by Amy Giles
I fold a brochure into a paper airplane the way my father taught Ethan and me when we were kids and launch it across the room. It sails in a loop before fittingly crashing to the floor.
I dig a little deeper into my drawer for another form of pain relief. A tiny roach Domie let me keep the other morning. I grab the lighter from my drawer and spark it. Three hits. It’s just enough to cut the edge.
The buzz starts to settle in when Lucas texts me.
Hey.
Hey back at you.
What are you doing?
Staring at the ceiling. You’re interrupting.
Ha. So, I have an idea.
I have a million of those. I plan to tell you every single one. Ready?
Okay, you’re being weird.
You’re just noticing this? Not very observant of you.
I’m having second thoughts about asking you out on a date now.
A date? You buried the lede! What kind of date?
Can I come by and surprise you?
Sure. I’m a fly by the seat of her pants kind of girl . . . said this girl, never. Tell me. I’m not great with surprises.
I get it. Okay. Well, it’s kind of cheesy but in a good way I think.
Pizza?
Ha! No. Cheesy like a sunset cruise around the harbor. I thought it sounded kind of fun.
That’s actually really sweet. I’m in.
Cool. Pick you up in half an hour?
Sure. Can we get pizza first though? I’m kinda hungry now that you brought it up.
I didn’t, YOU did. But sure. See you in a couple.
Lucas
I race downstairs, in a hurry to pick up Jess.
“Lucas?” Mom comes out of the kitchen wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Did you ask Jess about dinner?” Her smile is too eager-to-please.
“Not yet,” I say.
“Really? Why not?”
“Because . . . it’s just . . . I don’t know. I’ll ask her.” I throw my hands up in the air.
“How’s Tuesday?”
“We both work late Tuesday.”
“Well, maybe Wednesday? After Dr. Engel,” she presses. I really think she’s getting ahead of herself. No one invites the girl they like over to meet the parents for dinner this soon. If Mom is trying to make up for all the grief she and my dad gave Jason about Reggie, then the pendulum swung too far in the opposite direction.
“I’ll see.” I avoid answering her.
She throws the dish towel over her shoulder and huffs. “Well, you tell me what day works for her, then.”
I know how much it sucks to walk around with sandbags of guilt hanging around your neck. As I’m tying my sneakers, I give in.
“I’m actually heading out now to see her. I’ll ask her. Okay?”
Mom watches me tie my shoelaces. “Didn’t you just see her at work?”
“Yep,” I answer. “That was work though.”
The TV blasts from the den. Dad calls out, “Lucas! Yankees are playing Cardinals!”
Mom gestures to the den. “The game’s on,” she says, as if she has any interest in the game.
I kiss her on the forehead and grab the keys off the peg on the wall. “If I stay and watch the game, how will I ever find out what night Jess can come over for dinner?”
She snaps the dish towel at me, whacking me in the butt as I’m leaving. “Wise guy. Where are you two going anyway?”
I shake my keys in my hands, anxious to head out without any further interrogating.
“Sunset cruise around the harbor.”
Mom’s face goes soft, relaxing all those stressed-out lines that pressed into her skin after Jason died. My mother is dropping her guard right before my eyes.
“Oooh,” she coos. “That’s really sweet.” Then she adds. “Be careful,” because if she doesn’t say it every time I walk out that door some awful thing might slip through in between the cracks and ruin our lives. I can’t blame her for thinking this way. It’s already happened to us once.
“How have I lived here all of my life and never done this before? I mean, LOOK! That’s the Statue of Liberty!” Jess points over the boat railing, her face awestruck.
I’m really patting myself on the back for this one. Jess is having way more fun than I expected. All around us, everyone’s snapping pictures on their phones, then tapping on their screens to post them on Snapchat, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, whatever. The only two people who haven’t taken one picture yet are Jess and me. And it’s not because we’re jaded New Yorkers who see this shit all the time. It’s the exact opposite. It’s because we’ve taken this for granted all of our lives and want to really experience it now.
The cruise took off from the pier at Forty-Second Street. We watched the sun set as we sailed under the Brooklyn Bridge. Jess finally took her sunglasses off when there wasn’t a lick of sun left. Now the boat is sailing around Ellis Island, giving us a close-up view of the Statue of Liberty’s glowing green robe, her lantern blazing against the night sky, the New York skyline lit up behind her like it’s ready to party.
Jess takes a potato chip out of the bag and crunches on it. “Can you believe I have never been to the Statue of Liberty? Crazy, right? Look at it! It’s right in our backyard!” Her overabundance of enthusiasm blends in with everyone else’s, except theirs is booze-infused. Turns out the harbor cruise is a bit of a party boat. Everyone’s drinking around us.
“Or the Empire State Building. What kind of bullshit is that?” she asks. It seems like a rhetorical question, so I shrug. “People come from all around the world to go to the observation deck.” She grabs my hand. “Let’s do that next, okay?”
“Okay.” I nod, trying to figure out her weird mood.
“We can’t take it for granted, you know? It’s what everyone does. You think, it’s always going to be there, so there’s no rush. I don’t want to do that anymore.” Her attention seems a little gummy tonight, sticking to the oddest things. Then she goes quiet, her eyes still darting along the skyline, soaking it all in.
I think I understand her meandering train of thought. Up until a year ago, my biggest problems with my brother were his farts and his snoring. Never ever would I have imagined him not being in my life. Maybe Jess’s right about not taking anything for granted. You just never know anymore.
Jess takes her phone out and taps at the screen. I look over her shoulder; she pulled up “12 Fascinating Facts About the Statue of Liberty.”
“Did you know Lady Liberty wears a size 879 shoe?” She glances down at my feet. “That’s even bigger than yours.”
“Marginally,” I add.
A man dances by holding up two beers, one in each hand. He wears a wide-brimmed hat that looks better suited for Australia’s outback, not a cruise ship sailing around New York Harbor.
“Hey-oh!” He dances back our way. Pointing to Jess’s phone in her hand, he asks, “Want me to take a picture of you two?”
I’m about to say no, when Jess shoves her phone at him. “Yes please!”
He hands me a beer and then licks the froth off his thumb before taking Jess’s phone. Jess wraps her arms around my waist. “Say CHEESY!” she says, which elicits a shrieky, over-the-top laugh from her. Outback and I swap again, beer for phone, and he dances off to his friends.
Jess looks at the picture of us, grinning.
“Hey. I need to ask you something.”
“’Kay.” She uses her thumb and forefinger to zoom in on the picture.
“Can you come over for dinner with my parents Wednesday night?”
Her head snaps up, her smile vanished. Now I have her attention.
“Why?” she asks, alarmed.
“They want to meet you,” I say, feeling incredibly stupid now.
She blinks a few times and licks her lips.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m thirsty,” she says. She digs in her pockets for money.
“Jess, if you don’t want to come, it’s okay. I’ll come up w
ith something.”
“No! I want to come. I’ll come,” she decides, nodding furiously.
“You’re weirded out. I can tell.”
She nods. “Yeah, but in a good way. In a really good, really cheesy way. You just surprised me, that’s all.” Her smiles stretches like elastic across her face.
“I like this extra-cheesy side of you,” she adds, and leans up on her toes to peck me on the cheek.
Jess
So I’m thinking skull-and-crossbones tee and Daisy Dukes to meet the BF’s parents? Très chic, non? And who the hell meets the parents this soon anyway? That’s just weird! What next? Curtain shopping? China patterns?
Shit, I hope they like me. Shit, I hope I don’t drop a bunch of $!@!%&-bombs in front of them.
Smoothing my hair down, I stare at my reflection, pinching my cheeks for color. I turn halfway around to inspect my outfit. The jeans don’t have any holes in them, and the T-shirt doesn’t advertise any kind of drug, crime, foul language, or perverse graphic.
If Marissa were around, she would’ve been here hours ago to help me get ready. She would be hugely disappointed in my choice of clothes. Even I am, and my standards are pretty low to begin with. Staring at my reflection, I scowl back at my scowl. We could go on like this all night.
The front door opens. Good, Mrs. Alvarez is here. I asked her to come stay with Mom. She hasn’t been doing great since the wedding-ring meltdown.
“Jessica! I made too many stuffed peppers! I’m putting them in the refrigerator!”
I rush into the kitchen to get her to stop shouting. I don’t want Mom to wake up yet, not until after Lucas comes to get me.
Too late. Mom comes out of the bedroom. Hugging herself, she pads into the kitchen to join us.
As Mom takes a seat at the table, Mrs. Alvarez looks her up and down, taking in Mom’s rumpled nightgown, her unbrushed hair. Pinching her lips, Mrs. Alvarez looks at me with angry eyes. She opens her mouth to say something; I shake my head. Not tonight.
She settles for an irritated huff of air through her nostrils. “Nicole. I made stuffed peppers. You’re going to eat one. No arguments.” Her voice is firm, scolding.
“Fine,” Mom says, rubbing her face.
But then Mrs. Alvarez can’t hold her tongue a second longer.
“Why are you still in your nightgown?” Mrs. Alvarez presses.
Mom props her elbows on the table and puts her hands on her cheeks to hold herself upright. “I haven’t been able to get out of bed. I tried. I really did. It’s like my body has a mind of its own.”
Mrs. Alvarez marches out of the kitchen. The medicine cabinet squeaks open and closed. She comes back with the Zoloft and puts it on the table in front of Mom.
“You need to start taking these again so you get your energy back,” she says.
I know Mrs. Alvarez means well, but Zoloft aren’t multivitamins. Before I can say anything though, there’s a knock on the door.
Mom looks up at us, confused.
“It’s for me,” I tell her.
“Who is it?” she asks.
“Lucas,” Mrs. Alvarez answers for me, her eyes lighting up at just the mention of his name, the way they did when I first introduced Lucas to her.
“Who’s Lucas?” Mom asks, looking between us.
I open my mouth but Mrs. Alvarez cuts me off again. “Jessica’s boyfriend,” she says with a huge smile, the kind Marissa would have when she was talking about a boy.
Mom turns to me with a betrayed look. “Boyfriend?”
“It’s really new,” I try to explain.
Lucas knocks on the door again.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“Dinner at his house. Which is super bizarro because we just started dating. I’ll be back later,” I call over my shoulder, squeezing out the door sideways to meet Lucas.
On the front porch, I pull the door shut firmly behind me and smile. “Hi.”
“Hi.” He looks past me. Terrified, I follow his gaze, afraid Mom followed me out like a ghost trying to trap me inside the house with her for eternity. At the living room window, Mrs. Alvarez has pushed aside the curtain to watch us. She waves at both of us now with a big grin. I wave back and take his hand.
“Let’s go.” I tug him away from my house.
Lucas is my escape. I want to take him as far away from this place as possible so these two parts of my life don’t meet. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
He holds the passenger door open for me and I climb in. It’s not until we pull away from the curb that I start to relax.
He’s quiet for a few minutes, eyes darting over at me with a look I can’t quite grasp.
“How’s your mom doing?” he asks. It feels like he’s tiptoeing around the bigger question, like maybe why I didn’t invite him into my house like any normal girlfriend. I can’t see a future where Lucas will ever be invited to dinner at my house. But what if normal is what Lucas wants, what he expects?
There’s no way I was going to let him see my mother that way, in her nightgown at six o’clock on a Wednesday night. Or worse, see how angry and hurt I am because of her, for giving up, for leaving me behind, for thinking she’s the only one who lost Ethan. I adjust the strap of my seat belt, avoiding him, this conversation, the honest truth.
“She’s okay,” I lie, pumping the brakes on the conversation.
When we stop at a red light, he reaches a hand over the console and I take it. It’s warm and dry but quickly starts to get clammy. It must take a lot of energy to keep a skyscraper like him in operation.
His words stumble out of his mouth. “Have you ever gone to see someone or talk to someone about what happened?”
“You mean like a therapist? Besides Mrs. Walker?” He nods. “No. I mean . . . no . . .”
“Why not?”
“Too expensive.” I leave it at that.
“Insurance covers it,” Lucas says.
He says it like it’s obvious, obvious for someone who has privileges he can’t even imagine someone else not having. A family that looks out for him, basic needs taken care of every day. “Not ours. Light changed.”
He drives, his eyes forward. We’re both silent. His comments squirm uncomfortably under my skin. But by the way he huffs through his nostrils, he seems annoyed by something I said too.
“What’s your mom making for dinner?” I say to change the subject.
“Some variation of hamburger surprise is my guess.” A hint of his smile returns. We park in front of his house a few minutes later. Purple crocuses dot the neatly tended flowerbeds, bulbs planted and carefully arranged months earlier before the cold set in. Flower baskets outside the windows hold purple and yellow pansies. This is the most self-respecting house I’ve ever seen.
As we approach the front door, Lucas warns me, “Heads up. We have to take our shoes off in the house. My mom saw something on the news about how many germs we track in. She became kind of militant about it after that.”
Of course she is. Because that’s what a mother who cares does.
He opens the door and announces, “We’re here!”
We both kick our shoes off by the door, next to an even larger pair of men’s black dress shoes. His father’s, I imagine. Fee, fi, fo, fum. Welcome to the giant’s house.
Mrs. Rossi comes out of the kitchen to meet us, drying her hands on her apron. To say I’m nervous would be a huge understatement. My tongue glues to the roof of my mouth. But Mrs. Rossi’s cheery smile looks too cheery—I think she’s nervous too.
“Hi, Jess.”
“Hi, Mrs. Rossi. Thank you for inviting me over.”
Loud lumbering comes down the stairs.
I smell the blood of an Englishman!
“Hey, Dad.” Lucas turns, still holding my hand. “This is Jess.”
Spoiler alert: I now have an idea of what Lucas will look like when he’s middle-aged. And it’s not horrible. A little thicker around the middle and a full head of gray hair.
�
��Hi, Mr. Rossi.”
“Jess.” Once he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he leans over and pecks me on the cheek, more air than lips. “Glad you could make it.” He gestures with his hand for us to walk ahead of him, through the living room to the dining room.
Mr. Rossi takes a seat at the head of the dining room table, already set for dinner, and Lucas and I take seats by a huge china closet filled with crystal glasses and gold-rimmed plate settings too delicate for a house of giants.
“So, Lucas tells me you work together?” His eyes twinkle when he smiles.
Lucas smirks. “Don’t let Jess’s size fool you. She’s freakishly strong. The circus is trying to recruit her.”
I make a face at Lucas, then turn back to Mr. Rossi. “They all made fun of me when I first started.”
“Didn’t help that she broke a sink on her first day,” Lucas chimes in.
“Yeah, but now I like working at Enzo’s. You get used to the sore muscles—it’s not that bad.”
Mr. Rossi looks over at his son. “Well, that’s good to know. Lucas likes to make it sound as if he’s breaking rocks down at the quarry.”
The oven timer goes off. A few moments later, Mrs. Rossi joins us with a Pyrex casserole dish and places it down on the table with oven mitts. The heady aroma makes my mouth water; I swallow so I don’t openly drool in front of everyone. Mrs. Rossi doles out huge servings on every plate, and as soon as Lucas and Mr. Rossi pick up their forks, I dig in.
I try to pace myself, but it’s just so delicious. There’s beef, cheese, and noodles, and it’s salty and tangy and saucy and it’s hugging my stomach. They’re talking around me, asking questions about school and work, and I nod and answer when I absolutely have to, but this dinner has my full and undivided attention. When I clean my plate, mopping up every drop of sauce with a slice of bread, Mrs. Rossi asks, in a kind voice, “Would you like more, Jess?”