Pointe

by Brandy Colbert

  Ten minutes later, I’m standing on my front porch, holding a foil-wrapped pie and sweating profusely. I can’t believe how easy this was. Stars aligning. Fresh-baked pies. Preoccupied Dad, who won’t overthink it like Mom would. We’d still be sitting at the table, making a pro-con list for leaving a pie on the neighbor’s doorstep if she were here.

  I walk down my steps and start heading over.

  The day is winter-wet. The kind of damp that hangs in the air from morning to night, when old snow melts into slush under the sun and cools into ice after dark.

  I walk down the driveway and the sidewalk, stopping to look at Donovan’s house from the street before walking up the path. The welcome-back debris has been cleared off the porch, but it still stands out from the others. Every other house on the street is draped in strings of twinkly lights with tasteful holiday decorations dotting the yards. The Pratt house is nothing more than dark windows and a desolate lawn. The porch sits like the empty, ominous mouth of the house, waiting to swallow up anyone who comes too close.

  I keep walking.

  I’m cloaked in déjà vu as my boots take me up the path to the porch. Is it déjà vu if you’re not reminded of one particular time, but thousands? Walking to Donovan’s house was a regular part of my day when I was a kid—like going to school or brushing my teeth. Still, my heart thumps faster the closer I get.

  I wonder if they’re watching. If he’s watching. If he’s happy I’m coming to see him. If he wonders why I’ve waited so long. Or if he’ll refuse to talk to me, if he’s angry because he didn’t really run away and I was the one who let Chris get so close to him.

  I balance the pie on the edge of the neglected wooden swing to the left of the door, take a deep breath, and push the doorbell. I lick my lips and practice a smile, wait for the familiar tread of footsteps on the way to the door. Actually, it’s weird, waiting. I barely ever had to ring the doorbell at this house before.

  But I hear nothing. So I ring it again. I stare at the windows, try to look through the dark curtains to see if the Christmas tree is in its old spot. Every year in the same position with the same ornaments, winking its rainbow of lights through the glass. Now all I see is black.

  Still nothing. I guess my great idea wasn’t so great after all. Maybe my mother was right when she said we should give them time. She indulged me with those first couple of phone calls after he came back, but I haven’t told her how many times I’ve tried to call since then. That I’ve been staking out his house when I’m home, hoping for even the smallest glimpse of life behind these curtains.

  I place the pie on the dirty welcome mat and turn to go back home. I need a Plan C.

  Then a click and a latch and:

  “Theo?”

  Mrs. Pratt’s voice is music.

  I turn around. She stands behind the screen door, but I can’t discern any part of her except her silhouette. She is very thin, that I can tell. Her elbows stick out like bird legs in sharp points. Her head looks smooth, like it’s wrapped in a scarf.

  I retrieve the pie from the mat, stand in front of her with my arms outstretched like a peace offering. “My mom made pies,” I say. “We wanted you to have one. Pecan.”

  “Oh, that’s very sweet of you, honey.” She steps closer to the door but makes no move to open the screen. I think she’s wearing a bathrobe. “Your mother’s pecan is so good.”

  “I . . . I wanted to say hi, too.” I bring my arms back to my chest, holding tight to the pie tin. “It’s been a long time.”

  “It has. You’re almost grown up now. A beautiful girl.”

  I’m glad she can see me well enough to make that statement, because she’s just a shadow to me, stuck behind the screen. The house is dark. I keep expecting Donovan to poke his head around the corner, but no. It’s silent.

  But I think I heard a ghost of his mother when she spoke. A bit of that smile that always started in her eyes.

  “Thank you.” I clear my throat, breathe in fast so the cold air hits the back of my throat with a sharpness. “I was also wondering . . . Is Donovan home?”

  “He is, honey, but I don’t think he’s up to having visitors right now.” Her voice is kind, but generic, like she’s repeated this sentiment hundreds of times. Maybe she has, but not to someone like me.

  “Are you sure, Mrs. Pratt?” My own voice is pleading. Pathetic. Desperate. “I know it sounds silly, but I just want to see him with my own eyes. It feels—it feels like he’s not really here if I don’t. Could you ask him? Please? It’s just me. I promise I won’t stay long.”

  As vital as it is to talk to him, to ask him what I’m supposed to do when we go to trial in four weeks, my plea is sincere. Vague news updates and estimations from my parents aren’t enough. I need to see the Donovan who came back. I’ll feel so much better if I can just see that he’s okay now.

  Mrs. Pratt sighs, but her silhouette turns away for a moment as if she’s looking behind her. Looking at someone. Considering. “Just a minute,” she says, and closes the door instead of asking me inside.

  The street is empty but I feel like I’m in a one-woman show. It’s so conspicuous, standing on the Pratts’ front porch. The paparazzi and news vans have been gone for a while now, but it’s impossible to not look at the house when you leave or enter your own. I know because I do it every time, and I’ve seen my neighbors do it, too.

  The pie has cooled, and my hands are cold. My fingers crinkle uncomfortably around the foil. I should have worn gloves. I should have thought of a more eloquent way to ask for Donovan.

  The big door swings open again. My knees jiggle and I lock them, plant my feet firmly beneath me.

  The outline of Mrs. Pratt’s head is moving back and forth. His answer is no.

  “Not now, Theo. I’m sorry. He’s not ready yet.”

  She really does sound sorry, so it must be him. Donovan doesn’t want to talk to me. Our history is useless.

  “Don’t take it personally,” she says, running a hand over her scarf-clad head. “And please don’t give up on him. He’s getting better every day.”

  I want to ask if he’ll pick up the phone if I call and he knows it’s me. If he’ll write me back if I bring over a letter or send an email, but I can’t. I simply nod because there is no good way to respond to that, nothing I can say that will ever make this better for her.

  “Here’s your pie.” I hold it out awkwardly, as if she can grab it through the screen.

  She unlocks the door, opens it just wide enough for me to slip it into her hands. I catch a flash of red terry cloth, a glimpse of brown skin and taupe slippers before the door shuts again.

  “You’ll tell your mother thank you for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re a good girl, Theo,” she says softly, her face already halfway hidden by the big door. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas.”

  I turn before she can see the tears in my eyes.

  Doesn’t he know I want to help him? Doesn’t he know I’m flipping my shit, wondering what he and Chris were doing all that time?

  I descend the porch steps. Walk down the path. Up the sidewalk and back to my house. Kick off my boots when I step inside. Pass Dad on the way up to my bedroom.

  He’s holding his closed laptop under one arm and a fresh cup of coffee in the other hand. Steam billows from the top in playful curlicues that fade in the air.

  “How’d it go?” he asks, pausing where I’m standing by the bottom of the stairs.

  “He’s still not talking.” I slide my hand along the banister. I can’t wait to go back to bed. It’s the only way I’ll stop thinking about this.

  “I’m sorry, babygirl.” He sighs as he looks at me. Throws a hesitant smile my way. “This won’t last forever. He’ll come around and I bet you’ll be the first person he calls.”

  I used
to think that was possible. But he’s not the same, and neither am I. There was a time I wouldn’t have been able to shake Donovan if I tried, and now that everything depends on talking to him, he can’t be bothered with me for even a minute.

  I run my index finger along the side of my rib, exhale silently as I find that familiar oval of tender, bruised skin hiding beneath my shirt.

  • • •

  Hosea calls in the afternoon.

  I nearly drop the phone when I see that it’s him. We’ve only texted until now; an actual phone call seems like a step forward. I smooth down my hair before I answer, as if he can see me through the phone.

  “Doing anything for Christmas Eve Eve?” His voice is a little thick, as if he just woke from a nap.

  I hear people talking in the background. His television. A few more seconds reveals it’s a show with a horribly obnoxious laugh track.

  “Nothing,” I say quickly.

  Too quickly. Maybe I should have invented plans so it doesn’t look like I was waiting around for him to call.

  “Me either.” Hosea clears his throat. “Grams will be away until tomorrow night, so . . . you want to come over later?”

  “Over to your house?”

  I sound as if I’ve been invited to have tea with the queen of England, but I couldn’t be more surprised if that’s what I’d been asked. Going to his house is almost like a date. The closest we can get to one right now. There are only four more weeks left until he might not want me, after all.

  “Yeah, I thought we could hang out without any . . . distractions.”

  He coughs away from the phone and I wonder if his face is hot like mine.

  Still, I try to play it cool. Pause for a moment, try to keep the elation out of my voice as I say, “Sure. What time?”

  • • •

  I have to get a little creative to leave the house later. Nothing crazy, but I usually spend most nights around the holidays at home with my parents, and so do my friends, so they’re curious about where I could be going the night before Christmas Eve.

  “I need to drop off Sara-Kate’s present,” I say, and then go on before I lose my nerve to continue with the lie. “She leaves tomorrow to go to her relatives’ and I want her to have it before Christmas.”

  It’s not completely untrue. They are going to her grandparents’ house—but her grandparents live a few miles away in the city and Sara-Kate and her family are just spending the day with them.

  Dad and I have just finished cleaning up after supper while Mom has her cup of post-dinner coffee and pores over a stack of holiday cookbooks. As if she doesn’t already have her favorite recipes picked out, ones she’s made dozens of times now. Dad and I told her about the pecan pie together. She wasn’t mad. She hardly said anything at all, except to sweep her hand over the top of my hair, kiss my forehead, and say, “He just needs time, sweetheart.” I think she felt bad for me.

  “You won’t be in their way while they’re packing?” she says now, flipping the page to some sort of elaborate baked dish that looks heavy on the melted cheese and bread crumbs. A dish that would make my mouth water so much, I’d have to pinch myself on both sides.

  “They’re all packed. She invited me and it’s just for a little bit.” I lean against the counter and try to appear not at all invested in the conversation at hand. “I’ll be back by curfew.”

  “That was never up for debate,” my mother says without looking up from her cookbook.

  I glance at Dad, who’s trying to hide his smile. “Go,” he says, waving the dish towel at me. The long sleeves of his plaid shirt are rolled up to his elbows. “Wish Sara-Kate and her family a merry Christmas.”

  I spend a long time getting ready because what do you wear when you’ll finally be alone with the person who occupies half of your thoughts? I go through my entire wardrobe, wish I could call Sara-Kate. She’d know exactly what I should wear tonight, could march into my closet and pull out four excellent options in less than five minutes.

  But I can’t ask for fashion advice or she’d know I was going to hook up with Hosea. And I can’t listen to the judgment in her voice, so I work with what I have: nerves and indecision. When I walk out the door, I’ve finally decided on a cream-colored cardigan over a red silk tank top that glows against my skin, and a pair of jeans that gives off the appearance of an ass.

  The drive to Hosea’s is quick, just a little over five minutes on the empty Sunday-night streets. He lives on the left side of a mint-green duplex. I park a couple of houses up from his and sit in the car with the engine still running. I dig a fingernail into my wrist to make sure I’m here. On Hosea’s street, only a few feet away from the front door of his house, where we’ll finally be alone.

  I check my reflection in the rearview mirror, smile with my mouth wide open to double check that I brushed away any food in my teeth. I didn’t want to put on too much makeup in case my parents noticed before I slipped out of the house, but it’s just enough, I think. I apply more lip gloss before stepping out of the car.

  I look around as I’m walking up the path to his house, as if someone followed me here. As if Ellie will be standing just inside the door, ready to confirm her suspicions.

  I ring the bell and stick my hands into my coat pockets as I wait for him to answer the door. It could be colder but I’m grateful when I hear footsteps coming toward me. I hold my breath as he fiddles with the lock, get a quick rush in those moments of anticipation when you can feel the other person, just inches away.

  “Hey,” he says warmly when we’re standing in front of each other.

  He’s wearing a black T-shirt and jeans and he smells good. Fresh, like he just got out of the shower, but his hair is dry. And beautiful.

  “Hi.” I smile at him as I step inside the little foyer, which contains a table with a tray for mail and a small, horizontal rack above it to hang keys.

  Hosea closes the door and reaches for my hand, pulls me all the way into his house. I barely have time to take in the living room before he’s pushing my hair back from my face, brushing his lips against mine in a kiss hello. I close my eyes and lean into him as I kiss him back and we stand like that for a while. Slowly kissing in his grandmother’s living room, like we have all the time in the world.

  “I’m really happy you came,” he says in that same warm voice that melts right through me. I look up at him, sketch the contours of his face with my eyes. I remember the night we talked at Klein’s party, how I really looked at him the first time. Noticed the way his eyes softened and the tension seemed to relax from his strong jawline when he was talking to me.

  “I am, too.” I squeeze his hand.

  And I am happy—I am—but I’m mostly nervous. Maybe even more so than when I was getting ready earlier. Hosea will be my first since Chris. What if I don’t remember what to do? I thought I would feel different going into this. Worse about planning to be with him, about helping him cheat on Ellie. But I’m not sure how I can feel bad about it when I know he’s supposed to be with me.

  I look around now. It’s your typical living room: love seat, recliner, couch, and coffee table. It’s almost too much furniture for the room and there’s barely enough space to walk around but it works because there’s no clutter. Not even a stray sweater or a discarded pair of shoes on the thin carpet. Just a couple of old photography books on the table next to the TV remote. An artificial Christmas tree sits in the far corner, small and white with silver ornaments and garland. I look under the tree, see a couple of wrapped gifts, and flush when I think of the mountain piled under the massive tree we brought home the first week in December.

  A piano sits in the opposite corner. That makes me smile.

  “Want the tour? It’s small,” Hosea says almost apologetically.

  “I’d love a tour.” I unbutton my coat and drape it over the arm of the couch before we move into the next r
oom.

  It is a small place, with just the front room, a kitchen, and two bedrooms and a bathroom off a short hallway. But it’s clean and tidy and it smells nice. It smells like Christmas, like fresh pine and warm cinnamon, and I only notice the scented candles burning in the kitchen as we’re leaving the room.

  “And this is my little hole,” he says, pushing open the door across the hall.

  The room could belong to anyone with its beige walls, bare except for a calendar of landscapes hanging from an orange pushpin. A bed with a plain navy comforter is shoved up against the far wall, across from a three-drawer bureau and a small desk and chair. His room is clean, too, and I wonder if he cleaned for me or if it always looks like this.

  “Where’s all your stuff?” I ask, looking for any sign that this room belongs to him.

  That’s when I see it. A picture on top of the bureau. It’s not in a frame. It’s just a loose photograph, leaning against a dark wooden box. It’s slanted at an angle so there’s a bit of a glare, but I can still make out him and Ellie. They’re at a party, outside in the summer. Or maybe a festival. His arm is around her and she’s standing close to him, her body pressed to his side. Ellie’s mouth is open in a wide smile. She looks pretty. Hosea is smiling, too, the glowing orange tip of a clove barely visible between his fingers. They look comfortable together. Happy.

  “When I moved in, I wouldn’t put up anything because I was convinced I wouldn’t be here that long.” His voice surprises me. When I look at him, he moves to the right, blocking my view of the picture. “Guess you can see how that worked out.”

  “It kind of looks like a guest room,” I say, trying to shake the image of that picture.

  I gaze at every wall and corner, want to burn this into my memory in case I’m never back here again. I make a special point to not look at the picture but Hosea is still there, still standing in front of it. My eyes slide to a different side of the room. I wonder where he keeps his pills, but it doesn’t seem right to ask. It’s not the first thing that comes to mind when I think of him now.

  He flips the light off once I’m finished looking around. “Grams says it looks like a serial killer’s room.”