is right. I need to contact him. So after work, once I’m home, I give him a call.
Ted doesn’t even start with hello. “What?” he demands. His voice is dangerously cold, like licking a fence in winter.
But I make some initial small talk and then forge on. “I, um, well. . .I just wanted to let you know that I’m getting married.”
“Good luck!” He punctuates this with a cynical laugh. Then he tells me that he already knew I was getting married because he saw Nick’s proposal online. I wonder if he’s hurt as he berates me for not keeping him in the loop. No congratulations, only recriminations, and once I’m off the phone I can’t stop crying, which only makes me angry, because who cares what Ted thinks?
He doesn’t even want to come to the wedding.
I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling. Ted and I have never been close, so it shouldn’t bother me that he doesn’t want to come. I mean, sure, I could have invited him sooner, but everyone else who may come lives here in Des Moines and it’s not like our wedding is going to be the social event of the season.
I turn my head and gaze over at the open closet, where the wedding dress I made hangs. It’s a light pink cotton candy cloud, but I figure my wedding day is the only day I can get away with wearing anything like it. Nonetheless, Nick and I are trying to be practical, frugal even. The ceremony will be in the huge backyard at my cousin Monty’s house, and I’ve been combing thrift stores for old china plates and champagne glasses. Dinner will be from pizza trucks, and Nick’s music buddy, Dave, is going to DJ.
It’s all so economically perfect, with the focus on economically, because Nick has tuition bills and although my clothing business does okay, I’m not rolling in it, not by any stretch of the imagination.
I take one last self-pitying sniff and get up. Nick has music theory class until 6:00, and I’m going to make dinner in our limited-counter-space kitchen, so that when he comes home, he’ll be greeted by a piping hot plate of chicken Marsala.
About an hour later he walks in and dinner is pretty much ready.
“Hey,” he says, smiling slightly. His hair is sticking up, which means he’s been running his hands through it a lot, which means he’s stressed. I kiss him on the cheek and he goes to wash up, comes back, thumbs through the mail (meaning bills), and then helps me set out the food.
“So I looked at that email and those texts,” Nick says. “Did you get anything new since we last spoke?”
“No.”
“And you changed all your passwords?” Nick brings out the salad but the serving spoon that rests inside the bowl falls, landing on the table with a thump. “Shoot,” he mumbles, and puts the spoon back.
“Yeah, I changed my passwords. Again.”
There’s a spot of salad dressing on the table and he dabs at it with his napkin, keeping his gaze on the task and not meeting my eyes. “Then you have to be fine.”
“So I shouldn’t break up with you?” I say it as a joke, hoping he’ll laugh, and he does, but his laughter sounds empty.
“I mean, the other option would be to go the police,” he answers.
Using potholders, I place the sizzling casserole dish onto the hotplate in the middle of our table. The spicy smell emanates out, causing my stomach to growl. It’s hard to think about anything as nefarious as cyber-stalking in the midst of such aromatic domesticity.
“I thought of reporting it,” I tell him. “But I found this About.com article. It said that unless you can meet the criteria of being a victim, the police won’t do anything. And since nothing else has happened. . .”
“There’s probably no point,” Nick finishes my statement.
I nod. “How was your day?” I ask, as we sit down to eat.
“Fine.” He rolls up the sleeves of his oxford shirt then picks up his fork. “Class was fine. I showed a couple of houses this morning, so work was fine too.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
His lower lip juts out ever so slightly. “Tuition is due.” Nick momentarily squeezes his eyes shut. “I don’t know how that slipped off my radar. I mean,” he clears his throat, “I can pay it. It will be fine, but. . .”
“But we’ll have to cancel cable?”
He nods and takes a bite of chicken. “This is really good.” His smile while he chews is genuine.
“Well,” I say, “I had an interesting day. I called Ted and he. . .” I’m cut off by the ringing of my cell phone. Thinking it might actually be Ted calling to apologize, I grab it and see a number I don’t recognize. But the area code makes my stomach flip flop.
“Who is it?” Nick asks.
“I’m not sure.” I press answer. “Hello?”
“Hello, Robin?”
“Yeah.”
“Hi! This is Quinton, from the network. How are you? It’s been so long!”
Quinton was one of the producers of The Holdout. He first discovered me at a casting call at the Mall of America. “Umm, I’m fine,” I say. “And you?”
“Great, great. I have actually switched shows. I’m now co-producing The Standout. You’ve heard of it, right?”
“Sure.”
“Yes, yes, of course you have. You design clothes, after all. Well, Robin, we loved having you on The Holdout, and the viewers loved you too. And as it turns out, there’s an unexpected vacancy on this season’s Standout, because a contestant had to drop out for personal reasons. So we were thinking: why not get Robin Bricker in? America would be thrilled! What do you think? Filming starts next week and runs through the summer.”
Nick stares at me as I listen to Quinton, and all the while my mouth goes dry as my palms grow damp. “I’m getting married in June,” I say.
Quinton takes a measured pause. “Oh. Well, could you postpone the wedding? I’m not sure you realize how big this opportunity is. Most designers would kill to get on The Standout, and we’re willing to bring you on, without even seeing your portfolio or doing background checks.”
“You already did background checks,” I say, thinking about The Holdout audition process, which took months. That must be why they’re “willing to bring me on” now. They need someone fast, and I’ve already passed all the psychological tests they need to administer.
“Who is it?” Nick mouths.
“Can I call you back?” I ask Quinton. “I need to talk to my fiancé about this.”
“Yes, yes, of course. But Robin, call me back soon, okay? We need a decision and time is of the essence.”
I hang up, take a look at Nick’s confused face, and dive right in. Nick’s jaw just hangs there while he struggles to respond. “Oh, you should go,” he manages to say. “No question. Why wouldn’t you?”
“Because filming begins soon. We’d have to postpone our wedding.”
Nick’s chest heaves up and down, but before he answers the front door opens and Andrea calls out. “Hello? I’m home.”
We exchange a frustrated eye roll, but I force a smile into my voice. “Hey, we’re in here! Are you hungry? I made chicken.”
Andrea steps into the tiny dining room. “You mean you made
chicken with pasta.” She says pasta like it’s cancer. “I wonder how much sodium and carbs are packed into one just serving.” Still, she plops her skinny butt down and grabs the serving dish and a fork, forgoing the niceties of a plate.
“I thought you had rehearsal until late,” Nick says.
“We got out early because everyone learned their parts so well.” Andrea flips her long brown braid over her left shoulder and takes a bite. She doesn’t let a little thing like chewing keep her from continuing to talk. “Ms. Paulson says there’s a violin scholarship I should apply for.”
Nick dejectedly pushes the food on his plate around with his fork. “You’d better get a scholarship. It’s not like Dad will pay your tuition.”
“Well, I’ll just go to Iowa State, like you, and I’ll keep living here. We could even commute together!” Andrea smiles sweetly and I see Nick melt, like sugar in water.
“You’re always welcome here, Andrea,” I say. Nick obviously feels this way, and at least if it’s coming from me, I feel some amount of power. But her face falls and I feel like I crashed her birthday party.
“Thanks,” she replies, her voice flat.
I mean, I get it; her mother is dead, her dad’s a disaster, and her sister is busy with her own kids. That leaves Nick, who has always belonged to her, but now that I’m here, her headliner status has changed to the opening act. Of course she resents me. My job is to not take it personally, to be the adult.
But I’ve always been the younger sibling, and I’ve never had a sister, so there’s a learning curve.
“So Andrea,” I say, “Nick and I have a tough decision to make.”
“What?” She asks.
“I have a chance to go on that reality show, The Standout, but if I do, it would mean postponing our wedding.”
Andrea squints at me. “When did you apply to be on it?”
“She didn’t apply,” Nick says. “They called her.”
“But that’s incredible! You have to go! Forget about winning! Just being there, and the connections you could make, and all the people who will know about your internet business—my God, Robin! It’s like sitting on a gold mine!” Andrea’s enthusiasm is this Jedi force and I’m unsure if she’s genuine or leading me towards the dark side. Maybe she just wants me to disappear for a few weeks.
The Standout Page 3