by Luana Ferraz
“Okay, fine,” he sighs, defeated. “It’s a free country, you’re a free woman.”
“Exactly,” I say, rolling my eyes. He only says that when we disagree.
“Just tell me if you want me to go with you.” He grabs my hands, making me look into his eyes. “Just say the word and I’ll drop everything.”
How can someone be so supportive even when they think you’re making a mistake? I sigh. I really don’t deserve him. And I really want him to go. But if it causes him any more trouble than he’s already in, I’ll never be able to forgive myself. Chances are he’s right, grandma is strong and will be fine, and this trip will only serve to hurt me.
“I don’t want you to go,” I say, then. He knows I’m lying, so I sit beside him, avoiding his eyes. “It’s not your problem. It’s time that I start dealing with my own shit. Besides… you can’t babysit me forever.”
“Becks!” He turns to face me, an appalled look on his face. “It’s not like that! It’s not like that at all!”
“You know what I mean,” I say, although it’s exactly like that. He’s just always around, always picking me up, always ready to drop everything for me. It’s not fair. It’s not healthy. For neither of us.
“I love you,” he says, making me roll my eyes.
“I know that. And it’s enough for now.” I rest my head on his shoulder, squeezing his hand. If me being deprived of a traditional family has any bright side, it’s that it pulled me closer to him.
“Hey,” Neil appears at the open door, rattling his knuckles on the frame, “the car is here.”
“I’m ready,” I say, getting up and closing my backpack.
“Please, keep me updated. Please,” he pleads, knowing I’m not the best at maintaining contact.
“Will do,” I say, kissing his forehead and turning to leave.
“Drive safe!” I hear him yelling when I step outside.
Then I retreat my steps and glance at him again, sitting dejected on my unmade bed. I smile. As much as I hate how much I make him worry, it still makes me feel special. It’s good to know I can count on him no matter what.
“I love you,” I say, making him look up.
“I know.”
As I skip down the stairs, my heart speeds up on my chest. I round the building to the parking lot, already questioning my resolve. And then I spot Tyler leaning against the car trunk, chatting to Neil. He’s found his glasses. I walk towards them slowly. Am I doing this for the right reasons?
They stop talking when they see me. I stare at my feet until I get to them.
“Call me as soon as possible,” Neil says, handing me the car keys. “And be careful.”
“I will,” I say, taking the keys.
“You, too,” he says to Tyler.
“I’m always careful,” he frowns. I can’t see it, but I can hear it.
Neil sighs, looking back and forth between us. “If anything, anything, happens that makes me regret this decision…” he trails off.
“Yes?” Tyler asks after a few seconds of silence.
“I didn’t think of a good threat yet,” Neil admits, making me laugh a little. “But rest assured I’ll have a lot of time to come up with something.”
“Can’t wait to hear it,” Tyler says, patting his shoulder. Then, he turns to me, motioning to the car, “Shall we?”
“Yeah,” I nod, watching as he makes his way to the passenger’s seat. I wait until he gets inside to turn to Neil. “Thank you.”
“No problem,” he gives me a sympathetic smile. “If you need anything, just let me know.”
I nod, not knowing what to say next. So I say nothing.
I enter the car, throwing my backpack on the backseat. I pause for a second, staring at Tyler. He stares back. Or, at least, I think he does.
“You found your glasses,” I say dumbly.
“Yep,” he smiles, “back to my ridiculous self.”
I snort, rolling my eyes and biting my lip not to smile back.
***
“Can I change the playlist?” Tyler asks after nearly two hours of silence. I almost forgot he’s here.
“Sure,” I shrug.
He unplugs my phone and plugs his. After a few seconds, a Beatles song comes on and I make a face.
“Don’t tell me you don’t like The Beatles,” he says.
“I don’t like The Beatles,” I admit. If I could sum them up in one word, it would be overrated.
“Everyone likes The Beatles!” he argues.
“Apparently not.”
“But they’re your fellow countrymen.”
“I don’t see how their nationality affects my ears.”
He chuckles. And then turns the volume up. Idiot.
“Why don’t you like your name?” he speaks again over the music.
“What?” I frown.
“When Pete called you Rebecca… you didn’t seem very happy about it,” he continues.
“What?” I ask again. He stares at me blankly. “I can’t hear you over this noise.” I point to the radio.
He turns to where I’m pointing and then back to me. I swear I see a shadow of a smile from the corner of my eye. Then he turns the volume down.
“Better?” he asks.
“Much,” I say. And then silence.
I glance at him again. He’s looking out of the window. He doesn’t repeat his question, although I know he knows I heard it, and the fact that he’s not insisting on it makes me glad. Yet, I find myself willing to answer. At least in part.
“Pete only calls me that when he’s angry with me.” I feel his head turn around again.
“He seemed more concerned than angry, though,” Tyler says.
“Yeah. He does that, too,” I sigh.
“He reminds me of Tristan,” he says.
“How so?” I frown, struck by the familiarity of his remark.
“The way he treats you like a child,” he says and I immediately get defensive. “Tristan does that to me, too.”
“He doesn’t treat me like a child!” I argue, offended as if he had said that about me.
“Oh, no? Doesn’t he think he can tell you what to do? Doesn’t he get frustrated when you don’t do things his way? Isn’t he constantly afraid of what you’re going to say next?” he lists and gets angrier with each question. I know he’s talking more about his relationship with his brother than mine with Pete, but it doesn’t prevent me to get annoyed. Why does everyone assume they know what goes on in other people’s lives?
“It’s not like that.” I shake my head and he snorts. “He may do all those things, but because I gave him a reason to. Because he cares about me, not because he wants to control me.”
“Are you really convinced of that?” I see him turn to me from the corner of my eyes.
“Mate…” I sigh. “You have no idea what he has gone through because of me. You have no idea how much pain I have already caused him. And, yet, he didn’t leave. I think I can deal with a little overprotective attitude if it means he’ll stick around.”
I can feel my skin burn. I can feel his eyes on me. I’m not really sure why I said that, but when it comes to Pete, I’m equally overprotective. He’s a saint in so many ways I can’t even begin to explain. He’s the best friend I ever had. He’s the only friend I still have. Yes, he acts like a big brother. Because, in a lot of senses, he is.
“What’s the deal between you two?” he stirs the conversation in another direction.
“The deal?” I snort.
“Yeah… you know.” He shuffles on his seat.
“No, I don’t,” I bite back. But I do know. It’s what everybody asks when they ask me about Pete.
“Yes, you do,” he insists. I glance at him again and he doesn’t seem angry anymore. He’s just curious. So I answer him.
“We’re friends,” I say with a heavy sigh.
“With benefits?” he asks next and I can’t help but laugh. “I’ll take that as a no,” he adds in a boring tone.
“Correct. He only has eyes for his girlfriend,” I say, even though he’s been having eyes for Tristan, too.
“Oh,” he interjects, making me glance at him. “So he does have a girlfriend.”
“Yep,” I say, and he nods. My curiosity is stronger than me, so I ask, “Why?”
“Nothing. It’s just… I thought…” he struggles, not really wanting to say what’s on his mind. But, then, he does, “I thought he’d be the type to have a boyfriend.”
“He had some of those, too,” I say, trying to watch his reaction at the same time I pay attention to the road.
“I see,” he nods again, apparently unsurprised. Which earns him points with me—anyone who doesn’t react like Pete is a zoo animal upon knowing he likes both girls and boys ranks a little higher on my list. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No,” I frown at the unexpected change in the subject.
“A girlfriend?”
“What is this now?” I chuckle.
“Nothing. Just trying to make small talk.” He throws his hands up defensively.
“Feels more like an interview,” I complain.
“Use it as practice, then. For when you’re famous,” I can hear his smile. I’m not sure if he’s mocking me, but it makes me smile, too. “So, girlfriend?” he repeats.
“I don’t talk about my personal life,” I joke and he chuckles.
“You learn too fast,” he says. And, once again, doesn’t insist on it. I find I like this trait on him. Prying, but never pushy. I also realize he got answers to all his questions. I decide not to break the streak.
“No girlfriend,” I say. “Nor boyfriend.”
“Me neither,” he shares spontaneously. Not that I wouldn’t know—the way he made out with those girls the other night would suggest exactly that.
“Not ever?” I take the opportunity to put him on the spot for a change. I feel his head turning to watch me again. I wonder if he’s trying to read my mind like I try to read his.
“Once,” he finally says.
“Were you in love?” I half-sing the last word, making the question sound less deep than it actually is.
“What is this now?” he chuckles.
“Just small talk!” I glance at him. “According to experts.”
“Such a smart-ass,” he remarks.
“I’m learning from the best,” I retort and he laughs. But doesn’t answer. Which, for me, is answer enough.
***
It’s eleven p.m. when I finally drive through Alnwick’s city sign. I slow down and navigate around the streets I still know like the back of my hands, no matter how hard I try to forget them. It’s absolutely empty. Quiet. Like a zombie apocalypse.
In no time, I’m turning left on my old street and parking in front of the house I grew up in. The sight of the big white building with its dark windows always overwhelms me. Every time I come back it looks more sumptuous. And less welcoming.
I finally turn the engine off and glance at Tyler. I debate for a moment whether to wake him up—he’s been asleep for the past three hours. I don’t know how he managed to find a comfortable position, but he even talked a little. Something about pasta and drumsticks.
I turn the car light on and before I poke his ribs, I pause for a second to really look at him. He looks almost completely like someone else—every trace of sarcasm and grumpiness erased by unconsciousness. He looks like a boy.
A pretty boy.
It’s clear that it’s not just the blue eyes that make his fans swoon, he has every handsome trace in the book. Strong jaw? Check. Immaculate skin? Check. Soft lips? Check. Long neck? Check. Even his hair is perfect, no matter how hard he tries to make it look disheveled. I chuckle when I remember he used to look like a girl. I can definitely see why, with his refined features and fair complexion.
He grunts in his sleep, saying something I can’t understand, and turns his head to my side. His long blond locks cascade down, covering his face. I suddenly feel an irrational desire to run my fingers through those golden strands and uncover his flushed face. I startle myself with this thought and decide it’s time to stop delaying the moment I’m dreading. So I get out of the car, take a deep breath, and walk up to the house.
I reach under the garden gnome for the spare key, and am not surprised to find it still there. I unlock the front door and walk in. The smell of wood and old furniture immediately brings me back. It’s the smell of my childhood.
I turn the porch light on and walk slowly through the hallway over to the kitchen. The walls are still covered in old pictures of us. First, grandma and my dad. Then my dad with some friends. My dad with my mom. My mom with me inside of her. My mom holding me in her arms. My dad with me on his shoulders. Me and my dad lying on the grass under the night sky. And then me and grandma. I don’t look at the last ones and hurry into the kitchen.
There are still unwashed plates and pans in the sink, which are a painful reminder grandma is not here. There’s also a freshly made apple pie on the counter. I open the cutlery drawer and pick up a fork. I can’t remember the last time I ate grandma’s pie.
“What are you doing?” Tyler’s hoarse voice almost makes my soul leave my body. I forgot about him. Again.
“Fucking Christ, why do you keep doing that?” I yell in a whisper.
“Doing what?” He approaches me with a frown.
“Appearing out of nowhere.”
“First of all, I do not appear out of nowhere. I’m always somewhere before I appear. In this particular case, in the car, which brings us to second: if you had woken me up and not left me alone in the dark to figure out on my own where the hell I am and what the hell happened, I wouldn’t have to make an entrance and wouldn’t have startled you.” He pauses for a second, studying my surprised face. “To sum it up, it’s all your fault.”
“Are you always this talkative when you wake up?” I ask, noticing how his just-woken-up voice cracks at the end of the words.
“Only when I’m annoyed.” He raises his eyebrows.
“Then, yes, always,” I add and he smiles. An image of him sleeping in the car flashes in my mind. And the sudden craving to touch his hair. I look away. To the apple pie. Yes, the apple pie.
I uncover it and take a bite. And, again, it takes me right back. When I was a kid, I could tell grandma was arriving just by the smell of her baked goods. She always brought something over when she visited. And then, after… when she moved in, I’d always come home from school to find her in the kitchen baking something. The entire house permanently smelled of vanilla. I loved it. And hated it.
“Apple pie?” Tyler interrupts my trip down memory lane.
“Yeah. Want some?” I offer.
“Sure,” he shrugs.
I open the cupboard and grab two plates and two glasses. I cut two generous pieces of pie for us and put the plates on the kitchen island. I walk to the fridge and grab the milk, filling our cups. I sit down in one of the stools and Tyler follows me in silence. He takes his first bite and shoots me a wide-eyed look. I smile.
“This is better than my mom’s,” he says through a mouthful. “Don’t ever tell her that.”
“I won’t,” I chuckle.
“So, are those your parents?” he asks suddenly. “In the pictures in the hall?”
“Yes,” I nod and my stomach sinks. I haven’t thought about this part. I haven’t thought about him seeing the pictures. I haven’t thought about having to tell him what happened.
“You look a lot like your mom,” he points out.
<
br /> “Yeah,” I sigh. “Unfortunately,” I add and, as usual, regret it immediately. I concentrate on my pie and on eating it. When I hear Tyler resting his fork on the plate, I brace myself for his next question.
But it doesn’t come. He says nothing. I can feel his eyes are on my face—for some reason, I can always sense when he’s looking at me, but he remains silent. When I finish my pie and have nothing else to distract me, I look up.
He is indeed looking at me, with that curious expression he had while he was interrogating me in the car—except now I can fully see it, without those hideous glasses. I want to ask him what he’s thinking. I want to ask him what he’s doing here with me. But I can’t. So I just stare back. He shifts on his seat, getting uncomfortable. Then he reaches for his glass and drinks the milk all at once. When he finishes, he puts it down, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and glances up at the clock on the wall.
“It’s late,” he remarks, still looking at the clock.
I follow his gaze to see it’s past midnight. Upon this knowledge, my body seems to remember I spent seven hours driving and I get instantly tired. I yawn and rub my eyes.
“You should sleep,” he says.
“Yeah,” I agree, taking my phone from my pocket to check for news. There are none. The last time I spoke to Pete’s mom, she was going home, grandma was still sedated.
“Any news?” he asks.
“No,” I sigh, grabbing our dishes and walking to the sink. “We’ll know more in the morning.”
“Right,” he nods.
We stare at each other awkwardly for a moment, as I don’t know what to do next.
“Can I crash on the couch?” he asks, pointing a finger to the hall.
“Sure, yes,” I say, leading the way. I turn the lights on to find everything exactly like it was when I was last here, unsurprisingly.
“Vintage,” he comments as he observes our decor choices.
“Old, you mean,” I chuckle. I still remember the day we bought that couch—I was ten. “Do you need anything? Should I show you around?” I suddenly remember he’s a stranger. And a guest. And I don’t know how to deal with either.
“No. I think I’ve seen the inside of houses before,” he jokes. “I’ll just try to sleep.”