by Wright,Lulu
“Hello,” he says. It’s just one word, but his frigid tone already makes me feel young and vulnerable.
I clear my throat. “I need to give you a heads up …”
“What about now?” he asks, his voice clipped.
I close my eyes and take a breath. “Crystal told everyone in the store that I am your son.”
There is a long pause. Did he hang up? It wouldn’t be the first time.
Finally, I hear him sigh. “I suppose you knew that was going to happen eventually. Let that be a valuable life lesson. Be careful the company you keep.”
“I know.”
“Let me be clear,” he adds. “I’m not digging you out of this one like I did with Beckman.” There’s silence, then I hear him chuckle softly. “In the future please refrain from breaking an employee’s nose.”
I wince. “Dad, I’m sorry, but—”
“Save your breath; I almost hit him myself. The lawyers are on it. Move on.”
“So … Does this mean I can just go by our name again?” There is silence for so long that I wonder if he’s hung up. “Hello?”
“I suppose the timing is fine considering what’s to come. It couldn’t be a secret forever. And you’ve done well, Jack.”
My chest contracts. I can’t remember the last time I’ve heard him say that. Possibly never.
Of course, he ruins it almost immediately. “Granted, it would have been nice if you hadn’t screwed around and spilled the secret early, but nevertheless.”
I grimace. “Thanks, I think.”
“Well, we might as well make the promotion official now, then. You have displayed work ethic, proved yourself. The employees will get over this and move on as long as you lead them well.” He pauses again. “If you lead them well. Do you understand?”
My father never gives compliments and this is the closest I am ever going to get, so I take it. “Yes. Thanks, Dad,” I add, my voice low with feeling. “Thank you.”
He clears his throat. “Get some rest over the weekend, son. You’ll need it, so you can start the store manager position Monday.”
I say goodbye and reflect on the fact that he called me son. I haven’t heard that for a while. Not since Mexico, in fact.
After I wander the streets to sober up, I end up at a diner near the park. Staring into a black cup of coffee, I try to figure out what to do. The waitress drops a bag of ice in front of me without saying a word and I press it to my cheek as my phone vibrates on the table.
Lily?
No. It’s wingman Tim.
You good? Did you get her?
Not yet. But I will.
21
Lily
My face is a salty Niagara Falls of tears and snot, rendering me blind.
I blow my nose. It’s like bubble gum. “I should have known …”
“How?” Ricky asks, rubbing my shoulder.
“I don’t know.” I sniff long and hard. “His over-the-top penthouse. The maître de calling him Mr. Hamilton when we went out.”
“That might have been a clue, yeah,” Ricky can’t help interjecting.
I elbow him. “I thought it was a joke!”
“You can’t recognize lies unless you are looking for them, Lils. Especially if the liar is wrapped up in a pretty package.” He shrugs at me.
“How am I ever going to show my face in Hamilton’s again?” I groan.
“You’ve done nothing wrong, girl.”
“After the way I freaked? Everyone must know there’s something up with us.”
“So you banged a guy you work with. Who hasn’t done that?” He flashes me a wink.
Oh god, suddenly I don’t know if I want to know who he’s done.
“I can’t believe …” I almost confess to everything I let Jack do to me, but I can’t. It’s too private. I know he would love details, but the fantasies he indulged … that was TMI, even for Ricky.
“You are going to be just fine, cupcake.” He kisses my cheek. “Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But you will.”
Ricky makes me open my laptop and dictates a letter to Brenda requesting a few days off. She will approve it, I’m sure, now that the walk-through is done.
Then Ricky does his best to entertain me by pulling up the gallery of dick pics on his phone. His latest conquest has a monstrous member that should have its own zip code.
By the time Ricky’s done regaling me with stories of his latest conquests, I’m almost smiling again. Almost.
He leaves me with another double-cheek kiss, and a promise that the second I’m in work next, we’re trying on dresses for the ball.
Crap. I’d forgotten all about the ball. I am so not in the mood to primp and prep for a fancy dress event, but the look on his face is so puppy-dog excited that I can’t turn him down. So I force a smile and pretend to be excited.
“There’s my girl.” He winks at me. “See? Jack who?! Catch you soon, babe.”
But just the sound of Jack’s name sends a stab into my chest. I watch Ricky go, and manage to hold it together just long enough that I’m sure he’s out of earshot. Then I let tears flood my eyes again. My body feels like it’s been hit by a mac truck. My mind goes black. It simply won’t think anymore.
I collapse in bed, and oblivion is a welcome break from my memories.
22
Lily
Jen had already texted me to call her anytime, since Ricky filled her in on what happened. But I don’t think she expected me to all at 6am that very same morning. “Can I borrow your car?”
But, a true and loyal friend, she showed up in twenty minutes with a full tank of gas and a hot coffee for me. “Be careful,” she said when she hugged me. “Text me when you get to Hatfield.”
The Jack texts have started. My phone is blowing up. I toss it in the glove box and turn up the radio. I don’t care what he has to say.
OK. I do but I can’t let myself look. I’ll lose my motivation. Get weak again.
He always makes me weak.
The radio is disappointing. I flip between stations, but every channel I land on bores me. Jen doesn’t have satellite radio, but in my twitchy state I don’t think that will make a difference. I keep pushing buttons until, oh great.
I squeeze the steering wheel. It’s Savage Garden. Fantastic.
I position my finger over a button, but don’t press. Instead, I just cry fat tears all over again. I am pathetic.
Last night was it. The last time I’ll ever be with Jack.
I pull off the Pennsylvania Turnpike and find a Wawa. Turning Jen’s car inside out, I find some Burger King napkins and wipe my face. The vanity mirror shows I look like deep fried shit, but good enough for a Wawa stop.
The girl behind the counter rings up my coffee with light chat and a smile. She looks very PA with her long ponytail and Taylor Swift tee shirt. The closer I get to home the more I see happy-go-lucky people with seemingly uncomplicated lives. I used to be her.
I should have never moved to Philly.
I pull into my parents’ driveway and sit in my car staring at my childhood home. Each time I come back, the house seems smaller and older. The rope on the tire swing in the front is frayed. I don’t know why my parents don’t cut it down.
Dad’s truck has bumper sticker about guns and Obama, while Mom’s jeep has a Greenpeace logo and six Hillary stickers by now. My parents pee out of different quills regarding politics. They argue, but it’s never mean, never ugly. Kind of flirty when I look back at it, actually. Maybe that’s why I decided all the fighting I did with Jack from the start would make him an excellent hookup candidate.
Ugh. I’m such an idiot.
I sit in my car and sip and my cold coffee trying to work up the nerve to go in. I am sure my parents are awake, but knowing how infrequently they check their phones, I doubt they’ve seen my text.
I need to come home. On my way.
To my surprise, it seems they did actually read a text for once. Mom opens the front door and jogs down the
path toward Jen’s car before I’ve even got it into park. She looks the same as always in an old sweatshirt with dried paint on it, faded, patched-up jeans and her hair pinned up.
“Baby!”
I get out of the car. She covers my face with kisses and I melt into that familiar Mom hug. But she won’t let me stay there for long.
She has a million things to tell me and before I know it, she’s going a mile a minute. “George Bernard died in his sleep a couple weeks ago, did I call to tell you that? I can’t believe I forgot to call. Poor Joan. Look!” She points to a sapling near the driveway. “We planted an oak this fall. Oh, that’s right we sent you a picture. You haven’t seen the new paint job in the dining room. I love it, but your dad thinks yellow is too big city.”
“Where’s Daddy?”
“You know him. He just had to get to that butcher shop over in Allentown bright and early to get some ground beef for burgers tonight. At least he’ll have it for making burgers tonight, the way you love.”
“Where’s Wilbur?” I ask, a little nervous. My parents didn’t forget to tell me about that too, did they?
But I relax when Mom just rolls her eyes. “You know that old mutt. He loves the Mustang as much as your daddy does. Went along for the ride. I’m pretty sure the butcher sneaks him scraps, too, even though I told your dad those are bad for him …” She keeps muttering to herself as she heads back toward the house.
I take a deep breath and glance around the driveway at the late-fall leaves and the familiar old birch trees. I hear an unseen dog barking in the distance and smell the scent of burning leaves from a neighbor’s backyard.
I am home.
“So, why the long face, Lil?” Mom sets a glass of orange juice in front of me and sits down at the kitchen table. “Did something happen with your job?”
Shaking my head no, I take a sip. It’s fresh squeezed. “Just feeling low.”
Mom sighs. “You look exhausted. Have you been taking care of yourself out there in the city?” She squints at me, suspicious, and I avoid her gaze. Eventually, she relents, and leans over to pat my hand. “Why don’t you go take a hot shower and then lie down until your dad gets back. Might be awhile. Him and Wilbur are probably trying out that Mustang on a back road.”
After a long, amazingly refreshing hot shower, I climb into my old twin bed. My room has been kept exactly the same since senior year, like some sort of strange memorial to me. All my posters are intact; frozen in 2010 forever as a time capsule of everything I loved. Everything I still love, except for that one cheesy sci-fi flick that I only liked because the lead was super hot.
The mattress is lumpier than I remember, though. I squirm around on it trying to find a comfy spot.
My Harry Potter books are stacked on a shelf near the bed in order of release. My old iPod perched beside them, probably dead to the world now. That lava lamp I just had to have when I saw it at Spencer’s is perched on my desk, also likely dead. The lava inside it looks like weird foamy goo now. I smile at it, because I babysat the preacher’s kids for a whole month to afford it, and now I’d forgotten it even existed.
I spy my old Doc Marten boots pointed to a corner. My dad loved to tease me about them to no end. “You joining the army?” he would say when I stomped around in them.
“The punk rock army,” I would exclaim.
There are vacuum tracks on the rug and not a speck of dust to be found. A distinct lemon scent hangs in the air. Mom must clean the room every week even though I’m not here to mess it up. I can also feel the concave indent of fat butt cheeks at the end of the mattress from when Dad would read me stories when I was a kid. Wrapped in nostalgia, I drift into a deep sleep and finally, blissfully, forget everything else.
I wake to the smell of Dad’s famous burgers. My mouth waters before I’m even fully conscious, like I can already taste the thick, greasy chunks of bacon fat stirred into the beef.
I storm downstairs to claim a seat at the table, and after another round of hugs with Dad and Wilbur, I sink my teeth into the nearest burger without delay. But despite the familiar old delicious flavor that washes over my tongue, I can hardly swallow it.
As we take our seats at the table, I tear off little chunks of the burger to slip to Wilbur under the table when my folks aren’t looking. What they don’t know won’t clog the old mutt’s arteries too bad, right? Besides, my little old man deserves some spoiling. I reach down to tug on his ear as I drop another bit of burger at my feet.
“Something wrong with the burger?” Dad looks hurt.
Guilt churns in my stomach. “No, I just …” But my throat closes in rebellion. The Brook family aren’t exactly the Deep Feelings type. We aren’t heart on your sleeve people. We avoid the elephant in the room by eating hamburgers, chatting about neighborhood gossip or napping all day. Sometimes we’ll awkwardly acknowledge one another’s pain by smiling and patting one another on the shoulders, but that’s about it. Avoid. Avoid. Avoid.
My folks exchange glances. “I’m still just really tired,” I say, rising from my chair. “I’m gonna go lay down.”
I fall asleep in my old bed again. At least when I’m not conscious, I can’t think about Jack anymore.
I’m in the middle of a dream. It’s just me and Jack, alone in the stockroom. He’s got me bent over the desk, and he’s lifting the belt above my naked ass, smirking down at me in that familiar way. I shiver in anticipation, but he’s going to draw this out, keep me guessing.
I squirm, taunting him, daring him to go through with it. But instead of spanking me, his hands start to caress my ass, first one cheek, then the other, massaging me. It feels so damn good that I push off the desk to wrap my arms around him, drag him down here onto the desk with me.
Instead, he shakes his finger in a little tsk-tsk motion, and clucks his tongue.
He leans in like he’s going to kiss me, when suddenly his face changes. Melts away, and then it’s Crystal instead, leaning over me, leering and laughing that horrible, high-pitched squeal of hers. Cold drips down my face—more froyo, everywhere this time. And Jack’s in the corner, pointing and laughing at me. As Crystal shoves me away, she curls an arm through Jack’s, kisses him on the cheek, and he hugs her to his side, not even looking back at me as they saunter off together.
I’m wiping at my face, trying to get the froyo off, when the cool yogurt seems to suddenly get hot and sticky.
Or, more like, hot and licky. There’s a tongue all over my face. Lapping at the froyo. Or, no. Just at me?
I squirm around in bed, and open my mouth, only to get a whiff of dog-breath. “Ack!” I groan.
“Get her, boy.” Wilbur is on my bed, licking my face and pawing me. I push him off, but he just sees that as an invitation to lick me more.
“Dad! Come on!”
“OK, Wilbur, that’s enough.”
The slobbering beast jumps off the bed and I turn over and press my face to the wall, grumbling. “I’m sleeping, go away.”
“Why do bees hum?”
I lie still and say nothing because I am not in the mood to stick to the script. No Dad Joke is going to cure this one.
“What’s wrong, little girl Lil?”
“Nothing,” I mumble.
“Oh, sure. You come see us on a weekday out of nowhere. Don’t eat the most delicious burger in the world. Then you hurt Wilbur’s feelings. Heck, you aren’t even appreciating my astute sense of humor.” The mattress shifts. Dad is sitting on the bed, right in the same spot where his butt imprint is permanently dug into the mattress. “So, I’m guessing this is about a guy.”
I roll over and face him. “What makes you think that?”
“Do you remember your Ryan Carter era?” He chuckles as I groan. Trust a parent to remind you of even more embarrassing situations than your current one, if possible. “That guy with the long bangs that played guitar and once asked your mother what a thesaurus was when she recommended he buy one? That kid?”
“Thanks for reminding
me of my wonderful taste,” I mutter into the pillow.
“And you were thinking he was going to ask you to prom. You even cut your hair off to look more punk rock for him. And then he asked that Susie girl instead. You didn’t come out of your room for three days. Kept playing that song by that lady who screeches …”
“Ani DiFranco.” I raise my hand out of the covers and point to her poster on my wall.
“Ani DiFranco. Told me and your mom you were becoming a lesbian and you were going to run off with a lady tennis pro …”
I giggle under the covers. I forgot about swearing off guys. My lesbianism lasted until that exchange student arrived from Sweden.
“What was that foreign kid’s name who ended up taking you to prom? Bjorn Joren Jorg Ikea …”
“Jan.” I throw the covers off my head and breathe in cool air. “His name was Jan.”
“Oh, Jan, that’s right. That’s right. The communist.”
I try to pout, but smile instead. “He wasn’t a communist.”
Dad sighs and gives me a shrug. “Well, my point is, when Ryan the Mouth-Breather didn’t recognize how great you were, Jan came right along and swept you up. So don’t you fret, honey. The right one will see exactly how right you are.”
I twirl my finger around a gingham square on my quilt cover. “I really thought that this was … that this one would actually work out.” Dad jerks a thumb toward my Marilyn Manson poster. “Not sure I trust your instincts in men, sweetheart. Didn’t you tell me this guy here was the cutest guy in the world? I thought I would have to get an exorcism after that show …”
“You told me he was just copying Alice Cooper.” I smirk. I remember all his eye rolls at the concert. In truth, nothing shocks my dad.
“Plagiarist.”
I giggle.
“So, you have a broken heart, huh?”
I shrug. “Bruised, I guess.” Broken? I don’t know. Wouldn’t I have had to be way deeper into it with Jack to get anything broken?
Maybe he was just a rebound from Connor. We did move fast, after all. But it didn’t feel like that. It didn’t feel like my meh-I-guess-I’ll-date-you thing with Connor, either. It felt … real.