“You need money?” she says as I wait for my dad to come to the phone. “’Cause we don’t have any. Your dad threw out his back and missed some work a couple weeks ago, so things are tight right now.”
I blink. “No, I…” I stammer, aggravated by her question. “I don’t need money.”
And they would be the last people I’d ask if I did. My father never has cash for more than a day before it’s burning a hole in his pocket. One of the many reasons my mom ran out.
But at least my dad stayed.
“Chip?!” she calls again but then growls at the dogs. “Get out of the way, you two.”
I shake my head, the previous suspicion that a text would’ve been better now solidifying. If my dad does make it to the phone, I’ll just hang up feeling pissed off that he’s about as warm as this woman. Thank goodness she wasn’t my stepmom for long under that roof. I left as soon as I could.
“I just wanted to let you all know I moved,” I tell her. “In case you need my new address.”
“Oh, right, right.” I hear her suck in and know she’s smoking. “You moved in with Cole at his dad’s house. Yeah, we heard.”
“Yeah, I—”
“Chip!” she screeches again, interrupting me.
I hood my eyes, exasperated already. “It’s fine,” I tell her. “That’s all I called for, so don’t bother Dad then if he already knows. I’ll…talk to you later.”
“Okay.” She blows out smoke. “Well, take care of yourself, and I’ll call in a week or so. Have you over for dinner or something.”
My body shakes with a bitter laugh I hold back. It’s not funny. It’s sad, really. But she hangs up without waiting for me to say ‘goodbye’, and I let out a sigh, tossing my phone on the bed.
Neither my dad nor stepmom are bad people, although no one called on my birthday, either.
I was never hit or starved or verbally abused. Just kind of forgotten, I guess. They struggled for anything good in life, so it was too much to ask to let responsibility or concern for their children interfere with what tiny pleasure they managed to muster with their beer and Bingo nights.
After Cam left and got her own place, I had no one to talk to. I was nobody in that trailer, and I never want to feel that alone again.
I pick up my notebook from the bed and resume the homework from my summer class that day. My textbook lays open in front of me, and I click my mechanical pencil to get more lead.
A knock sounds on the bedroom door, and I pop my head up, tensing.
“Come in?” I say, but it sounds like a question. Cole wouldn’t knock. It must be his father. Did I leave laundry in the dryer? The stove on? I go through my mental checklist.
The door swings open, and Pike stands there, holding the knob but keeping himself planted in the hallway.
“I’m ordering pizza for dinner,” he tells me. “Is Cole going to be home soon?”
I fiddle with the pencil in my hands. “One of his friends got promoted at the cable company,” I explain, “so they’re having a party out at his dad’s farm. I’m sure he’ll be pretty late.”
He stands there a moment, his large frame filling the entire doorway. My eyes keep darting to the tattoos on his arms, so I just look back down, pretending to be absorbed in my work.
“You’re not going?” he presses.
I hold out my hands, gesturing to the homework in front of me.
He nods, understanding. “Well…” He eyes me for a moment, looking uncertain and then continues, “you gotta eat, too, right? What kind of pizza do you like?”
“No, that’s okay.” I tell him, shaking my head. “I already ate.”
His eyes drop to the plate with the half-eaten peanut butter sandwich on the bed, and I know what he’s thinking. “Okay.”
He moves to close the door but then stops. “You know you don’t need to hide up here, right?”
I look up, straightening my spine. “I’m not hiding.” I laugh a little for measure, but I think he’s on to me.
“You’re doing chores,” he states. “You’re paying for your right to be in the house. So if you want to use the pool or have a friend over or like… leave the bedroom, it’s fine.”
I lick my dry lips. “Yeah, I know.”
“Okay,” he finally says. “I guess I’m eating the pizza all by myself then. I’ll have leftovers for days, as usual.”
He sighs, sounding extra pathetic.
“Don’t order a large then,” I mumble, staring down at my notebook again.
But his quiet chuckle before he closes the door tells me he heard my smartass comment.
I’m sure he’s ordered plenty of pizzas in all the years he’s lived here alone. He’s just trying to be nice and make me feel welcome. Which is great of him, and I appreciate it, but it still doesn’t make me feel like any less of a freeloader. I can’t let him buy me pizza, too.
And I think about how alone I felt growing up in my father’s trailer and even how alone I’ve felt with Cole sometimes. Maybe Pike Lawson is tired of being alone and eating alone and watching TV alone, and I’m a guest in his home and perhaps he’d like to get to know the people living under his roof, right? It’s only reasonable.
And maybe I’m tired of being alone a lot, too, and maybe I’m still hungry and pizza sounds pretty good, actually.
I blow out a breath and shove my notebook off my lap before standing up. Rushing over to the bedroom door, I yank it open and peek out.
“Joe’s Pizza?” I inquire, seeing him right before he heads down the stairs.
He stops and turns his head to look at me. “Of course.”
It’s the best pizza in town, so it’s a no-brainer. I step out of the bedroom and shut the door. “Halfsies?”
Pike
No way was she paying for half the pizza, for Christ’s sake. I invited her, didn’t I? And the point of them staying here is to save money, isn’t it? I shove past her, ignoring the cash in her hand as I carry the pizza to the kitchen island.
She sighs, letting out a little growl. I chuckle. “Look, I got the pizza, okay? Just make sure I don’t have any of your limpy lettuce on my half.”
“Haha.” She walks to the fridge and digs out two sodas.
I’m a pretty simple pepperoni man, and I can get behind taco pizza, but not that warm, droopy shredded lettuce that comes with it. She can have a ball all by herself.
We divvy up the slices on two plates, but before we trail into the living room, she drops a pile of greens on my plate with a pair of tongs.
“Uh, thanks.”
“If you eat the veggies first,” she points out, “you’ll have less room for pizza. A little trick I picked up on Pinterest.”
Pinter-what?
“You’ll eat less pizza then,” she continues, “consume less calories, and you’ll feel better after your meal.”
Yeah, okay. If I cared about consuming less calories, I guess.
Fine. Fuck it. Whatever. I stalk over to the refrigerator and grab the Ranch dressing in the inside of the door.
“No,” she blurts out, stopping me. “There’s dressing on it already. Raspberry vinaigrette.”
I straighten and fix her with a look.
She just smiles and turns away.
I take out two forks, pass her one, and carry my plate and soda into the living room with her trailing behind.
Once seated, I pick up my fork and let out a sigh before digging into the salad. I remember what my mom said about vegetables growing up. They taste better if you eat them when you’re hungry. I’ll get it over with and eat them first like Jordan suggested then.
I stuff the forkful in my mouth, the bitter taste of the leaves dulled only a little by the sweet dressing.
“Good, right?” she says.
“No.” I shake my head. “You’re killing me.”
She laughs. “Well, thanks for giving it a shot. You can stop if you want.”
But I persevere anyway. It’s not like I couldn’t use a dose of gre
ens, right?
And it’s not like I hate vegetables. I like corn on the cob and like…potatoes and stuff. Those are technically vegetables, right?
“So, what are you watching?” she asks.
I look up at the TV and realize the volume is too low. I reach for the remote and turn it up. “Fight Club,” I tell her.
“Oh, hey. I was born the year this was made.”
I arch an eyebrow but keep my mouth shut.
But I do the math in my head, remembering I saw this my senior year in high school. So yeah, that would be about right.
Shit, I’m getting old. To think of everything that’s gone on in my lifetime that she wasn’t around for or old enough to remember. I glance over at her, taking in her young skin and hopeful eyes.
She was just in high school a year ago.
We eat in silence for the next couple of hours, engrossed in one of my favorite movies. I have no idea if she’s already seen it, but she after a while, her plate sits half-eaten and forgotten on the coffee table, and she’s sitting at the other end of the couch, hugging her legs and watching intently.
“They make smoking look so appetizing,” she finally says, watching Marla Singer on the screen.
“Appetizing?”
She clears her throat and sits up. “Well, it’s like Bruce Willis,” she explains. “I could watch him smoke for days. It’s like he’s eating. Eating a nice, succulent…”
“Steak,” I finish for her, understanding.
“Exactly.” She flashes me a soft smile. “They totally own it. It’s part of their wardrobe.”
“Well,” I sigh, gathering up our plates and rising. “Don’t start smoking.”
“You do.”
I pause, looking down at her. I’ve only smoked once since they moved in, and I never smoke in the house. I don’t even think Cole knows I smoke.
She clarifies, probably seeing the confusion on my face. “I noticed the cigar butt in the ashtray outside,” she says.
Ah. I continue toward the kitchen, carrying the dishes around the coffee table. “On rare occasions, yes. I like the smell.”
“Why?” She gets up off the couch, grabbing the empty soda cans and napkins and following me.
“I just do.” I clear off the plates and put them in the dishwasher. “My grandfather, he smoked, so…”
It seemed natural to start sharing, but all of a sudden it feels stupid.
“So…?” she presses.
But I just shake my head, closing the dishwasher door and starting the machine. “I just like the smell, is all,” I finish curtly.
I’m not sure why I’m having trouble talking to her. There was no mystery here. My grandpa was awesome, and I had a great childhood, but the more I grew up, the further away I felt from that feeling when I was eight. The feeling of being somewhere I loved and feeling what I felt.
Happiness.
I smoke cigars once in a while to take me back there.
It’s not the kind of thing I feel comfortable sharing with just anyone, though.
But it’s funny how close I came to doing just that with her a minute ago.
I can feel her eyes on me, and the awkwardness crawls my skin.
“You want a beer?” I ask, swinging open the fridge and grabbing two out. Anything to change the subject.
“Um…sure.”
I pop the tops and hand her a Corona, finally meeting her eyes. Her very young, very blue, and very nineteen-year-old eyes. Shit. I forgot she’s underage again.
Whatever. I take a drink and head out of the kitchen. She works in a bar, doesn’t she? I’m sure customers have bought her shots before.
I plant my ass back on the couch, hanging my arm around the back of the seat and taking another drink. The movie still has a few minutes left, and she sits down at the other end to finish watching, but I can’t seem to concentrate anymore.
And I don’t think she’s watching, either.
Something’s changed. The conversation was easy, and then it wasn’t. And it’s my fault. I’m cold. Somewhere after Lindsay and the chaos, I stopped being able to open up. I got too used to being alone.
I frown. I don’t want her to avoid me, because I can’t carry on a fucking conversation. She’s Cole’s girlfriend, and I don’t want walls between him and me anymore. She could help with that.
“Are you planning to stay in town after you finish school?” I ask.
She glances over and shrugs a little. “I’m not sure. It’s still a few years off,” she says. “I don’t really mind it here as long as I can afford vacations from time to time.” She laughs a little. “I just don’t want to be working a dead-end job forever, you know? If I can find work in the area, then it might be nice to stick around for my sister and my nephew for a while.”
There’s lots of construction going on here and in surrounding towns and suburbs. Which is why I found it easy to stay all these years. If she’s getting into landscape design, it’s very possible she’ll have good prospects if she stays in the area.
“Have you ever traveled?” I ask, glancing over at her.
But then I stop, suddenly forgetting what I was saying. I drop my eyes to her ass, her body now twisted around as she leans over the arm of the couch to set her beer down. Her little shorts hug every curve, her knees are spread a little, and for a moment, I’m drawn to the dip between her thighs.
Heat floods my groin, and my cock throbs.
Shit. I look away.
I struggle for air and sweat breaks out on my neck. What the fuck?
She may not seem young, but she is. She’s a kid. What the hell am I doing?
She sits backs down, and I tip up my bottle, taking another swig to cover my nerves.
“Not really,” she answers.
What did I ask her again? Oh, right. Traveling.
“I went to New Orleans with my sister when I was fifteen, and I won a scholarship to a summer camp in Virginia when I was twelve,” she tells me. “That’s about it.”
“New Orleans at fifteen?” I joke. Must’ve been interesting.
A thoughtful smile crosses her face, but it falls quickly. “That’s where my mom lives,” she says.
Oh, yeah, that’s right. Her dad is Chip Hadley. I don’t pay much attention to gossip, but I know he’s been married a couple times.
Jordan clears her throat, sitting up. “She left when I was four.”
Four? What kind of person would leave her like that?
She sits quietly, looking like she’s thinking, and an urge comes over me to have her in my arms.
Right now.
“When my sister graduated from high school, we tracked her down,” she explains, “and we took a road trip that summer to visit her.”
“How did it go?”
She shrugs a little. “Fine, I guess. She was waitressing, had a little apartment, and was living her life. She was pleased to see us. Now that we’re grown and don’t need a lot of care, I suppose,” she adds.
She finally looks over at me, quirking a sad smile.
“Did you ask her why she left?” I inquire.
But she just shakes her head. “No, I used to want to know, but then when I met her, I didn’t really care anymore.” She pauses and then adds, “I didn’t like her.”
I watch her, remaining quiet. Does Cole have those thoughts about me?
“So, have you ever been married?” Her voice is light, and I can tell she’s trying to change the subject.
I sit up, taking a deep breath and rolling my eyes at myself. . “Cole’s mom and I didn’t last long after he was born,” I tell her, “and I don’t know… I got caught up in trying to build a livelihood—a future. Got used to being alone.”
I run my fingers over my scalp, finally resting my head on my hand and looking over at her. But she looks skeptical, studying me with something cautious in her eyes. Like she doesn’t believe that’s why I’m still single.
“There were chances to get married,” I say, assuring her, “but
I guess even in high school I never wanted to be one of the numbers and do what I was supposed to do, you know? Graduate, get a job, get married, have kids...die.”
I breathe out a laugh, but surprisingly, the words are coming easy now.
“My grandfather, the one who also smoked cigars,” I clarify, “passed away when I was nine, but I still remember this house party my parents had when my dad finished college. He was in his thirties, the first one in the family to get a college education, so it was a big deal.”
She sits back in the seat, holding the bottle with both hands and listening.
“I think I was like six years old at the time,” I tell her. “My grandparents were there, and everyone was talking and laughing, but what I remember most is my grandfather, in his sixties, six-foot-four and two-hundred-fifty pounds shaking the foundations of the house, because he was dancing around to Jump by the Pointer Sisters.”
She breaks into a smile. Yeah, you can just picture it.
“My grandmother watched from the table, laughing with everyone else with this look of joy.” I swallow, remembering the huge smile on her face. “Everyone was just so happy, and even at their age, they kept growing, having fun, being silly…” I trail off. “I don’t know. I liked that, I guess.”
“You want that,” Jordan says quietly.
I think about my grandparents, constantly making each other smile, and all the women I’ve been with, and how I never felt that. Not even with Lindsay. I was probably incapable.
“It just didn’t look forced, you know?” I go on, turning to her. “They set a high standard. It’s hard to find that one person who speaks your language.”
She drops her eyes, looking deep in thought.
I keep going, changing the subject. “What about you?” I broach. “Any ideas about how you want your life to be someday? Your marriage, the wedding, the perfect day, the perfect dress…?”
She just sighs and takes a drink from the bottle. “I really don’t care about the wedding,” she says, staring back at the television. “I just want the life.”
The life.
Those words hit hard, and I don’t know why.
Maybe because I’m still waiting for the same thing.
Birthday Girl Page 9