Things I can’t Explain

by Mitchell Kriegman

  I’m determined to get my confession out of the way before the endive and goat cheese salad is served. Dad sees Nick and me coming and smiles—but only at me.

  “Hey, Sport!” he says and gives me a hug. His expression turns frosty as he nods to my date. “Hello, Nick,” he says, as if his name rhymes with “dirt.”

  Mom gives me a hug. I’m pleased when she hugs Nick, too. I think it’s her way of telling him she’s rooting for us.

  “Look, guys,” I say. “There’re a few things I’d like to clear up.”

  “So would I,” Dad grumbles, shooting a stern look at Nick, which is completely uncalled for. Nick doesn’t even know the whole backstory about my parents observing his “cheater’s” kiss with Roxie, so he’s not sure what to make of Dad’s misplaced disdain, but he keeps his cool mainly because I think he genuinely likes my parents. But it’s all the more reason I need to get this over with before the layers of misunderstanding pile even higher.

  “Well, when you guys surprised me at, um … work … that day…” I begin, “I was there because—”

  “There you are!” we hear, and all four of us snap around to find the source of that overly enthusiastic, utterly affected, upper-crust, mid-Atlantic inflection—Dartmoor Millburn. He insinuates himself into the very midst of our little group, effectively sandbagging my mea culpa before I can say a word to stop him. Who else could make an appearance at a more inconvenient time?

  “Well, hello, Clarissa,” he warbles and gives me an up-and-down look, ogling me the same way he did that first day when I stepped off the elevator. I guess my dress is making an impression and I wonder where the previously mentioned Aubrey is—Dartmoor seems solo.

  Nick takes notice and reaches out to shake Dartsy’s hand.

  “Hi, my name is Nick. I didn’t catch yours?”

  “Dartmoor Millburn,” he says frostily. Why, I’m not sure. Is his dignity bruised because he’s been improperly introduced? Or is it that I’m with a real man as opposed to a man-child like Norm? But it actually seems like it might be something else. There’s no way he could be jealous or anything, right?

  Nick shakes Dartmoor’s hand, but simultaneously slips his other arm around my waist, pulling me closer. The gesture feels so natural and comfortable; anyone watching would think we’ve had years of practice.

  “Oh, right. Nick,” Dartmoor says and smiles devilishly. “I do recall hearing about you and Clarissa.” A momentary expression of concern crosses Nick’s normally tranquil face and I can imagine he’s wondering what he’s gotten himself into here. I realize that from Nick’s point of view, how would anyone I know besides my parents even realize he exists?

  But Dartmoor has already shifted focus to my parents. I cringe. No good can come of this. None whatsoever.

  “And you must be Clarissa’s parents,” Dartmoor oozes. “A pleasure to meet you both. I’m Clarissa’s boss.”

  Mom smiles and Dad stands up a little straighter.

  “It’s great to meet you, Mr. Millburn,” says Dad. “Tell me, how long have you been at the Daily Post?”

  “Beg your pardon?” Dartmoor blinks in confusion. “I’ve never been employed by the Daily Post.” At least four entire sets of explanations instantaneously flood my mind, sadly none of them the truth. That’s how typical it is for me to lie to my parents, but I hold my tongue.

  Dad is outright alarmed and Dartmoor takes note. Before I can venture an explanation, Dartmoor cuts me off.

  “Clarissa, dear, haven’t you told your parents about your new job?”

  A look of embarrassment must have crossed my face because Dartmoor’s smile broadens. It doesn’t matter because this time, I’m determined to face reality. But before I can say another word Dartmoor beats me to the punch again.

  “Oh, you haven’t even told them about the last job,” he adds gleefully.

  Marshall and Janet look at me with strange bewilderment.

  Even though this is the least favorable set of circumstances in which to do so, I have an obligation to Nick, myself, and my parents to put all the cards on the table. If there’s hope for Nick and me, I’ve got to come clean, even if it’s in the presence of Dartbug.

  “Mom, Dad, I’ve been trying to tell you, that when you surprised me at—” But before I can finish, a uniformed server walks into the midst of our little drama and interrupts my moment of truth by clanging a triangle-shaped bell.

  “The newlyweds Mr. and Mrs. Fleckerstein require your presence at the first dance immediately,” she demands. I want to scream but I keep my cool.

  “Well, I’d love to help you sort this out,” Dartmoor adds, gleefully looking my way, “but duty calls.” Thankfully, Dartsy dashes away.

  “I’m sorry about all the confusion,” I say, trying to get Mom and Dad’s attention, but they’re already distracted. Dad seems ready to listen to me but Mom interrupts.

  “Marshall, we have to go,” she says, pulling Dad toward the dance floor.

  “But Mom, I have something to tell you. It’s important,” I say, feeling like a little girl again, grabbing her arm to slow her down. “Besides, aren’t they supposed to wait until after dinner to dance?” I ask.

  “Actually, Clarissa, this is the way it’s being done more and more these days. It gives the bride and groom a chance to shine,” Mom says, as if she reads bride and wedding blogs all the time.

  “Janet, shouldn’t we wait to hear Clarissa out?” Dad chimes in.

  “If Clarissa has waited this long to tell us what’s really going on it can wait a few more moments,” Mom replies sternly. “I’d really like to support Genelle on her special day of bliss.”

  I’m a bit taken aback by how abrupt she is, but I take a deep breath and release Mom’s arm from my clammy grip and watch them walk away.

  “You tried,” Nick says sympathetically. “By the way, you didn’t tell me your boss had the hots for you.”

  “No way,” I respond indignantly, but knowing I thought so, too.

  I’m too disturbed to say anything more so we gravitate like everyone else to the dance floor as the band strikes up a florid rendition of “If I Were a Carpenter.” The band is decent, but the song is cringe-worthy. Especially because Genelle and Wendie have a fully choreographed first dance that includes Wendell on his knees and Genelle prancing circles around him. I scan the audience, certain that someone is recording this for YouTube in the hopes it will go viral as a promotion for her book.

  I find Mom and Dad as soon as the song comes to a close, but they are already dancing together to the next song and Mom won’t even catch my eye.

  “I give up,” I say. “I’ll tell them another time—let’s get out of here.”

  But Nick is looking at me as if he has no intention of leaving.

  “Okay, why are you looking at me like that?” I ask, a little worried.

  “Well, as I recall, there was an agreement that left kissing, touching, and dancing open to negotiation, right?” He grabs my hand and walks me to the dance floor and in that moment all my complications and explanations slowly drift away.

  I knew we were pushing our luck, but how could I say no?

  CHAPTER 29

  We easily find a spot on the sparsely populated dance floor near Dr. Hart, my hometown dentist, and his wife, Paula. The band kicks up an old-school song that I’ve always considered an anthem of romance, “Collide,” by Howie Day.

  As we begin to dance, three giggly preteen girls take to the parquet wooden floor making duck faces and heart gestures, miming the words of the song.

  Nick pulls me into his arms and I am not surprised at how easily I fit. He’s a nothing-fancy dancer, but swaying with Nick is like a deep, extended hug and I let him guide me as we cuddle and sweep across the dance floor to the lyrics. His hands drift down to my hips, wrapping his fingers around my lower back, and my heart pounds. He invites me to twirl. So he does have a few DWTS tricks up his sleeve. I make a 360 and return finding myself deeper in his embrace.

&n
bsp; I can’t help thinking, This is a Dawson’s Creek moment. I was pretty young when Dawson’s Creek was on originally, but over time like a lot of people my age, I caught up with the teen soap and sometimes kicked back on weekends to watch it on Netflix.

  Dawson’s Creek was the place where I learned about booty calls, lingering looks, and lip-biting as a form of seduction. Teenagers—those unusually beautiful ones in Capeside, Massachusetts, who had that weird Hollywood growth defect that made them look like they were in their early thirties—didn’t fall in love, they “collided” like billiard balls bouncing off each other. Before Katie became Tom-Kat and then Suri-Kat, when Abercrombie zip-up hoodies were all I ever wanted to wear, there was “Collide,” the song Nick and I were dancing to.

  “Collide” has always meant a lot to me, but the lyrics are enigmatic—is it about a relationship beginning or ending? Will they stay together or just collide? To me, the song was about inexplicably loving someone, even when you’re unsure if you complement each other—one’s quiet and one’s making a first impression, one’s open and one’s closed. Dancing with Nick, I couldn’t help feeling like Howie wrote his song about us.

  I’m teasing the shaggy curls at the back of Nick’s neck with my fingertips and every so often, he lets his lips brush against my jawline. Things are so dreamy that it’s easy for me to forget how the man dancing on the parquet floor a few feet away used to scrape plaque off the inside of my lower teeth with a dental scaler.

  “I’m glad you were open to negotiation,” Nick whispers in my ear.

  I answer by snuggling closer.

  As the lead singer croons his way to the big finish, Nick slips his thumb beneath my chin and I lift my face to his. He hesitates, his lips a scant millimeter from mine. In a flash it’s like we’re back under the bridge and my heart flutters, hoping he won’t abandon this kiss like he did the last one. But there’s no girlfriend waiting on the tarmac now, there’s nothing to hold him back or make him stop. Here’s crossing fingers that the tragic spilling curse has passed.

  As the song fades, we kiss and I’m swept away … away from Genelle’s wedding, the preppy country club setting, the perfect brightly dressed little children, and the tacky ice sculptures, away from my recurrently perturbed mom and away from my dad still wearing the suit that he wore for the clients he no longer has.

  We’re alone in a place that is lush and warm where the gentle friction of our lips makes me tremble deep down inside. Promises hang in a haze around us but our kisses seem to be an investigation without end. My entire body shivers and I’m lost. I breathe him in, kiss him again and I’m found. I don’t ever want to leave.

  When I hear the sound of rumbling, I honestly think it might be my stomach from the salmon and cream cheese hors d’oeuvres we just ate, but I realize the approaching rumble is a guttural growling, both aural and physical. I look at Nick, but it isn’t coming from him. It’s originating from outside our respective tummies. I try to contemplate its meaning, this low distant roar, but I come up blank. I find it impossible to leave the enclosed safe place in Nick’s arms, but looking over his shoulder, I see the bottles at the bar rattle.

  Earthquake? Not likely in Westchester County. Hugh and I reported years ago about fracking in counties north of here, and there’s even more hydro-fracturing in neighboring Pennsylvania. But apparently that’s not it.

  So what is it?

  Wait … make that, who is it?

  Genelle is recoiling in horror by the champagne fountain as a banged-up Harley Davidson crashes through the chairs that surround the dance floor, turning the rental furniture into kindling. At first, I’m wondering how the valet could let someone steal Nick’s Harley, but I remember his motorcycle is pristine, shiny, and perfect. This one’s not.

  Genelle lets out a blood-curdling scream as the rider pops a wheelie and then clutches and brakes, putting the bike into a tire-shrieking circle burn. Oily exhaust smoke fills the tent as the back tire draws a perfect circular black mark on the hand-finished chestnut parquet dance deck, leaving everyone coughing and gasping for air.

  I have a fleeting, ridiculous thought that maybe this is part of the entertainment. But I suspect I’m wrong.

  Wedding guests scatter and run for cover behind the gift table.

  I’m still in a partial love-coma from dancing with Nick, my body snug and warm against his hips. Like a couple of idiots, we keep standing there in the center of the floor. The biker cuts the ignition, drops the bike, and stumbles sideways, almost falling, wobbling in a drunken gait right up to Genelle, who is holding her chest as if to protect those recently purchased assets. She’s scanning everywhere for Wendell but he’s nowhere to be seen. In fact, everyone is clearing away from her as the driver approaches, leaving Genelle alone and helpless.

  The biker rips off his opaque motorcycle helmet and big woven dreadlocks spill out.

  “Oh, shit,” I hear Nick say beneath his breath. I look at him, wondering what he knows that I don’t know.

  “Don’t hurt me,” Genelle pleads almost in tears, looking as if she’s going to soil her wedding dress. Nick lets go of me, heads toward the intruder, and it finally dawns on me who has crashed the wedding. There, in all her punk and leather glory, with a nest of wild hair and a whole shitload of eyeliner, is Roxie Buggles.

  “You prissy little fashion princess,” I hear her say in a drunken slur as she strides toward Genelle as if she’s ready to rip her apart.

  “Me?” Genelle squeals timidly. I can’t blame her, but so much for passing herself off as a mean girl. I guess it’s kind of hard to keep up the facade in the face of a true bunny burner.

  “How dare you steal … Wait a second.” She belches big and loud enough to stagger herself. “You’re wearing a wedding dress … What the fuck?”

  Nick puts his hand on her shoulder to turn her around. “Roxie. You have no business being here,” he says.

  “There you are, stud bucket!” Roxie exclaims with an incongruous smile and lurches to kiss him. He ducks back.

  “Roxie, stop this.”

  “Where is she? Are you hiding her?”

  “Cut it out. I told you.”

  “Yeah and you told me you loved me.”

  “We’re not together.”

  Roxie scans the crowd and even in her condition, it doesn’t take more than a second for her to zero in on me. I’m literally standing a few yards away. “You must be Crasissa!” she slurs and walks right up to me, swaying a bit. She’s so drunk her eyes close, confused.

  “Now, what was I going to say?” she mumbles. “Oh yeah.” Roxie starts again. “You prissy little fashion princess!” she adds as if it’s a speech she’s memorized for English class. Her breath smells like tequila and Slim Jims; it practically keels me over and she notices.

  “Sorry, princess, I should have sucked on a mint before I got here so I wouldn’t offend your royal ass. I know I’ve got one here somewhere.” She’s so smashed she actually starts digging through the pockets of her leather jacket for a Mentos, I suppose. As intimidating as she may be, she’s so daft that this verges on the ridiculous. That is, if she hadn’t just destroyed a hundred-thousand dollar wedding. Nick steps between us.

  “Roxie, get a grip.” Roxie looks up and forgets about the breath mint.

  “I did, lover boy, that’s why I’m here,” she says, and then yells over his shoulder at me, “Hey, Barbie, did you think you could steal my boyfriend and get away with it? You and your uppity Hannah Montana fashions and your little newspaper byline and your stupid brown sugar cubes?”

  How the hell does she know about the sugar cubes? And what’s wrong with brown sugar cubes? Aren’t they better than refined sugar?

  “Roxie,” Nick says in a low voice, “this is over the top. Even for you.”

  Roxie flutters her lashes and puts on a ridiculously drunken innocent face.

  “But Nicky, baby,” she coos, “you like it when I’m over the top.” Then laughs. “Oh, wait … I mean you like
it when I’m on top.”

  I hear a gasp from behind the gift table. Pretty sure it’s Marshall Darling.

  I look at Nick. He looks back at me, but I don’t see what I was hoping to see in his face—not even a crazy laugh or a go-figure kind of expression. That, I could handle. But I see a deep worry, like he’s already crossed back over to the Land of On-Again. Like somehow he doesn’t know what he wants. Or who. In his eyes I see the last thing I want to see—someone giving up.

  “I’m sorry. Denny must have told her, he didn’t know not to,” Nick says, dragging Roxie away. “I … I gotta go.” He grabs Roxie’s Harley off the ground and pulls her on board. She doesn’t fight him. Instead, she throws me a triumphant look, a satisfied little smirk on those dark sangria-colored lips.

  I can’t believe my eyes. I realize that even in my most paranoid fears, this was a scenario I could never have imagined. At Genelle’s wedding, in front of everyone, including Janet and Marshall and Dartmoor, after our dance and that kiss, the kiss I dreamed of, I could never have believed that this could happen to me.

  “You have to hold on,” I hear Nick say darkly to Roxie, just as he once said to me. He kicks up the Harley and speeds out the way Roxie came.

  Before they disappear, Roxie turns back to look at me.

  Even from the distance I can see her smiling.

  She holds up her hand and gives me the finger.

  CHAPTER 30

  Driving back to the city cramped in the jump seat of Rupert’s Mini Cooper, every part of me, inside and out, is numb or growing that way. I am still wearing Dad’s jacket. I hear Jody trying to talk to me and see Rupert checking every few seconds on me in his rearview mirror, but I can’t respond to them. Behind my silent facade I am falling deeper and deeper into a pit that I have been digging for so long I can’t remember. The last moments of Genelle’s wedding keep running through my head like a scene on a defective DVD, playing over and over.