Take Me Home

by Lorelie Brown

  I shake my head. “Be vaguely lesbian. Act like you’re interested in me.”

  “That certainly won’t be a problem,” she says, and I think maybe she’s flirting with me. Possibly. “I just have one question for you.”

  I lean forward. My blouse doesn’t have much in the way of cleavage, but I do that little upper arm shoulder scrunch thing anyway. “Yes?”

  “What kind of sweet potatoes are going to be served?”

  “Oh,” I say. “Um, the usual, I think.”

  “But what kind is normal to y’all? Whole chunks or blended and smooth?”

  “Blended. With an entire bag of marshmallows on top.”

  “Exactly the right answer. I’m in.”

  I clap my hands together, since overexuberant doof is my middle name. “Awesome! Send me your address and I’ll pick you up. Probably around two. We eat kind of early so there’s room for pie. And for Uncle Tony to get good and drunk.”

  She shakes her head, and I wonder if maybe a drunk uncle is too much. “I’ll drive. Or if you don’t want to ride in my car, I’ll meet you there, or around the corner or whatever. However you want to play it, but I need an exit plan if things get too crazy.”

  “Oh.” Heat hits my cheeks and the back of my neck. “Sorry. I should’ve thought of that. Here, let me give you my number. You can text me and we’ll sort it out.”

  She hops off the table as she also pulls out her phone. “No, it’s fine, really. And I wouldn’t mind riding with you, except I promised Skyler that I would drive on my own.”

  “Skyler? Who’s that?” Maybe a girlfriend—or a boyfriend. It’s the second time Brooke’s mentioned them. I don’t know if maybe Brooke is bi or pan. I wonder how serious they can be if they aren’t spending the holidays together.

  “My boss.” She points to the artist doing the dream catcher while I type my contact info in her phone, trying not to touch the crack down the center too much. “Last year she made the turducken. And a pake.”

  “A what?”

  “A pie in a cake.” Brooke’s shoulders lift, and she looks at her boss with fond amusement. “Expectation-bending is a thing of hers.”

  “But you like traditions.”

  She looks back at me, surprise wrinkling her brows. “I don’t think I’m exactly Leave It to Beaver casting call material, dude.”

  I point out her sleeveless T-shirt. Once I manage tod drag my gaze away from her beautiful arm ink, I noticed the shirt’s the cover of the Beatles’ Abbey Road. “You have your moments. Maybe a few years post-Beaver, but you do like trips down nostalgia lane.”

  “You got me there.”

  She sticks her hand out, and I grab it to shake, but all of a sudden she pulls me in closer. Brooke smells like peppermint and coffee. Her lips slide over my cheek in a whisper-soft kiss. “See you in a week,” she says.

  I float away. Does this count as a blind date? Maybe not. I’m not sure I care. If we end up madly in love with two adopted kids and a handful of cats and dogs, driving a Suburban, the story will be even better if it’s not a date.

  Once upon a time, Mommy was very upset with Great-aunt Daphne …

  It’s hard to focus over the next few days. I resist the urge to use and abuse Brooke’s phone number by texting too much. I did Facebook friend her, under the assumption that no one will believe we’re dating if we aren’t connected.

  She doesn’t update much. Mostly links to her Instagram account where she posts drawings and new tattoos she works on. I might have scrolled through the last year of posts. Or three.

  During my drive to Mom’s house, I try to figure out how to say my favorite is the mermaid drawn eighteen months ago without sounding like a stalker. I fail. I’m just not going to mention it at all.

  She’s leaning against the front fender of a car when I pull up a block away from Mom’s place. Based on the flames, I assume it’s hers. She’s wearing a dress with a Peter Pan collar that looks old-fashioned at first, until I get close enough to see the skeleton pattern. The cardigan tossed over her shoulders is purple and matches her low-top Converse.

  She’s so cute, I could scream.

  I don’t. I hit the unlock button on my console instead and try not to smile like a loon as she gets in. “Ready to do this?”

  “I’ll do anything for roast turkey.”

  “Your price is low, but Mom brined the turkey, so you should be extra happy.”

  She folds down the sun visor and peeps in the mirror. I could’ve told her that she looks flawless. “Brined?”

  “She put the bird in for an overnight swim in a cooler full of salt water and herbs. Makes it really juicy.”

  “Sweet.” She flips the mirror up as I pull into the drive. Mom’s parked her Mazda in the garage. Within an hour or so, half the street will be lined with cars from our family. I’m taking a risk by parking in the drive. Someone might block me in, and I’ll be begging Brooke for a ride back to San Sebastian.

  “Did you grow up here?” Brooke stands next to my car with one hand on the roof as she looks up and down the street.

  “From middle school until I left for college.”

  Her eyes go wide. “A long time!”

  “I guess so.” It felt like an eternity when I lived here, but not in the good way Brooke seems to be implying. “You get sick of seeing the same faces in class, at the bus stop, playing in the street.”

  Brooke snorts. “If you say so. We had a lot of turnover and none of us ever seemed to think it was exciting.”

  “How much did you move?”

  “About every two or three years—not far, always only one town over. But staying put would have been awesome.” She seems so chill about it though. A smile flirts around her mouth. She turns toward Mom’s house. “Is there wine in there?”

  I eye the one-and-a-half-story façade made of pale-beige stucco and touches of white as accent. There’s only a postage stamp’s worth of grass. “Bottles and bottles of it. And in case that’s not enough?” I pop my trunk. “If you grab the pies, I’ll get the wine.”

  “A six-pack of wine. As long as there’s something really dry in there, you’re my kind of woman.”

  “Then I’m your kind of woman,” I say, and thank God blushes aren’t something that can be heard. Brooke is behind me as I push open the front door, and she can’t see my probably-flaming red neck because my hair is loose around my shoulders. I want to be her type, but I’m eternally insufficiently cool.

  “Mom, I’m here,” I shout as I enter.

  The kitchen is full of heady, hungry-making smells. Mom has an army of slow cookers lined up on the island, each of them with a matching plate of crackers or bowl of skewers. It’s her annual appetizer lineup. I put the wine down on a counter and our purses in the cabinet where Mom keeps hers. “None of my relatives have been larcenous before. But I’d hate to drag you here and then have you lose your debit card.”

  “I appreciate the concern,” Brooke says with a wry smile.

  “Have one of these to distract yourself.” I lift the lid off one of the larger slow cookers and use a toothpick to spear a meatball.

  She doesn’t take it from my outstretched hand. Instead she puts a couple of fingers on my wrist to steady me and lowers her head to bite. It’s a meatball. Balls of meat. Like the least sexy food in existence. I’m an idiot.

  I’m an idiot with damp panties.

  “Hi, darling,” Mom says as she breezes through the archway from the dining room. She puts the couple of linen napkins back in a drawer before yanking me into a hug. “I’m glad you made it.”

  “Of course I made it,” I say against her curls. She smells like cocoa butter. “Where else would I be? Sizzler?”

  She pulls out of the hug and swats my shoulder. “That part was to your guest. Now pretend I raised you with manners and introduce us.”

  I leave my arm around Mom’s waist and pivot. “Brooke, this is my mother, Cindy. We’ve been mistaken for twins a time or two.”

  M
om bumps her shoulder into mine. “Liar.”

  I proceed as if I haven’t heard her. “But it’s not true. And don’t believe the dirty rumors that say she had me when she was five.”

  “I can see where they come from.” Brooke takes Mom’s hand and kisses her knuckles, surprising her into a laugh. “Cindy, you’re a doll. Thank you for having me.”

  “Anytime. We love to have Keighley’s friends around.”

  I can feel her curiosity poking at me like a live animal. I’ve brought friends to family events before, but never an actual date.

  “The horde should be arriving soon, right?” I steal another meatball.

  “Any minute.” She gives me a napkin to hold under my munchy as if it isn’t going to be gone in 0.3 seconds. Doesn’t she know me? “Sierra is out back if you want to say hi.”

  “You don’t need any help in here?”

  She shakes her head, then has to push away curly bangs with the back of her hand. “I’ve got the turkey in now and everything else that needs the oven is prepped already. Just going to switch them out in about a half hour.”

  “You are my hero. I brought your favorite wine.”

  “That makes you a superhero. Hide it so Daphne sticks to the crappy stuff I bought for her.”

  “As long as you treat yourself to plenty.”

  “Are you kidding me? I plan to drink the whole thing.”

  We stash the bottles behind Mom’s good olive oil. Daphne will never find them there, since she wouldn’t dream of actually cooking when she could be making Mom work. Then Mom shoos us out of the kitchen toward the backyard.

  “Your mom is adorable,” Brooke says. Mom’s already got a spoon in hand, stirring one of the slow cookers.

  “What do you mean? She’s regular. Just my mom.”

  “She’s wearing an apron, for God’s sake. And not even ironically.”

  “It’s the only way to look nice when you get to sit down for a meal.”

  Brooke stops in front of the glass doors that lead from the den to the backyard. She’s staring at me. Do I have food in my teeth? I want to run my tongue over them, but that’s impossible to do without looking like an idiot. So I don’t.

  I glance back toward the kitchen and then to Brooke again. Who is still looking at me. “What?”

  “You would wear one too, wouldn’t you?”

  “Wear what? An apron?” I flick an itty-bitty speck of dust off my skirt. “I’d have to. This skirt is wool. It’s hell to get anything out of.”

  And my button-down is white. Even if I could get the stain out later, who wants to be wandering around a party with unidentifiable substances on them? Not me.

  “You’re cute,” Brooke says.

  She makes me feel woobly inside. Is it on purpose? I swivel on my low, strappy heels and push open the door because I don’t know what to say.

  “How old’s your sister?” Brooke lifts a hand to shield her eyes. The sun glitters off the pool. It’s not super warm out, but it’s nice enough. Two years ago we had a Thanksgiving pool party, but today I’m glad for my sleeves, even if I’ve rolled them to my elbows.

  “She’s seventeen. Only three months away from eighteen.”

  “Doesn’t seem like there would be anywhere for her to hide. Is your mom sure she’s out here?”

  I don’t understand what she means until I realize the way the pool, hot tub, and surrounding deck seem to take up all the available yard space. “Oh, over here.”

  I edge around the spa and underneath the lanai roof. At the far end, a set of stairs is built into the cinder-block retaining wall.

  She follows me. “What is this?”

  “Mom’s lived here over a decade. She hated how small the backyard was, with the pool taking up the space, so she maximized what we had.” My head pops above the level of the roof. “Hey, Sis. Ready for today?”

  “Never. Never, ever, em-effing ever.” She’s sitting on the bench ringing two sides of the area. All the cushions are out, including the oversized ones that Mom throws on the wooden decking. She’s expecting a full house.

  “What are we on?” Brooke asks, turning in a slow circle.

  “The garage. Are you Keighley’s new girlfriend? Mom and I are dying of curiosity.”

  I decide acting like she didn’t say a word is the best choice. “We’re standing on the garage’s roof. Mom had it all reinforced and then walled in so it’s private.”

  Most of the wood flooring and fencing has been left raw, but accents of green lacquer keep it sophisticated. There’s a half-sunken bar in one corner and lots and lots of planks to break up the lines. I love this outdoor room. When I was in high school, it provided a safe and quiet space that felt like hanging in Hogwarts or somewhere else make-believe.

  “Super private.” Sierra sits up and takes a metal card holder from her back pocket. I recognize the library checkout card on the front. She pops it open and displays a single perfectly rolled joint. “Anyone want to smoke?”

  “Yes,” says Brooke at the same time I snap, “You can’t use birthday presents from me to hide pot in. Mom will kill me!”

  “Is that a no?” Sierra is a cool kid. I’m not sure how the sister six years younger than me turned out so perfectly self-assured. Did she get some extra gene that I didn’t?

  I don’t begrudge her a bit of it; she’s smart and funny and outgoing, and at the same time just protective enough of her personal space that she seems mysterious to the rest of her school. It doesn’t hurt that she’s beautiful and rocks the boho-chic look.

  I just don’t get it. “It’s not a no.” I sit next to her. “Just don’t get me into trouble with Mom.”

  She pulls her long legs up and her floaty top covers her knees. “Whatever. Mom doesn’t care.”

  “She’d have cared when I was seventeen,” I grumble.

  “I can’t help that I got all the luck,” Sierra says serenely. She lights the smoke expertly using a tiny gold lighter and takes two hits before handing it off in Brooke’s direction.

  Sierra waits until she’s blown her smoke out in a gray-blue haze and Brooke is holding in a lungful before pouncing. “So. Girlfriend? Do you and Keighley have a regular scissoring appointment?”

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” I squeal. “You did not just ask that!”

  She doesn’t even answer me. Only plucks the joint from Brooke’s fingers. “No sharesies if she’s gonna yell at me.”

  I snatch it from her in turn. “No, I get double if you’re going to be totally rude.” I fill my lungs with the sweet burn, and my head almost immediately swims. This is good shit. Hydroponic shit. Dispensary shit. Sierra gets way too much allowance. I kick off my strappy heels.

  Brooke mostly looks amused, which is a relief. Her lashes lower as the pot hits her, but that’s her only hint of being stoned. “For the record, Keighley and I have not scissored. Or licked. Whatever crudity you’d like to shock your sister with.”

  “It’s not that I’m a prude,” I say.

  At the same time, Sierra takes the pot from me and hands it to Brooke. “I knew it. You brought a fake out.”

  “Yeah.” Brooke takes her turn before speaking again. “Aren’t you afraid of getting busted by your neighbors in an area this nice?”

  “Please.” Sierra rolls her eyes. “I bought it from the neighbors on that side.”

  “Mr. Edgerton?” I choke on smoke. “I always thought he was totally boring.”

  “Mrs. Edgerton—Janice—left him like a year and a half ago,” Sierra says, as if her words were explanation enough.

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So he needed a hobby, I guess.”

  “You two are cute,” Brooke says.

  “Yeah, we are,” Sierra says at the same time that I make a demurring noise. Apparently my whole family is cute to Brooke. I can’t decide if this is a good sign or a bad one.

  “I always wanted a sister.” Brooke passes the last of the J to Sierra. It’s almost gone, which is fine.

  M
y fingertips are tingly. My spine feels like a Jenga stack that will tip over if I move too quickly. So I don’t. “Yeah, we probably seem cute now, but I wasn’t so cute when I pinched her at our family portrait. I was five and she was like nine months old.”

  “I’m red-faced and squealing,” Sierra says around a lungful of smoke.

  “She deserved it. For existing.”

  “You seem to have gotten over it.”

  I sling an arm around Sierra’s shoulder. She’s super slender from all the time she devotes to her tennis game. “The kid’s all right, I suppose.”

  “I’ve adapted to her cruelty.”

  “I can tell.”

  “Kids! Dinner!” Mom calls us from the other side of the pool.

  I burst into giggles. “‘Kids’? I feel like I’m ten.”

  “If we get served peanut butter and jelly, I’m going to be so pissed,” Brooke says.

  “Mom’s top class. It would be on really good bread.” Sierra hops up and dusts off the seat of her leggings.

  “That’s totally okay, then.”

  All three of us dissolve into fits of giggles that probably have more to do with the high-grade pot than anything actually being funny. Though it seems pretty top-notch hilarious to me as I pick my way around the pool. This whole scenario is ridiculous. I catch a glimpse of Brooke as I open the back door and almost lose it to laughter again. I can’t freaking believe I’ve got someone so damn pretty as my holiday date and it’s just a joke.

  Something seems off when we get in the kitchen. I think it’s the turkey still sitting in the roasting pan on the counter.

  “Mom? You said dinner was ready?”

  “Soon,” she says, and hands me a glass of wine. “What I really meant was Daphne and her family are here, but I knew you wouldn’t come save me if you knew.”

  “Not true.” The wine is rich and dry. I have to take my time with it. Brooke waves off the offer of a glass. “I’m looking forward to this.”

  Mom points at me. “Behave.”

  “I plan to.” I smile at Brooke. She’s smiling back at me, which makes me feel about ten feet tall. Twelve. Whatever is really tall without mashing my head up against the ceiling. “Shall we?”

  “We shall.”