The Thunder Beneath Us

by Nicole Blades

  “I hear yuh on that. So, you book your flights already?”

  “No, not yet. I still need to clear up one thing.”

  “What’s the dates of the second trip out here, then?”

  “Uh, I still—I’m wor—I—I don’t know that for sure yet.”

  Silence. It’s so full and awkward and laced with disappointment that I’m squirming in place. I wait for it, because it’s coming. Not a bark or a bite, but a slow sprinkling of words that will certainly pierce my worn skin. I already feel like an imposter adult and my father is about to make sure we both see that I’m still a child, still operating at half-as-good, falling well below expectations.

  “Bathsheba, I’ve already said my piece, and we’re not going to have this conversation again. You know your responsibility when it comes to this family. Exercise agency here, girl.”

  “Dad, I know that. I know about responsibility and this family. More than I can even stomach sometimes. I just”—the desk phone lights up with Lindee’s number and a low, muffled trill follows—“that’s my phone, Dad. I’m sorry. I need to take this call. It’s work.”

  “That’s fine. I said all I had to say on the matter.”

  “Right. So, I’ll call later with my flight info.”

  “Good enough. I’ll pass along your very best to your mother?”

  “Yes, please do. Thanks, Dad.”

  I take a quick breath before picking up. “Best Lightburn.” Shit. I should have just said hello, Lindee; she knows I have caller ID. I try to shake it off.

  “Hey,” she says, sounding like her regular self. It sends my shoulders back down.

  “Hey, Lindee. Thanks for calling . . . I mean, to be honest with you, I’m a little surprised—I’m glad. I’m glad that you called, but just surprised. I only sent that e-mail a couple hours ago.”

  “Well, to be honest with you, e-mails are bullshit. You know how I am. I mean, if you have something to say, come at me straight, to my face. Call me, even.”

  “I know. I hear you. I guess I was nervous that you were going to shut it down, not give me a chance or hear me out.”

  “But we’re not children, we’re grown-ass. Or, what did you say your mom called it—like, the one time you actually talked about your family, you said something . . . what was it, hard-shelled?”

  “Hard-back.”

  “Right. We’re hard-back women here. We can handle a couple of hot words going back and forth for a minute. It’s not that serious. Deal with me straight. How am I going to shut that down?”

  “I know,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I kind of panicked. Anyway, I’m glad you read it and called me.”

  “Kendra read it to me. She knows I think e-mails are—”

  “Bullshit. Right. So, is Kendra there with you now?”

  “No. She’s busy, wrapped up in something with Flav. She’s going to reach out to you later to talk about things,” she says. It’s strange and disheartening to hear Lindee offer up limp excuses like this for her sister, especially after all the talk she just threw down about coming at her straight. Not her style and therefore not at all believable.

  “Look, again, I apologize for my dick move on Thanksgiving—and beyond, really. I’ve been operating on a wack channel for a bit.”

  “But it was my mother, though,” she says. “It was disrespectful to her, and that’s what set me off.”

  “I know. I totally hear you.” We each let out long sighs. “So, did New Mark work out? Gold stars for him?”

  “Please. New Mark took home the most-liked award after talking to our mother for forty minutes about Indian spices. And that’s just for starters. Oh, he got gold stars and a few other things.” She chuckles. It sounds dirty and I love it. It’s only been a week since we fell out but this minute, this moment, I miss her. I miss Kendra. I miss us being us and not giving a single damn about anyone else. But there’s still something there underneath it all—something that’s not lying flat between us—and it’s making my stomach knot up. I want to blurt it all out, the truth, vomit up my story, but instead a belch spills out: Grant.

  “Grant showed up at my door Thanksgiving morning with a whole move-to-LA-for-pilot-season scheme. The kicker being: ‘And I want you to come with me, live life with me.’ ”

  “Is that how he dropped it? Just tag along, be my plus-one in life?” I can practically see her sneer through the phone.

  “Not like that, but kind of like that. He said he doesn’t want to do life without me, that he wants me standing with him through all of it.”

  “So, he’s on some new meds, then,” she says, almost through a yawn.

  “Lindee, it wasn’t like that. I know you’re not the biggest fan of the guy, but he was serious. He wants me to come with him. Wanted me to come with him.”

  “But you don’t really know if he’s all right. Like, he could lose it again, but this time you’re out in Los Angeles all alone trying to convince him not to jump into the empty pool out back.”

  “That’s not fair. First of all, he didn’t snap like that, and second, he’s better now. He seems better, looks better.”

  Talking to Lindee, choosing my words about Grant so carefully, I sound like I’m trying to convince myself that he’s fine and ready to head to Storybookland. I get why his agent Shawna wants him back up and running. As agents go, it’s all business with her. She’s never once pretended to be friends with Grant. But his doctor, I don’t know. I’d like to see his prescription pad. Psychotropics for everyone! We had a doctor like that. He was assigned to my dad. Always trying to suggest this drug and the third. I mean, Klonopin? Ativan? Abilify? Christ, the man was devastated, shattered, yes, but he wasn’t seeing faces in his shoes. The antipsychotic stuff was way beyond the line. And Bertram Lightburn put the kibosh on that bullshit once he could see the road that quack was trying to lead him down. He just stopped all therapy and never went back. And my mother turned to the church from day one; you can guess how much good that did her.

  Lindee is clearly irritated talking about Grant, so we move on to Nik. I confess my workplace sin. Lindee starts to cackle when I get to the Pretty Woman thing. I know she’s laughing at me, but I’m so relieved to be back in her circle—desperate, really—that I’ll let her take her punches and I’ll just try not to flinch.

  “Wait, was it Sex and the City where Samantha slept with that old guy? Not the rich weasel one. This one was like super-white and saggy and wilted and gross. Was it like that with him? Ugh. I can’t even imagine.” She snickers. “Or did he try to kick it old, old, old school and make like he’s Thomas Jefferson and you’re his sweet Sally?”

  That’s enough. I need to break her concentrated and unfamiliar efforts to slut-shame me. Returning to the subject of New Mark does the trick. She is fully gushing about him—yet another out-of-character move for Lindee. But the heat is off of me, so I’ll gladly keep asking about Mark, letting the saccharine flow, adding a few enthusiastic verbal nods and encouragement in opportune spaces.

  “Well, damn. I guess I should look forward to meeting this fresh prince of”—there’s a shadow outside my door—“actually, someone’s here at my office. Sorry. I have to go.”

  I’ve never thought, “Oh, good, it’s Miyuki” until this very moment. She’s wearing her over-the-knee, black leather boots, a deliberately tattered army jacket and thick, dark-rimmed glasses. I’ve seen this look from her before; I call it hipster stripper who codes. She’s got her hand clutching her over-accessorized chest and her mouth is ajar, gasping.

  “Oh, my gawwd. I heard you weren’t doing too well. Are you going to be okay?”

  “Yeah, I just picked up a bug or something over the weekend.”

  “Like I told those girls, you didn’t look so great when I caught you in here on the holiday. I could tell you were getting sick—I could smell it on you. I mean, like, the air in here just smelled like sickness.”

  “You told which girls?”

  “Just, like, my team.”

&
nbsp; “Your team?”

  “Yeah, you know, Maggie, Isabelle, Trinity—the girls. Anyway, so this is kind of awkward, and looking at you now, maybe I’m getting my answer. I mean, it’s totally rude and out of line, and I don’t even know if it’s, like, illegal to ask this, but it kind of changes the story that you’re working on. Maybe you can just confirm or deny or . . . add a comment—”

  “I’m sorry, as you can see, I’m not really one-hundred percent right now. In fact, I should probably head home. Also, I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, my bad. I’m talking about the story. The new Tell Me More story that just posted about you and”—Miyuki looks behind her, then lowers her voice to a creaky whisper—“your secret.”

  My stomach rolls and my chest seizes up. I hear a popping in my ears and then my voice: “Oh, fuck!”

  “So, is it true?” Miyuki looks horrified. Her hand flies to cover her gaping mouth.

  I leap from my seat. I don’t know what to do. It’s threat level go ape shit and I can’t breathe.

  Miyuki rushes over to me, forcing me back in my desk chair. “Best, calm down. You have to calm down. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought this up.” She’s yelping: “Somebody? Anybody? Can I get a hand here?” Trinity appears in between blinks. She adopts Miyuki’s panicked expression and joins in wrestling me into the chair.

  “In your condition, Best, you have to calm down,” Miyuki says. “This can’t be good for the baby.”

  Trinity’s eyes bug. And I finally tune into Miyuki’s frantic pleas.

  “Wait, what? Whose baby?” I say, breathless.

  “Yours,” Miyuki says. “Isn’t that what this is? You’re pregnant. Aren’t you pregnant?” She’s still gripping my arm; utter shock building between us.

  “Jesus Christ! Is that the Tell Me More story? Is that what you’re talking about? They’re saying that I’m pregnant?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, that’s the rumor . . . from sources close to you. They’re saying that you are pregnant.”

  “Wha—with whose baby? Grant’s?”

  Miyuki releases me from her bear hold and steps back. She’s looking to Trinity for backup, or confirmation, for a reaction; but instead she’s leaned against my desk, stunned and mute. “That’s the thing. They kind of hint that it’s maybe not his, and that’s why you guys broke up?”

  “Holy shit. Is that true, T? Is that the story out there?” I’m practically growling.

  Trinity nods, but keeps her eyes on my shoes.

  It starts in the back throat, works its way through the coats of phlegm and soars out of my mouth, this laugh, so hard and so huge that I startle myself. “I’m out of here.”

  “Wait,” Miyuki says, stopping me with her hand on my shoulder, “so it’s not true.”

  “I’m out; sick day,” I tell them both. “I’ll keep you posted on how things go with this cold.”

  Redness is crowding Miyuki’s face, completely overshadowing her already bright pink blush. She looks like she wants to sink into the earth. I cut my eyes at her as I grab my things and glide through the door. Even though I can barely breathe without my chest tightening up, I still need to rub this in, make her feel like an utter, out-of-line fool. As I breeze by, something in me wants to reach out and grab on to her, steady myself on her bony shoulder, anything to stop the spinning, but I know I can’t do that. Not with her. Instead, I wrap Nik’s brocade scarf tighter around my neck and keep moving through the door, trying to act as though all is right within my crumbling world.

  CHAPTER 15

  “You know I didn’t invite you over to rummage through my fridge, right?”

  “What I know is that you did not just say rummage, May. Because, Miss Ma’am, this fridge never, ever has a thing in it, but today specifically? Listen, sis. I could stretch out all of my six-foot-three-ness in there on my fainting couch while playing dominoes and be chilling, literally.” Tyson closes the fridge door, leaning his shoulder on it. “You don’t even have a single, struggling, sweaty bottle of vodka in the freeze box like these regular day bitches out here. Now that is some sad shenanigans.”

  “Don’t do me like that, Ty. I’ve been at home sick, remember?”

  “You lucky I come prepared for all things. Look in my wine bag, boo.” He grabs two tumblers from the cabinet. “At least your glassware game is tight.”

  Of course Tyson’s wine bag is fine leather and label. Inside there are two bottles. None of them are wine. “Hold on, you walk with your own minibar?”

  “Sweet May, your fridge always looks like heartbreak and country music. I know my audience. Now bring them bottles over so we can clink and drink.”

  “The worst. You’re the worst husband yet.”

  “Jesus knows my heart.”

  “Seriously, thanks for going with me tonight. The Singh sisters and I . . . it’s still a little bumpy.”

  “Behind that disappearing act you pulled for turkey day? Girl, please, that was basically four years ago. They need to move along.” Tyson slides open several drawers near the sink until he finds the coasters. He motions with the open vodka bottle to follow him into my living room. The light—even the manufactured kind—is better in there.

  “Well, wait. In their defense, it was a bit more than the no-show thing. They said I was selfish, self-interested, and maybe I was.”

  “Do you have anything on or are we working fresh here?”

  “Fresh. I washed my face just before you got here. No moisturizer, nothing. Clean canvas.” I take the seat Tyson set up for me by the window. He’s meticulous about his art and I know the rules. “I should have told them what was really going on with Nik and the blowout with Grant. I was being stupid, not selfish.”

  “You know you’re my boobee, my top May. Your skin is that creamy peanut butter, these cheekbones be calling out to me in my sleep, and the wig is always laid, right down to the slick baby hairs, plus you crack my shit up—like, for real, have me rolling—but them twins ain’t lying: You are all about yourself.”

  “What? You think I’m selfish? I’m not selfish.”

  “Oh, because you say it’s not true, then it’s not true? Hmm. My mistake.” He folds his lips and arches his brow as he works on filling in mine.

  “No, really, Ty, what makes you think I’m selfish?”

  Tyson splashes more ginger beer into his glass. “Listen, you asked me to accompany you to this li’l holiday function.” He walks his fingers along his brush belt and reaches for the one with the longest handle. “I’m making sure all the glam is in proper position before we get there. I’m going to beat your face, sign off on what you pull from your closet, brush a little bronze over my own flawless before killing these tasty Mules and heading out to nibble on some obese shrimp—with my pinkie sticking high to the sky. That’s it, May. Nothing in that blueprint says anything about being Dr. Phil.”

  “Wow. You don’t mince a word; pull not one punch.”

  “What did you expect me to say? I deal in real words, May. That’s me. But if you want to keep it gully, I can do that too. The only reason you called on me as your plus-one is because A: You did Grant dirty and you can’t call on him to be your sweet and silky arm candy tonight. He’s back in New York, by the way, shooting an indie, but you ain’t heard it from me, and B: you damn sure can’t roll up in the spot holding Thurston Howell the third’s hand. The baby-bump watchers are real outchea. And that scandal would be straight lava, honey. Can you imagine that scoop: Preggo Best Lightburn spotted canoodling with the publishing Wizard Nik Steig.” He starts singing into his blush brush: “Ooooh, Love child, never meant to be. Love child, scorned by society.”

  “Hilarious. Just fall-over hilarious, Tyson. Do you feel good about yourself now?”

  “Oh, May, always. The fact is: You just don’t want to walk into the room this evening alone and have to face up to them power twins with the truth dragging on your heel like some goddamn toilet paper, okay? That’s what’s really hood.�
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  “Jesus, Tyson, you know I don’t speak Queensbridge.”

  “Translation: You’re selfish.”

  “I’m selfish because—what, I’m embarrassed about the Nik mess?”

  “No, you’re selfish because you’re still pushing this conversation to be about how you’re not selfish. Now close your lids and your sweet little mouth. Need quiet to work this gel liner like a bad bitch.”

  “But I need—”

  “You need to sit your little behind quiet, let me work my magic.”

  I do as told. Last thing I need is a full Tyson read. When he arches away from hovering over my forehead, I start again. “Can I say my piece now, sir?”

  He takes a step back, reaching for his glass without a blink. “Speak on it, sis.”

  “The Grant stuff, agreed, it was jacked up; it is jacked up. I need to get right with Grant. I know that. And I will. I owe him explanations and clarity and all of it. I know I do. Kendra and Lindee too. I need to level with those girls. Not at this dinner with Flav and New Mark and everyone there, but before this year is out I’ll do the right thing. And you”—Tyson raises his brow again, dips his nose further into his drink—“I’m not using you. Not tonight. Maybe a little before, but can you blame me? Look at what you can do to a face. Sickening. Beat to the gods, as the kids say.” His pursed lip relaxes, spreads into a smile. “But tonight, I just want you with me—part shield, part wubby blanket—to protect me a little, you know? It’s been hella rough these last few. I still have to get my head around this Nik stuff. I do like him, in this dumb, rebellious this-is-the-way-to-ruination. And if I’m honest, I like the power part. He was able to hook me into an interview that I doubt I would have been able to get on my own. All on some I know a guy deal. He can probably help me move this story up the chain, in a real way, and I like that he can do that, that he wants to do that; he wants to help me. But that’s the thing: It sounds gross, like some borderline sugar-daddy thing.”