by Noelle Adams
“That you kept running into brick walls?” She stared up at him, her eyes far too big in her pale face.
“All the time.”
There wasn’t anything else he could say. They stared at each other silently, sharing some sort of poignant understanding.
Then he left, feeling tired and worried about her. And also, despite himself, a little bit hopeful.
It was too early to start to count on it, but maybe Ethan wouldn’t be around for long after all.
***
Ethan was late for dinner.
He’d evidently gotten another call—or maybe it was the same call that had lasted for over an hour—but when Helen came down for dinner, she said Ethan was finishing up a phone call and would be down in just a minute.
Drake frowned at this announcement, and his frown deepened as the minutes continued. Cyrus tried to make conversation, asking Helen about her internship at a prestigious D.C. magazine. But Helen looked increasingly uncomfortable and kept glancing at the stairs and at her watch. Drake was becoming visibly annoyed.
Cyrus could have strangled Ethan—if for nothing else than for being stupid. He was quite sure if he’d been dating a woman he had good reason to keep happy, the first thing he’d do was discover the small things he could do to ensure her family wasn’t annoyed with him.
For Drake Owen, arriving on time and dressing appropriately for Christmas Eve dinner were two of those things.
When Ethan finally descended, it was clear he’d missed the mark on both of them. He wore black jeans and one of those obnoxious woolen silk, long-sleeved tshirts that he must consider his trademark since he wore them all the time. This one was steel-gray. Like all the others, it fit very closely to show off his ostentatious muscle development.
Cyrus supposed he was considered handsome. He’d spent much of his early life in Paris, and he still put on a continental air, one Cyrus felt was simply ridiculous. He was three years older than Helen and always seemed to be smirking.
Cyrus had hated him when he first met him. Ethan had been wearing another one of those clingy shirts when Cyrus and his date had met Ethan and Helen at a trendy downtown restaurant. Cyrus had hated him when Helen had arrived unexpectedly at Cyrus’s apartment one evening, to gush about how Ethan had just given her two dozen roses to celebrate the anniversary of their first meeting.
But, for some reason, Cyrus hated Ethan more now than ever before as he casually strode over to stand beside Helen and pulled on her long, sleek ponytail in a gesture that was somehow possessive and dismissive both.
Drake didn’t say a word. He just turned to walk into the dining room. Cyrus tried desperately to think of something to say but was too distracted by wanting to punch the smirk off Ethan’s face.
Helen had shot Ethan an annoyed glance, but she now looked kind of flustered. Cyrus figured she was embarrassed by Ethan’s behavior. He’d always been similarly embarrassed when Rose Marie had made a scene or shown herself to be less than civil.
At least, Helen was recognizing something wrong with her boyfriend’s behavior. Earlier that year, Ethan could do no wrong in Helen’s eyes. Even something as gauche and offensive as French kissing her in the middle of dinner had earned a giddy giggle from Helen.
She’d been in the first wave of infatuation then, though. She wasn’t anymore.
***
Cyrus was relieved when dinner was over. They’d managed a civil conversation by mostly just ignoring Ethan, but Cyrus didn’t want to push their luck and have the holiday dinner turn into a fight, which was what would happen if either he or his father spoke their mind.
So he was shocked when his father suggested drinks in the library after dinner. When Cyrus looked at him in surprise, his dad just arched his eyebrows at him blandly. Since there was no way to politely refuse, they all traipsed into the library, where the 20-foot Christmas tree filled one corner and a fire was blazing in the fireplace.
Drake poured out the Scotch, shooting Cyrus a challenging look as he handed Helen a glass too.
Helen took it without question. She was only nineteen, but legal drinking age didn’t mean anything when Drake Owen was around.
Helen suggested a game of pool, which his father accepted. Cyrus was quite determined not to get trapped talking to Ethan, so he sat down at the piano and idly rolled through some scales and arpeggios. Ethan had been fairly quiet all through dinner—maybe recognizing that he was in disfavor—and now he sat in a cushy leather chair, sipping his Scotch and watching the others play.
Cyrus started a classical piece on the piano but couldn’t concentrate enough to do it justice, so he gave it up and just vamped.
Helen had already finished her Scotch, which meant she must have gulped it, but she didn’t refill her glass. She’d taken off the jacket and her sleeveless top showed off her pale, toned arms as she lined up the cue for her first shot.
Both Helen and his father were good players, so Cyrus split his attention between the piano and the game. There was some conversation, but it was mostly innocuous, and he relaxed a little as it seemed a blow-up wasn’t likely to occur.
He’d be more than happy to see his father grind Ethan to pulp under his well-shod heel. But there was no guarantee that Helen would take their side in an argument, and it might end up alienating her completely.
Cyrus wasn’t prepared to risk that.
After a while, as he watched his girlfriend play with clean efficiency, Ethan commented, “I didn’t know you played pool, babe.”
And that was another thing Cyrus hated about Ethan. He called Helen “babe.”
“I’ve played from time to time,” she murmured, without looking back at him.
Cyrus glanced over at Ethan and briefly caught a look of absolute boredom on his face. Then the expression disappeared as he pulled his phone out of his pocket and started to text someone.
Improvising some chords, Cyrus tried to land on a melody. He strummed a bit, thinking something sounded familiar, but he couldn’t identify the familiar note.
Helen straightened up suddenly, glancing back at him. She looked amused, which was nice to see, so Cyrus strummed through the same series of notes.
Her mouth twitching with suppressed amusement, Helen suddenly burst out with the first lines of “Trouble in River City.”
Cyrus blinked in surprise, Drake turned with a surprised jerk of his head toward Helen, and even Ethan lowered his phone and stared with his mouth opened.
Then Cyrus choked on a laugh, recognizing the words and why the chords earlier had sounded familiar. Helen must have thought he’d been playing them on purpose.
“You don’t know the whole song, do you?” he asked, giving her an intro.
Helen slanted him a look of amused condescension, as if she couldn’t believe he’d questioned her knowledge of old musicals. She cleared her throat and launched into the entire song about dangers of pool among the youths of River City, using the cue as a prop and adding hand gestures as necessary.
She was obviously just having fun, and the song was mostly fast-talking and therefore didn’t require a very skilled voice. Cyrus was enjoying watching her so much, marveling at how she had every word and every beat pitch perfect, that he often forgot to keep up the piano accompaniment.
His father, of course, had stopped playing as soon as Helen had begun the song. He stood watching with cool interest, but Cyrus could tell he was mildly impressed and he even gave a bark of laughter when Helen got to the “frittering” section.
Once Ethan had figured out Helen was just singing a song from The Music Man, he rolled his eyes and went back to his phone.
Cyrus focused enough to build up the musical momentum at the end of the song, ending with some very impressive chords. Helen laughed delightedly when she finished, obviously having had a great time, and his father even gave some slow applause.
Since the song had broken the earlier tension and lightened Helen’s spirits considerably, Cyrus moved immediately into the Sisters song
from White Christmas, since he knew Helen had known all the words to that one since she’d been ten.
She made a show of being reluctant to sing again, but he insisted and his father spurred her on by drawling that he doubted she could manage this song as well as the other.
So she sang the Sisters song, effortlessly singing both parts and running over to grab a small Bohemian tournament shield from the wall to use in place of the big blue feather fan. By the time she finished, Cyrus was laughing so hard he could barely play.
His father had started shooting balls into the pockets again, but Cyrus could tell he was mostly paying attention to Helen.
When she finished and took an exaggerated bow, his father straightened up. “Test her on something else,” he said to Cyrus. “I’ll just finish the game by myself.”
Although his tone was wry, Cyrus was pretty sure his father wanted Helen to do another. Cyrus thought for a moment, searching his repertoire of songs from musicals, which wasn’t exhaustive, and trying to land on one that he thought Helen would know.
There was a certain element of a challenge in this—Cyrus was well aware—and he didn’t want to choose a song Helen didn’t know, since that would mean a kind of victory for his father.
He chose “Luck Be a Lady,” since it was from a musical and was well known, thanks to Frank Sinatra. Helen had no trouble jumping right in. She was only an average singer, but she wasn’t afraid to ham it up, and it was remarkable how she perfectly captured even the enunciation of the original performers.
Cyrus had noticed that, although Ethan would occasionally look up and laugh or smile supportively, he was mostly focused on his texting. While his father was pretending not to enjoy it but actually was, Ethan was just the opposite—not paying attention but acting like he was.
Helen was mostly singing to Cyrus, since he was the one openly engaging with her. But she was obviously aware of both other men, and her song faltered and then ended when Ethan’s phone vibrated and he picked up it with a low voiced greeting.
When Cyrus saw Helen’s crushed expression, the surge of anger he felt for her clod of a boyfriend actually drove him to his feet.
“Sorry, babe,” Ethan said, getting up and walking out of the library, “I’ve got to take this. That was some great singing.”
Helen was breathing heavily and deeply flushed, and she stared at the door Ethan had just exited.
Cyrus had to close his eyes and take a few deep breaths to control his fury. He would have followed Ethan and had a few words with him, but he was pretty sure Helen would have stopped him.
The happy mood her performances had generated had been totally snuffed, and Helen just stood there, as if she had no idea what to do.
Since someone needed to say something, Cyrus asked in as casual a tone as he could muster, “How do you know all these old songs?”
She gave a half-shrug, but managed to smile at him. “Mac used to love old musicals. He watched the movies over and over again. I guess I just started to like them.”
She cleared her throat and looked kind of self-conscious, still holding the pool cue.
Cyrus felt rather stupid himself, since he’d stood up but hadn’t actually gone anywhere.
“That last one was a giveaway,” his father murmured smoothly, breaking the awkwardness in his typical cool manner. “You made it too easy on her. Try to choose one now that isn’t known to the world at large.”
Cyrus was ridiculously grateful for his father, who had not only dispelled the lingering awkwardness but had also made Helen feel better.
She flushed, looking at Drake in surprise and pleasure, as if she hadn’t expected him to want to hear another of her songs.
“You ready?” Cyrus asked, sitting back down at the piano.
“I guess. Just one more.”
Cyrus vamped a little while he tried to think of something Helen could really ham up. “How’s your Bing Crosby?”
“Okay,” she said slowly, suspiciously. “It’s not “White Christmas”, is it, because that’s a little—“
“Give me some credit for creativity,” he interrupted, trilling up a scale until he’d found the right key. “What about Frank Sinatra?”
“Either one is fine. Which one…”
She trailed off as Cyrus picked out the melody and she obviously recognized it.
She clapped her hands. “Perfect! But it’s a duet, so you have to sing it with me.”
Cyrus blinked, halting briefly.
“You have to,” she said. She’d put her cue down and picked up her empty glass of Scotch, evidently for a prop. “I can’t do this one on my own.”
She didn’t wait for him to respond, and he didn’t have the heart to disappoint her. So, when she pointed at him with her glass rather drunkenly as was appropriate for her part and began with the first lines of “What a Swell Party This Is,” he was ready.
Cyrus had always liked the song—not just because it was noteworthy as a Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra duet—but because it aptly, ironically captured his feelings about every single empty high-class party he’d ever intended. At first he just sang to humor Helen, but he soon got into it. Helen had Sinatra’s tipsy part pitch-perfect, even down to the shuffling dance moves. And there was something deeply enjoyable about being so perfectly in sync with her as they hit every note, word, beat together.
By the end of the song, they were both singing uninhibitedly—with more enthusiasm than real talent, although he was happy to say they were both on key. Helen had come over to the piano and was smiling into his eyes with pure joy as they held the last note. And when he raised his fingers from the final chord, she threw her arms around his neck in an exuberant hug.
He hugged her back, laughing and thinking he’d never been able to have silly fun like that before she had entered his life.
It wasn’t until she pulled away that he remembered his father was still in the room.
One glance over proved that his dad had been watching them with a thoughtful kind of scrutiny. Cyrus couldn’t begin to guess what he was thinking.
“Well, I have to give you credit,” Drake said to Helen with a small, pleased smile. “Not only have I seen tonight a side of you I’ve never seen before, but I’ve also gotten to see a side of my son I wasn’t aware of.”
Cyrus sucked in his breath, suddenly afraid of what his father would say.
But he finished innocuously, “I never knew you could sing.”
“Only when pressed.” Cyrus gave Helen a gentle punch on the arm, the way he used to when she was a little girl. “Thanks, kid. That was a lot of fun.”
“Yeah,” she said, looking down, almost shyly. Then her expression changed as she looked over at the other side of the library. “I wonder where Ethan got to.”
***
Cyrus ran into Ethan on the landing of the stairs as he was heading down to the media room. It was almost eleven-thirty. Helen was already in bed, and Cyrus had thought Ethan was too. But evidently he’d gone downstairs for some reason, since he was coming back up now wearing just a pair of sweats with no shirt or shoes.
Cyrus felt faintly disgusted by the sight of the other man’s bare chest, but he managed to smile politely.
“You’re a little old to be sneaking out at night, aren’t you?” Ethan asked. It was the kind of question that was supposed to be teasing but came across as rather snide.
Cyrus ignored it completely, as was the only way to deal with such things. “Did you need anything?” Ethan wasn’t holding a glass of water or anything from the kitchen, so Cyrus didn’t know why he would have been downstairs.
“Just taking a call,” Ethan explained.
He frowned. “I hope nothing is wrong. You seem to have a lot of important calls this evening, which seems strange for Christmas Eve.”
“Personal issues.” Ethan put his hands on his hips in a gesture that was probably supposed to highlight his biceps.
“Okay,” Cyrus said, raising his eyebrows but suppressing any ot
her comment he might want to make.
“If you have something to say, then just say it.”
Cyrus’s eyebrows arched even higher. “When you get older, you’ll learn that is not a wise challenge to issue. Often, what goes unsaid should remain unsaid.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you should be very careful about pushing me too far.” Cyrus kept his voice low but allowed it to convey a hint of danger he knew would be effective against someone like Ethan.
“I know you’ve never liked me. That doesn’t bother me. Helen is mine.”
Cyrus briefly clenched his fist but managed not to let his anger reflect on his face. He gave a dry, amused huff. “Is that what you think?”
“That’s what I know. I don’t give a fuck if you don’t like me. She’s my girlfriend, and she’s going to be my wife, and you can’t do anything about that.”
“Oh, but you’re wrong about that. There are always things I can do. I haven’t done so yet because I care about Helen. But the moment I’m convinced she’ll be less hurt by what I can do to you than by staying with you, then I will do it. With no qualms. And no hesitation.”
Ethan seemed startled by the coldness of his voice, and he must have understood the underlying threat. He sneered but didn’t respond. Then he walked away, back up the stairs to his room, which was next to Helen’s.
He assumed she and Ethan were having sex, although he had no actual proof of that. His father, however, always gave them separate rooms.
He hated the idea of Helen having sex with Ethan. Hated it so much it made him want to claw his eyes out.
If he were honest, he had to admit that he hated the idea of her having sex with anyone.
For the most part, he did just fine in thinking about Helen in the right away—as his little friend, as almost family. But ever since last year when he’d given into some sort of twisted urge and kissed her, he had to be on guard against any flickering of inappropriate thoughts.
Six months ago, he’d come out to the house for the Fourth of July weekend, mostly to get away from the holiday mess in D.C. He’d been surprised on his arrival when the housekeeper told him that Helen had come out too.