The senior home is an open facility. I walk in pretending to be a visitor. Lizzie is off in ten minutes, so I can probably get away with meeting up with her. I move down the hall, trying not to feel depressed by my surroundings. You can tell they’ve gone to great lengths to decorate like a hotel rather than a rest home, but it doesn’t quite work. The paint is new, there are scenic pastels of cottages and gardens hanging on the walls, and everything is clean. But there are thick metal bars along each wall for those who need support walking, and a big institutional dining hall to the right. There is a nursing staff that looks cheerful in a tired, forced way, and a few elderly people near the entrance, sitting there in a daze.
Most of the doors to the rooms are open, and I spot Lizzie in one at the end of the hall. With her is a woman in a wheelchair who must be at least ninety. Lizzie’s told me about some of her patients, and I wonder if this is one of her favorites. I move closer but try to stay out of sight so I don’t interrupt her.
“Anything else I can get you before I go?”
“I don’t like that other nurse. She gives me too many meds.”
Lizzie bends down so she is eye level with her. “No, you just hate taking medication.”
“Well how would you like it, missy?”
“I wouldn’t. But like you always tell me, what’s the alternative?”
The old woman laughs begrudgingly. “Smart ass.”
The woman turns her head and sees me watching. “That your young man?” she asks Lizzie.
“Yes.”
“Well come on in then,” the old woman says to me.
I step into the room, and Lizzie does introductions. As I suspected, this is Mrs. Diamato, Lizzie’s favorite. I shake her wrinkled hand, noticing how frail it is—how paper-thin her skin feels.
“You better marry this gal quick,” she says to me. “She’s a good one.”
“We’re only twenty-two,” Lizzie says.
“Ah. You kids; you always think there’s so much time, until there isn’t.”
I feel a stab of sadness. I wish I had known my grandparents better. They didn’t approve of my dad, so they weren’t that supportive when he left my mom right after I was born. Plus, they lived in the Midwest, so I only met them a few times before they died.
“How old were you when you got married?” I ask Mrs. Diamato.
She chuckles. “Twenty-one, which was old enough to know better. But I took one look at Joseph, and my blood boiled. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t sleep. When you know, you know.” Mrs. Diamato points to Lizzie. “I keep telling this one that, but I didn’t think she was listening. Good to see I was wrong.”
I expect Lizzie to laugh, but instead she looks upset.
Mrs. Diamato fishes a piece of candy out of her pocket and gives it to me as we say our good-byes. I can’t help but give her a hug.
“Glad you came to see me,” Lizzie says as we walk down the hall together holding hands. Whatever upset her seems to have passed, because she turns to me and breaks into a big grin. Lizzie’s mouth is wide, so when she smiles her whole face moves. Her cheeks dimple, her green eyes crinkle, her petite nose scrunches. She seems so happy, like she’s won a prize. No one has ever looked at me like that before. And it hits me in this moment, with the pungent smell of disinfectant surrounding me and Lizzie standing next to me in scrubs with pictures of pies and cakes on them, that I am so in love with this girl that I would do almost anything to have her look at me like that all the time.
Being with Lizzie is like getting a do-over. With her, I’m not the shy guy with the weird voice and dead mother. She makes me feel smart and talented—like everything is possible. I don’t really care if it’s too soon to feel like this, or if I’m going to get my heart smashed. It is what it is. Like Mrs. Diamato said, “When you know, you know.”
Lizzie cleans up and changes, and I take her to get something to eat. Afterward, I have only a vague memory of what we ordered or even where we went. I do know she kept asking me if I was okay, because I was so quiet. When she tells me to meet her back at her place, and that Sam is staying at her parents’ house in Santa Cruz tonight, I’m so happy I could cry.
I have to find parking, walk across campus, and then ride up to the fourth floor of Lizzie’s building. All of this takes precious minutes, and every one of them is like a kick to the groin. She has arrived before me, so she opens the door just as I walk up to it, launching into a story about Sam’s parents. She has a tendency to start a conversation in the middle, as though we’ve already been talking about something.
“Sam showed me this picture where she’s wearing a long floral skirt and a bonnet. But she threatened my life if I ever—”
I pull her to me, kissing her hard and deep. I shove the door shut with my foot and lift her up so her feet aren’t touching the ground. I carry her to her room and throw her on the bed.
“What did I miss?” she asks as I pull my shirt off.
I shake my head because I feel dumbstruck and words are impossible. So I kiss her again, and this time, she understands how I’m feeling. She is not leaving this bed until I am physically incapable of movement. I can’t even be bothered to get her shirt off. I grab her shorts and pull them down, right along with her panties. I try to show her through touch and taste what I can’t say out loud. I’m not sure if she gets the message, but I do my damnedest, holding her hips down as she rides her wave.
It’s so freeing to be completely alone. Lizzie is embarrassed to have sex with me at my house when Jude is there, which I get. He’s been vacating to give us privacy, but it still has put a crimp in our time together. Now I can groan as she runs her hands all over me, and she can cry out when I hit the right spots.
Afterward, she draws on my chest as we squish together in her double bed. My feet hang off the end, but I don’t care.
She holds her hand up in front of me and shows me her crooked pinky finger.
“How did that happen?” I ask.
“Third grade. I tried to do a cherry bomb on the monkey bars and fell off headfirst.”
The evening light filters through her blue curtains, casting warm shadows over us both.
“Fingers hurt. Not as m-much as wrists, though,” I tell her, flexing my hand.
“How did you break it?”
“Well, I b-broke it twice. The first time was skateboarding with Jude, of course.”
“And the second time?”
“Yeah, my m-mom was pissed about that one. I got in a fight with John Mahoney two months after the first b-break had healed.”
She rolls over and props herself up on her elbow. Her hair is hanging loose over her breast, and I follow the movement like a cat watching a beam of light. She laughs at me and flicks my cheek lightly. “You don’t seem like the fighting type.”
“No doubt. But it was fifth grade, and I was crazy about this girl, Mindy. John told her I was retarded. I didn’t really c-care. I’d had people make fun of my stutter before, and I don’t g-get that worked up about stuff, in general.”
Lizzie runs her fingers over my wrist, like she’s trying to trace the break.
“But to s-s-sweeten the pot, he told everyone Jude was gay. In my r-ridiculous ten-year-old brain, I thought I needed to defend Jude’s reputation. Anyway, I called John out, m-met him after school, and punched him in the f-face. It didn’t hurt him all that much, but I rebroke my wrist, and got s-suspended for two days.”
“Was Jude honored by your great sacrifice?”
“Hardly.” I laugh, remembering what a cocky shit Jude was back then. In some ways, I miss that version of him. “He gave me c-crap for punching like a girl, and then he made me spar with him after my wrist healed.”
“Yeah, that sounds like him.”
I get quiet as I remember the rest of that story. “The thing is, three months later, Jude screwed around with John Mahoney’s older s-sister. And then he m-made sure John knew about it.”
She frowns. “Harsh.”
“Yeah. W-w
hen Jude gets mad, he plays for keeps. He’s got a hell of a d-dark side. That was true even before our m-mom died.”
“I might have guessed that.”
“I w-worry about him.” I’m not sure why I wandered onto this topic, except the lure of having someone else to discuss Jude with is too strong. I guess it might be weird for Lizzie, given her history with Jude. Except I trust both of them, and they’ve given me no hint that they still have feelings for each other. I don’t hold it against Lizzie that she was attracted to my brother; everyone has that reaction. Maybe now that she’s seen more of him, the mystery has worn off.
“What about?” She lays back down on me, and her hair fans across my chest.
Summing Jude up isn’t easy, so I say the first thing that comes to me. “He n-never cries.”
“Never?”
“I know most g-guys don’t cry much. But, I mean n-never. Not s-since Mom died. I don’t think he cares enough about anyone or anything to c-cry over it. Except, maybe m-me.”
“Maybe he breaks down when you’re not around, or talks to his other friends.”
“He doesn’t really have any other f-friends. He hangs out with guys at work, but when they quit or m-move, he doesn’t care. He’s so cold to people. He k-keeps his hookups with women brief. I’m not sure what’s driving h-him. What he wants for his future. He shuts me down when I ask him that kind of s-stuff. I didn’t worry so much b-before, but now . . .”
“Now there’s me, and you’re worried?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe more guys’ nights at your house? Or, you two can have more alone time, if you need it.”
“I’m where I w-want to be.” I kiss Lizzie again, and that distracts me for a minute.
“Maybe we need to do more with him. So that he doesn’t feel left out.”
“M-maybe. Would that be okay?”
She rubs her foot over my calf. “I want to make you happy,” she whispers. As if she’s unsure. As though there is any corner of my life she hasn’t made better already. But if she doesn’t know, it’s because I haven’t told her. I get this uncomfortable feeling, like maybe I’m better at getting affection than giving it.
I want to tell her I love her—slowly, so I don’t stutter. But I’m worried it’s too soon and that she’ll feel like she has to say it back.
So I stay quiet, like I’ve done so many times before. But this time it’s for a good reason. My chest feels tight—until she kisses me, and the ache dissipates.
CHAPTER 9
Jude
Have you left work yet? Ryan texts me.
At my car now. Chill.
Apparently, Ryan, Elizabeth, and I are going to Half Moon Bay this evening so she can have the complete Bay Area pumpkin-patch experience. Not only was I not able to get out of it, Ryan is making me leave work early.
Something has changed between Ryan and Elizabeth. There is an inevitability about them now. I’ve started thinking of her as “the wife,” especially since Ryan won’t quit trying to get me to hang out with them. If Ryan knew the effect his badgering was having, he’d probably stop. I’m beginning to hate both of them a bit. Not because he has her and I don’t, but because he pities me. As if he has a fucking right to do that.
Meanwhile, whenever she walks in the house, the wife bumps my shoulder like we’re buddies. She even gave me a brotherly hug a few days ago. It took everything I had not to kiss her right in front of him to prove that she still wants to fuck me. To remind her what’s between us, because she obviously has forgotten. How else can she so casually touch me? It certainly doesn’t bother her anymore that she’s banging the headboard against my bedroom wall every time she rides my brother.
I know this is what I signed up for, so I swallow it all. I just wish somebody else remembered that Elizabeth and I were inevitable first. Then maybe it would still feel real.
When I get home from work, Ryan and the wife are waiting—eager and excited, as usual. I change into jeans and a T-shirt, dreading the hour drive and the forced laughter.
We’re throwing our jackets into the car when Ryan’s phone rings.
“Hey,” he says to whomever is on the other line. “Shit. I forgot. Okay. Okay, yeah. I’ll b-be there in fifteen.”
“What happened?” the wife asks when Ryan gets off the phone.
“I don’t know how I f-fucked this up,” he says. “I promised to cover someone’s shift a while ago, and I’m supposed to b-be at work. I’m so s-sorry, Lizzie.”
Her face falls, but she tries to keep it in check—ever dutiful. “No, it’s okay. I understand.”
Ryan is looking around, kind of desperately, because he knows he has disappointed her. When his eyes land on me, I know I’m fucked.
“You guys should still go.” He says this to both of us but is staring at me. “Lizzie’s never been there before.”
“No, we can go another time,” she says.
Thank God someone else has some sense.
“Tomorrow is Halloween, so this is your last chance until next year,” Ryan says. “Please, Jude.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. My will is slipping. Will there ever be a day when I can deny this kid something? Hasn’t he already taken enough?
“Get to work,” I tell him. “I’ll take her.”
The wife is shaking her head, but it’s too late. Ryan gives her a kiss, puts her in the passenger side of my car, and then he’s off.
I get in and close the door. “Well, this ought to be an adventure.”
The drive over is quiet. Very quiet. Elizabeth picks Mumford & Sons from my playlist, and we let that fill the silence. Not Elizabeth, I remind myself—the wife.
“Thanks for bringing me,” she finally says, getting more animated as we wind through the hills toward the coast. The sun is about to set, turning everything gold and orange. The trees start to get denser, the road more narrow. “It’s beautiful.”
We drive past family farms, their fields crammed with huge, bright-orange pumpkins falling off the vines.
“Oh, it really is the pumpkin capital,” she says in a thready, excited voice—the one most people would reserve for sex or winning the lotto. I guess it shouldn’t surprise me by now that to her, this is just as good.
“You’re not going to make me do the giant slide, are you?” I tease.
“There’s a giant slide?” Her excitement ratchets up a notch.
I can’t help but laugh.
“See for yourself,” I say as I drive up to the most famous pumpkin patch and farm in Half Moon Bay. It comes complete with a train, haunted house, pony rides, and yes, the giant slide—which is for kids only, lucky me.
Elizabeth actually wiggles in her seat with glee. She’s so damn cute, with her snap-up flannel shirt and her wide smile. I don’t let myself rest on that image long.
“Thanks for taking me. I know it’s weird. Ryan shouldn’t have guilted you into it.”
I’m grateful that she admits things are awkward—that it’s not just me. I’m so tired of pretending that it doesn’t bother me. I’m exhausted by the whole damn thing, really.
“You know what? Fuck all that. Let’s just put it aside.”
Her eyes brighten. “Yeah? For the whole night?”
“Yes. A vacation.”
“Okay.”
We get out of the car and walk through an acre of huge pumpkins of every shape. There is hay everywhere, turning the air dusty and dirtying our shoes. Elizabeth laughs as I try to shake some off my Chucks.
“Gonna have to get messy,” she says.
I ignore that as we step up to the makeshift plywood ticket booth.
“Fifty tickets,” I say to the guy in a cowboy hat, because I know Elizabeth’s going to want to do every damn thing there is to do here.
We wind through the families trying to get in a few more pictures and people choosing pumpkins. Parents are hoisting happy, chubby kids onto the backs of ponies.
“Thank God we’re too heavy, or you’d probably wanna do that t
oo,” I tell her.
“I’ve ridden the full-size kind, so ponies might be a letdown.”
“I’ve never ridden a horse,” I say. The squeals of the kids are so loud, I can barely hear myself speak.
“Seriously?”
“Those things are too high up. I’m good on the ground.”
She laughs, and I’m amazed by how comfortable I feel with her. The tension from the past month and a half seems to float away into the crisp fall air. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing, because I’ve been using it as a buffer.
“What did you do for Halloween when you were a kid?” she asks me as we wander around the farm.
I’m tempted not to answer. But Ryan’s probably told her everything about our childhoods by now, anyway.
“We didn’t have a lot of time or money for this kind of stuff. But Mom made it fun. We’d carve a big pumpkin and put it outside. Cut bats and ghosts out of construction paper. Do trick-or-treating on the big night—the usual.” I feel a small sliver of joy thinking about Ella Jane. “Mom always wore a witch hat with her normal clothes. Sometimes she couldn’t even be bothered to wear black. That hat got so ratty after a while.”
“What did you dress up as?”
I’m leading Elizabeth toward the haunted house, although she doesn’t realize it yet.
“I wore the same Darth Vader costume three years in a row. And there might have been a ninja thrown in there once or twice.” That gets a smile out of her. “Why so curious about my childhood?”
She studies me like I’m an abstract painting.
“Don’t know. Maybe because it’s so hard to picture you that way.”
“What way?”
“Hmm. Carefree. Happy.”
I stop walking and turn to her. “I’m happy right now.”
That wipes all traces of her smile away.
“C’mon. We’re here,” I say, letting us both off the hook.
“Oh, no way.” She’s scrutinizing the outside of the haunted house, which has a silver cemetery gate painted on it. “I’m a total chicken.”
She wraps her arms around herself, and I don’t know if it’s because of the cold wind that’s blowing or fear. Since she left her jacket in the car, I take off my hoodie and put it around her.
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