Not After Everything

by Michelle Levy

  I settle for myself.

  • • •

  I don’t notice that Dad’s home until he comes down from his room grumbling about “where the fuck have you been hiding.”

  I’m in the kitchen, and I didn’t close my bedroom door because I assumed he was off getting plastered for the night. I can’t let him see that I’m worried, or he’ll head right for it. But he doesn’t go downstairs. He comes into the kitchen and stands right behind me. I’m making some stir-fry-in-a-bag thing.

  “Smells good. What are you gonna eat?” He laughs. He thinks he’s hilarious. Especially when he’s buzzed. Of course, when he’s buzzed he likes to play the “Fuck With Tyler” game.

  I don’t engage. I just finish the stir-fry and pull out two plates. He takes one and chucks it into the wall like a Frisbee. It shatters.

  “I only need one plate.” He says this like he’s kindly declining a refill at a restaurant.

  I pour the entire contents of my dinner onto his plate and set the pan in the sink. I turn on the water and let it run over the hot pan, steaming up the window facing the backyard.

  I can feel him watching me. I turn to get him a fork, figuring he’s trying to show me how I’m his bitch and all that. “You’re welcome,” I say, setting the fork next to the delicious-smelling food that I paid for.

  I’ve barely turned back to shut off the water when I feel my head being slammed toward the counter. But it’s not the counter, it’s the stove. I can feel the heat still rising off the burner. If I hadn’t instinctively stopped my head from making contact, I’d be scraping my face off the still-hot burner. He pushes harder, and from my awkward angle, I can feel myself losing the battle.

  He wants me to beg. I know it. He knows I know it. And he knows I won’t do it. He’s laughing and kicking at the back of my knee, trying to get me to lose balance.

  I push back just as he hits my knee at the right angle to drop me. My ear meets the burner and it hurts like hell. He tries to hold my head so the burning sensation can really take its toll, but my adrenaline flares and I elbow him in the windpipe. He lets go. If he weren’t coughing so damn hard, he’d be kicking the shit out of me. He holds his throat and glares.

  I leave the water running and grab Captain and run to my room, locking it behind me just as I hear him plow into the door.

  “You fucking asshole! I’ll fucking kill you! You hear me? I’ll fucking kill you! I’ll kill you!” His screams become sobs and I can tell he’s now lying on the floor right outside my door. “Why’d you do it, Sarah? I miss you so much. Why’d she do it? I’m sorry, Sarah. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Tyler. I shouldn’t be allowed to be a parent. Not without Sarah. I miss her, Tyler. It hurts so much. Sarah.” He repeats her name over and over until I’m forced to blast the stereo just so I’m not tempted to try to help him. I can’t. Not after what he just did. Not even when he’s like this.

  I punch and kick my bed until I feel my little toe snap.

  • • •

  I limp into Dr. Dave’s office the next morning.

  “What’s with the gimp routine?” he asks as I take my usual seat. I just hope he doesn’t notice the beginnings of a scab on my ear. Good thing I still haven’t gotten the haircut I so desperately need.

  “I think I broke my toe.”

  “How’d you manage that?”

  “Kicking the shit out of my bed.”

  “For any particular reason, or you just didn’t sleep well?” He grins.

  “I was looking at the pictures of my mom again,” I lie.

  “We need to find you a healthier outlet.”

  “I think I’m projecting feelings for Jordyn because she’s the only person who’s nice to me. Besides you, of course.” I hope he takes the bait. I have to change the subject.

  “Well, wait a minute. Would it be so bad if your feelings for Jordyn were real?”

  “No, it wouldn’t. You see? That’s the problem.”

  “I don’t see a problem. It’s only a problem if you act on it in typical Tyler fashion.” He lowers his glasses to give me a mock-judgmental glare.

  “But if my feelings for her are real, what if I screw it up? She’s the only friend I have. I . . . need her.”

  “And that scares you?”

  “Of course it scares me. What if— I mean, I don’t want to need anyone, you know? They’ll just end up leaving like Mom di—” The realization hits me like I stepped into a steaming hot shower to find it freezing cold. It takes my breath away.

  “She’s not going to leave you, Tyler,” he says gently, nudging a box of tissues toward me on the coffee table even though I’m not crying.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “You’re right. I don’t. And you don’t. But is it worth not living just in case she does? You plan on living your whole life like that? Never trusting anyone? Never loving anyone because they might leave you, or they might die? What about your dog? Are you going to toss him aside because you’ll likely outlive him?”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “Isn’t it?” He watches me for what feels like forever. “Do you think Jordyn has feelings for you?” he finally asks.

  “I don’t know. I mean, she recently hooked up with her douchebag ex at a wedding shoot and he was kind of like the old me. And she sends me mixed messages, but I can’t read her. This is new territory for me. I’m used to chicks being pretty straightforward. Remember the last one?”

  “There aren’t even words for that last one.” He sighs. “Tyler, Jordyn isn’t the same. She isn’t just a cheap lay. You’re having feelings. Surely you’ve had feelings for a girl before hooking up with her?”

  “Not really.”

  “That’s . . . sad.”

  “Doc, I was hoping you’d talk some sense into me and here you’re telling me I should act on my urges toward Jordyn.”

  “I didn’t tell you to act on your urges, I told you to act on your feelings. I hope for your sake you know the difference.”

  • • •

  When I see Jordyn at work, she’s still not wearing any makeup. And it’s seriously messing with my head. I’m not entirely convinced she’s not doing it for me. But then again, I’ve seen her actually talking to people at school for a change. I’m probably being an arrogant douchebag.

  When she asks why I’m so weird today, I tell her I’m thinking about Mom not leaving a note. It works. She doesn’t bring it up again. But I’ll have to figure out how to put a lid on this shit, because that excuse will only work for so long. I notice her eyeing my ear, but she doesn’t ask. Unlike the rest of the world, she knows I’ll talk about it when I’m ready.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  As soon as I’m settled in at work the following Saturday, Jordyn saunters over and tosses a book on the counter in front of me.

  Or Not to Be: A Collection of Suicide Notes by Marc Etkind.

  “Thanks?” I say.

  “I’m just saying . . . they’re not all gems. It’s kind of fascinating.” She shifts her feet like she does when she’s nervous. “Forget it. It’s messed up.” She reaches for the book, but I hang on.

  We both hold the book and also intense eye contact. I think she might be waiting for me to kiss her, but if I’m wrong . . . Or she might just be trying to read me, trying to figure out if I’m actually offended that she bought me a book of suicide notes.

  She bought me a book of suicide notes! I feel a smile creep onto my lips. I wonder if this is what Dr. Dave meant by feelings. Because I kind of love that she bought me a book of suicide notes. Who does that thinking it’s thoughtful? And it is thoughtful. And she’s so beautiful—she’s got these dark brown, cat-like eyes with little flecks of gold, and this thick, glossy black hair that falls over her shoulder, just reaching the top of her breast. And the fullness of her bottom lip . . . it’s the kind of lip you want to take
between your teeth.

  I’m not sure how long we’ve been holding on to the book. I’ve completely lost track of time. I brush my finger across the book until it meets hers. If she doesn’t move her finger or let go, I’ll take that as a sign.

  She does move her finger, but only to brush my finger back. My breathing speeds up. That tiny little touch is enough to make my entire body throb with electricity. I pull on the book, drawing her closer, looking from her eyes to her lips and back again. She licks her bottom lip. I lean in slightly. My stomach feels like I’ve swallowed a hurricane.

  I stare at her lips until I’m close enough to feel her breath against my face. I shut my eyes wanting to memorize every sensation. Our noses touch and my heart speeds up. I hear her lips part and I feel her tip her head up so her lips come closer to mine.

  And then the phone rings. We jump apart like a couple of kids caught playing doctor. And it’s damn good timing too. Just as Jordyn returns to her chair to answer the phone, Henry bounds in, whistling what sounds like that one song from the musical Cats.

  Jordyn and I don’t so much as acknowledge the almost kiss. We simply go about business as usual. But damn if I don’t think about how much I want to try again every second of the rest of the day.

  • • •

  Henry’s first in on Sunday, much to my disappointment. I was hoping for a replay of yesterday morning. And he keeps me busy helping him all day. I don’t get a chance to even see Jordyn until after the final client leaves and the three of us sit at the counter, sighing.

  “Welp, that was a day,” Henry says, kicking his feet up on the counter.

  Jordyn and I just nod, occasionally exchanging glances.

  “Can you believe it’s Thanksgiving already? What are your plans for the big day, Tyler?”

  “I’ll probably just hang out at home.”

  “No family close by?”

  “No. And that’s fine. My dad and I . . . we’re not really Thanksgiving people.”

  Henry looks like he might faint. “That won’t do. You’ll come to our house.” And that’s that.

  Jordyn smiles and I smile back.

  Unfortunately, the three of us walk to our cars together. It’s that weird Colorado kind of cold that’s more refreshing than freezing. And it’s started to snow. The first real snow of the year is always kind of magical. Jordyn smiles up at the sky, allowing flakes to melt on her face. I wish Henry would leave. I want to kiss her more than I’ve ever wanted to kiss anyone in my life.

  I wonder if Henry knows my plan and that’s why he’s not leaving, but then I realize his car isn’t here.

  “At least let me in the car while you frolic in the snow like a crazy person,” Henry grunts at Jordyn.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming.” She shrugs at me as if to say, “Sorry, I wanted it as much as you did.” Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

  • • •

  At school the next day, I’m nervous. How will Jordyn react? Will we pick up where we left off? Do I really want to make out with her at school? But I don’t see her until after lunch when I’m on my way to Mrs. Hickenlooper’s class. She’s walking with that guy from my chem class and they’re both holding cups from Burger King. I didn’t realize they were actually friends; I just thought they were in a class together or something. Plus she always implies she doesn’t have any friends. She doesn’t even glance at me today. Ouch. And she’s back to wearing that shit on her face.

  I’m utterly confused.

  I don’t bother looking for her at lunch the next day. Or the day after.

  • • •

  Thanksgiving. I arrive at Henry’s house at noon as instructed. I feel underdressed in jeans and a sweater, which is dumb, seeing as I know Henry will most likely be wearing his uniform of flannel and denim.

  I stand there. Do I knock on the giant glass doors? Fortunately, Henry spots me from the back of the house.

  “Come in,” he bellows as he bounds toward me. “Where’s your dad?”

  “He, uh, had a work thing.”

  “Oh. Well, more for us, right?”

  “Right.” This house looks like the result of a castle and a log cabin gettin’ it on. It’s . . . manly is the only word I can come up with. I’m surprised there aren’t mounted heads and rifles on every wall. The floors are dark distressed wood. Stone, slate, and dark wood paneling cover every other available surface. After passing an office that I can’t imagine Henry using because it’s far too organized, and a staircase that resembles a multi-story library with a twenty-foot window flanked by bookcases all the way up to the ceiling, we enter the great room. This is the family room/kitchen/dining room, and it’s the size of a church, with ceilings almost as high.

  In the kitchen at the far end of the enormous room, there’s a huge granite counter with high-backed stools surrounding it. There’s also a table in the center of the room that seats at least ten, and a smaller table off to the back that seats six in front of a door that leads to the back deck, where there is yet another table. Three people live in this house. How many places to eat do they need? And one of them only lives here part of the time. I can’t even begin to imagine waking up in a place like this every day.

  The side of the room that isn’t designated for eating is dominated by a gargantuan slate fireplace. The thing is almost as wide as the whole room, and it runs all the way up the tall wall. A giant, three-sided leather sofa that could easily fit twenty people, I kid you not, faces the fire and a screen that rolls out from some kind of secret compartment. This is their TV. Jordyn’s dad, I assume, as he is an appropriately aged man of Chinese-Malaysian descent, is alone on the sofa, and he’s too busy shoveling pretzels and dip into his mouth while watching football to notice me gaping at the immensity of, well, everything. I only ever saw him in photographs when we were kids—he was always traveling. I know his name is Aslan—like the lion from Narnia. I remember thinking this was cool. I also remember Jordyn telling me how her grandfather changed their last name to Smith because Ng was impossible for anyone to figure out how to pronounce. It’s pronounced ing, by the way.

  Jordyn’s in the kitchen with her mom, Henry, and another woman I think must be her stepmom. And they’re all laughing and playing and teasing each other. I feel the sudden heat of jealousy pressing down on me, matched only by an oppressive sense that I shouldn’t be in a place like this. On the big screen, some running back completes a fantastic play, scoring a touchdown. My stomach clenches. Aslan jumps up and whoops. And it’s Thanksgiving and Mom’s not here and all of a sudden I really want to go home.

  I consider slinking back toward the door, but Jordyn finally notices me and waves me over. She’s smiling like everything’s back to normal. Like the almost kiss never happened. Like she didn’t tactfully avoid me for the last three days. I’ve never been more confused in my life, and the part of me wanting to leave is losing a battle with the part of me that wants to stay just to figure out where the two of us stand.

  She’s completely makeup-free and has her hair in a ponytail, revealing a small streak of hair dyed fire engine red at the nape of her neck. I never noticed that before. She’s also wearing something I didn’t even know she owned . . . color: a burnt-orange thermal shirt with buttons halfway down the front. It’s deliciously snug.

  I realize I’m staring at her chest about halfway to the kitchen and correct myself, guiltily glancing around.

  Jordyn shoves a plate of hors d’oeuvres at me, most of which are so fancy-looking, I can’t even begin to imagine what they are. I don’t want to be rude, so I take one that sort of looks like a mini pizza and search for a plate or napkin.

  “Over there.” Jordyn points to the other end of the counter without looking. She’s at the sink doing something and I am now privy to a view of her ass in some tight-fitting jeans. All her shirts and flowy skirts usually cover it up, and for the life of me I
can’t understand why.

  What the hell am I doing? Three of her parents are standing right there. I snap out of my perversion and head toward the little plates shaped like turkeys. The pizza thing is actually really good. I take another.

  “You like the quiche, I see,” says Jordyn’s mom. This is when I realize I’ve not been properly introduced to everyone. Jordyn seems to realize it at the same time and jumps in.

  “Mom, you remember Tyler Blackwell?”

  Jordyn’s mom wipes her hands on her green apron. She has long, silky brown hair and light brown eyes. She doesn’t wear any makeup, but then she really doesn’t need it. She’s very pretty. Her smile is almost exactly the same as Jordyn’s. Actually, Jordyn resembles her quite a bit, seeing them side by side. She reaches out her hand for me to shake. “Of course I do, but this is not Tyler Blackwell. Because if it is, then I must be a hundred and ten, and I’m not even in my thirties yet.”

  “God, Mom, that’s just . . . lame,” Jordyn says.

  “My daughter may call me lame, but you may call me Kelly.”

  This is when a woman who looks very much like Kelly, only blond and a bit plastic, turns her attention from the stove. “Jordyn! Now, this is the kind of boy you need to bring around the house,” the blonde says, eyeing me like I’m the turkey. “Not that strange little Jeffrey kid. Patricia Henderson-Smith.” She wipes her hand on her aggressively tight jeans and extends it to me like I’m supposed to kiss it. Unsure what to do, I awkwardly shake it.

  “Mrs. Henderson-Smith,” I say.

  “Call me Patricia,” she says with a wink, and then she turns back to the stove. This lady is what Sheila will grow up to be. The second wife. The wife that almost lives up to the first one who didn’t want to keep the guy around and he never got over it. The one he screws while pretending she’s the other.