by Renee Dyer
“What do your siblings do?” I find I’m completely curious about everything to do with her. Anything that will give me insight into what made her the person she is today. Finding out about them may help.
“Katie is a personal shopper right now, but her goal is to become a designer. She’s brilliant and her designs are gorgeous. And before you ask, the reason she doesn’t work for a designer is because she refuses to let someone steal her work and pawn it off as their own.” I laugh, liking her sister already. “A, he restores old cars. You know, finds them, refinishes them, and sells them. He’s brilliant, too.” She hasn’t stopped beaming since she started talking about them and I’ve had to readjust too many times to be comfortable with.
“You’re a photographer. Your mom is a pastry chef. Sounds like a pretty brilliant family. What does your dad do?” I know I’ve asked the wrong question when her smile slips.
I’m expecting lost, vacant Adriana to be here for a while, but as soon as her smile slips, it’s replaced by one I haven’t seen yet and I can’t describe this one. It’s full of nostalgia. Full of memories. There’s pain in her eyes, but I can see happiness there, too. With glistening, smiling eyes she says, “My dad was a firefighter.” Right there I know where this story is going and I wish I could stop her. I want to stop her at the word was. “He died three years ago.”
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. I tried saying it louder, but am having a hard time breathing let alone getting words out.
“Don’t be, Tucker. My dad is a hero. He always was. He was a great man. A great dad. A great husband. I can’t say it didn’t hurt to lose him, but when I think about it, I think about the little kids that will live a full life because of him. He pulled three kids out of that house, Tucker. Three kids. Ranging from four months to seven years old. He’s a hero.” The tears never fall down her face. If they had, I would have gone to her. Part of me wishes they had and part of me is grateful they didn’t. This woman has me tied up in knots.
I can see she has come to peace about her dad’s death. I wish I could come to peace with my father. Hearing her talk about her dad makes me realize how awful my father was. He isn’t a great man. He was a coward. He still is. Mikos Stavros is a lousy bastard who left his grieving eight year old son to fend for himself. Who does that?
“How about you, Tucker? Do you have any siblings?”
“Uh, no. I’m an only child,” I say sadly. I always wanted a brother or sister. Someone to play with. To hang out with. To understand me. So, maybe I wouldn’t feel so lonely, so miserable. But, in the long run, it’s better this way. No child should know the pain of losing their mom and then find out their father doesn’t love them.
“And, what about your parents? They must be so proud of you. What do they do?” Feeling my skin get clammy and the food turning in my stomach, I can’t look at her. It takes a few seconds to catch my breath. Typically I avoid questions about my family, but something about her has me wanting to tell the truth.
Never taking my eyes off my plate, I say, “My mom died when I was eight, breast cancer.” I hear her intake of breath. I still don’t look up. Before she says anything, I start again. “My father pretty much wanted nothing to do with me after that so he dumped me off with my Grams and Gramps. He floated in and out till I was thirteen for a day or so, but then he disappeared for good. My Gramps passed when I was fifteen from a heart attack. It’s been just Grams and me since.” I can’t look up. Not wanting to see pity in her beautiful hazel eyes. I only want to see her smiling. Not looking at me the way people have for years. As an orphan. As a Goddamn orphan– so awful his own father couldn’t love him.
When tiny arms wrap around my neck, I jump. Startled so much by the contact I wasn’t expecting, I almost fall out of my seat. I never heard her get out of her chair or walk over to me. She’s not squeezing me, just a light hug of comfort. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Tucker. You were just a kid.” That’s all she says and she walks back to her seat. When I look up, she’s eating her lunch like nothing happened. No pity in her eyes. WTF? Am I on Candid Camera? She can’t be real. I need a topic change. Enough talk about me.
“So, do twins run in your family?”
“Yeah, every generation on my mom’s side. Adrian and I broke the mold, though.” I’m confused and she must be able to tell. “The twins for more generations than I can count have always been girls. A and me are the first ones to not be two girls.” Although she’s answering the question, the vacant look I’ve already come to despise has come across her face. She is somewhere else in her head. Looking in her eyes, she seems so lost… so broken.
Watching her come back to life, I think another change of topic is in order and this one should be safe. “I love your house. As I was driving through the neighborhood I was thinking in another life these are the kinds of houses I would like to live in.” I leave out that I was taking pictures of them. Don’t want her to think I’m a creeper. “Maybe you could give me the name of the designer and builder before I leave? They might be interested in traveling my way sometime.”
I’m smiling thinking how smooth I am complimenting her house and possibly getting one built for myself until I see her glistening eyes and all the color drain from her face. Eyes blinking rapidly, she’s doing all she can to not cry. The fuck did I say now?
“Uh, it’s impossible to… to give you the arch… architect’s name, but you’ll meet the builder tonight,” she says with a shaky voice
“Impossible?” Why did I just ask that? What is wrong with me? I can see how upset she is. Jesus, Tucker. This is when you let things go.
“Yeah… umm… you see… he was… the architect… was my husband.”
Oh, shit.
“I’m so sorry, Adriana. I had no idea. I’m really sorry I brought it up.” I feel like a total asshole and I can hear that I’m blurting the words out at lightning speed. I just want to say them as fast as I can. I want her to hear that I’m sorry.
I don’t know if it’s the look of horror on my face, my bungling of the words, or how fast I’m saying them, but she seems to calm down instantly and looks right at me. Her stare pins me in place. “It’s okay. You would have no way of knowing. But, you’re right to admire the houses. They’re beautiful,” she says with a sad smile that has my heart tearing for her pain. “Alex was a visionary. The way he could envision homes and buildings, other people just couldn’t do that. I wasn’t surprised that he had a list of people waiting to work with him. He created beauty wherever he went.” That sad smile stays on her face while she sits there lost in her little world that I can’t enter.
I can’t watch her like that this time. “You said I’d meet the builder tonight?”
“Yeah. Preston is one of the guys who will be here tonight.” A beaming smile crosses her face at the mention of this man and a feeling I’m not accustomed to fills me. Jealousy. She mentioned earlier that Preston normally helps her with the smoker and now she smiles at his name. Wonder what the story is between them?
“What made you decide on photography?” I need a distraction from Preston. What kind of name is that anyway? Kind of like Epping. Blah.
“My parents gave me a cheap, little camera for my tenth birthday. I don’t know why they did that, but I started taking pictures of everything. I was hooked. Never stopped loving it. And here I am, still loving it today.”
I love watching how she lights up when she talks about the things she loves, like her family and photography. Not just because her hands make her so animated, but because her eyes tell the story. They bring me to wherever she was. Good or bad, I’m there and feel it with her.
“Well, college must have taught you a lot, too. I’m guessing you put a good amount of thought into where to go for a good photography program.”
Again, I asked the wrong question. Vacant Adriana is back. Waiting for her to work through the demons in her head I wonder if she even realizes that she gets lost. Watching her eyes clear, I wait for her to speak. “College w
as an easy choice. I was going to go wherever Alex and Preston went.” So, she knew them both for a long time. “We applied to all the same schools and got accepted to most of the same ones. For reasons that aren’t mine to tell, we had to stay local. So, UNH it was. I’ll be forever grateful for college. It changed everything for me.” Looking at me with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, she asks, “Are you done with your lunch? I need to get to work on the other desserts.”
I dip my head in a yes gesture, unable to find words. All of mine seem to be wrong anyway and I can tell she’s done talking for now, using the desserts as an excuse. My attempt to make her day fun by getting to know her was an epic fail. All I had done was upset her and remind her that she’s still in mourning.
Not taking no for an answer, I clean up the lunch dishes so she can get back to work. Not like there’s much to clean. A couple plates and knives to load in the dishwasher. Even an ass like me can handle that. I can tell she’s still upset. Hearing her slam measuring cups on the counter-tops and stop to take calming breaths, I want to wrap her in my arms. I want to apologize for hurting her. But, then I look at her left hand and see that she’s still wearing her wedding ring.
Pain shoots straight to my heart. What are you doing, Tucker? You’re fawning over this woman and all she wants is that man in the pictures. Alex. She said his name is Alex. She wants him. Leave in the morning.
Sighing, I head into the living room and plop onto the couch. I would offer to help with the desserts, but I know kitchen-zilla won’t let me and right now I can’t take her rejection. I need to be away from her. I need to not want her. Closing my eyes, trying to block out the visions of her, the exhaustion of the week takes over.
********************
What is it with this man and wanting to help in my kitchen? Now he wants to make lunch. Does he not understand how being a guest works? I’m already behind schedule. Breathe, Adriana. You do need to eat. Just tell him you’ll make lunch.
I explain to him he’s a guest as calmly as I can. I know I’m a little uptight when it comes to my kitchen, but this is my space and I like it just so.
Why does he look like the cat who ate the canary? What’s he so amused about? Suddenly irritated, I make quick work of the pie and pull out all my favorite sandwich fixings. Not sure of his preferences, I try asking him if he likes turkey or ham, but he’s somewhere in la-la land and gives me a dopey, “Huh?” which cuts through my irritation and I have to admit is so damn cute.
When he offers to get the drinks, my first instinct is hell no, but I realize there’s no real harm in it. I need to loosen up. Telling him where things are, I glimpse his firm backside while he gets the glasses. Well, I assume it’s firm with how well it fills out his jeans. I want to touch it, grab it, and find out for myself. I had been doing good, not ogling him, but that butt cannot be ignored. Who am I kidding? Nothing about this man can be ignored. Everything about him screams Stare. At. Me. I’m. Eye. Candy.
I can tell he doesn’t know where the water dispenser is, but he’s not asking so I don’t offer my help. Male pride and all. I learned from Alex a long time ago not to step in if men don’t ask. It’s like chopping off their dick he told me. I didn’t get it, but he said men don’t want to be saved. They’re supposed to do the saving. Hence the saying, damsel in distress. I’m struck with the realization that, again, being with Tucker has made me think of Alex and I haven’t fallen to my knees in a tear filled, anxiety riddled puddle. What is this man doing to me?
Turning with the plates in my hands, I almost drop them. Tucker is standing at the opening between the kitchen and dining room not moving, like a beautiful statue. The smile on his face is breathtaking. Both dimples are in full force. His blue eyes are intense, so blue, it’s like seeing a clear sky on a summer’s day. They are such a contrast to his black hair and olive skin. I’m afraid I’ll drop the plates my hands are shaking so badly. I’ve never seen a man this gorgeous before.
Quickly, I send a silent apology to Alex for that thought. Alex was handsome. There was never a question about that. But, Tucker… Tucker has taken handsome to the extreme. Alex was the boy next door, every cheerleader wanted him handsome. Tucker is the smile and every woman gets wet.
Clearing my wayward thoughts, I take a few more steps his way. He doesn’t seem to know I’m here. I startle him by asking if he’s ready for lunch. His expression tells me he was somewhere else. It’s taking him a minute to come back. As he does, a different expression crosses his face. He keeps staring at my mouth and I’ll be damned if wetness doesn’t start pooling in a place I thought had forgotten how to work.
He tells me he’s starving and takes his plate. I start toward the table, but notice he’s not moving. He’s just staring at his plate. Oh crap. I didn’t ask him if he likes pickles or chips. I should have asked if he likes mustard or vegetables on his sandwich. I just made it my way because Alex liked it that way, too. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Quickly sputtering, one hand moving faster than my mouth, I tell him he doesn’t have to eat the food if he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t even seem to notice me tripping all over myself. Thank goodness for that. I’m mortified that I just assumed how he liked his food. Ready to go take his plate from him and throw the food in the trash, he comes out of his fog.
“No, I mean, yes, sweetness. This is… perfect,” he says with a catch in his voice. Did he just call me sweetness? I think I might faint. He tells me his Grams used to make his plate like this. I understand now why he was lost, staring at the plate. I wonder if he said that in an interview and thinks I lied about reading that tabloid crap.
I blurt out about my mom making my plate this way too and always getting two pickles because Adrian hated them which led to telling him I have a twin brother. I always blurt things out when I get nervous. Call it verbal virus of the mouth. Of course, telling him about having a twin led to me telling him more about Adrian and talking about Katie. I love those two. I love how funny A is and how fearless Katie is. I know I pout when I admit I’m the youngest by six minutes, but it’s been an ongoing joke in my family forever.
I thought it would be hard when Tucker asked about my dad, but it wasn’t. My dad was an amazing man. I still miss him every day. When I see my hazel eyes in the mirror every morning it’s a reminder of him. Telling Tucker about his death was... I don’t know? Freeing. I wish I could be that way about Alex. I don’t know why I can handle my dad’s death better than Alex’s. Maybe because my dad’s been gone twice as long. Maybe because he was a firefighter and we always knew there was a chance he wouldn’t come home one day. Maybe because I watched Alex die in front of me. Or maybe it’s because of the secret that’s been slowly killing me every day since Alex died. I don’t know why, but every day I feel a little more dead inside.
Not a conversation I feel like having with a guy I just met this morning, I ask if he has any siblings. He says no, but a sadness takes over his face. A longing. I ask about his parents, comment how they must be proud of him. I know I’ve made a major blunder by the look of agony he gives me before looking down at his plate. My lunch starts to sour in my stomach when he won’t pick his head up and look back at me. I’m not sure what horrors he faced as a kid or what hardships, but I know by the hanging of his head that Tucker Stavros did not have an easy life.
By the way he’s glaring at his plate, I know he’s avoiding facing me. Then, he tells me his mother died of breast cancer when he was eight and my heart breaks for him. He was so young to be without his mom. I think of my mom and the wonderful relationship we have. I’m not prepared for him to tell me that his father basically walked out on him right after, dropping him off on his grandparents’ doorstep. What kind of son of a bitch does something like that? The anger that bubbles to the surface is threatening to explode out of me. I’m breathing heavy, trying very hard to focus on what he’s saying because he’s not done talking.
Still fixated on his plate, he tells me his father stopped coming aroun
d for good when he was thirteen and that his Gramps passed away when he was fifteen. I think there are gouges in the underside of my table, I’m squeezing so hard, keeping myself from screaming out that his father is a useless piece of shit. But, then I look at Tucker. Tucker, who on TV, on the big screen, is larger than life. But, before me is a man who just told me how horrible his life really was. He isn’t the movie star. He isn’t the TV actor.
He’s a broken man.
Pushing my chair out, I walk over to him and do something that surprises even me. I wrap my arms around his neck. After Alex died, I swore off all physical contact. Between losing him and the secret haunting me, I couldn’t take being touched and I didn’t want to touch anyone. Having Tucker come here today is changing something in me.
Tucker jumps at the contact, almost falling out of his chair. I hold on to him, not too tightly, just enough to offer comfort. “I’m so sorry, Tucker. You were just a kid.” I don’t know what else to say so I let go and walk back to my seat. With my stomach still doing flip flops, I start eating. I want him to feel okay with what we talked about.
When he slowly raises his head, I’m happy that he isn’t looking at his plate anymore. He looks confused which I’ll take over the utter devastation that was on his face only moments ago. Smiling at him, I take another bite of my sandwich. We continue to eat for a few minutes in silence.
I’m not prepared when he asks if twins run in my family. I’m still processing everything he told me. My parents had always told us famous people were just like regular people. They lived and loved like regular people. They hurt like regular people. I got to see that first hand today.
Explaining to Tucker how twins go many generations back, but that me and Adrian were the first ones not to be two girls brings my secret slamming to the front of my brain. A familiar pain hammers my stomach and my soul feels like it’s being ripped from my body. The shame and guilt I’ve been carrying from this secret is killing me little by little every day. The pain, it follows me everywhere I go. It’s in everything I see. Nothing makes it stop. And no one… no one except mom knows the truth. How I wish she didn’t know. I don’t know how she can even look at me– love me. Has to be a mom thing. The others can never know. They’ll never see me the same way. They’ll never forgive me. They won’t be able to love me anymore.