I bite my lip and feel an unexpected urge to cry, though I have no idea why, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to do it in front of Brendan. He’d enjoy it too much.
“It’s fine. The hammock’s fine.”
He steps closer, and his proximity makes me feel fluttery and unsettled. “You talked to Rob?”
“Yes.” I swallow. The urge to cry grows. Maybe Brendan knew about Rob’s trip getting extended before I did, and that bothers me too. “I guess you heard he’s staying longer.”
He nods as his eyes roam over my face, and for once there’s no smirk. It’s possible I even see concern there, as unlikely as that is. Olivia was right; Brendan has changed since he left. He’s grown more serious these past few years. The old Brendan would have made a joke, no matter how inappropriate the circumstances. The new version of Brendan seems to understand grief a little better.
“You’re upset.”
“It’s fine,” I say, but my voice catches a little. “I have no reason to be upset.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be upset? He’s your fiancé.”
“I just…” I don’t know why I’m discussing this with him. We aren’t friends. It’s going to turn into something he uses against me later. “It’s not like I see that much of him when he’s home.”
Something flickers over Brendan’s face—a sort of displeasure, distaste—and I wonder if he thinks that was a complaint.
“So what’s different then?” he asks.
It’s the question I’ve asked myself a hundred times. “He filled just enough of my hours when he was home that I felt like I had a point or a purpose,” I reply. “And I’ve suddenly discovered I have neither.”
A muscle ticks in Brendan’s jaw, and for a millisecond he seems angry, making me regret every word I just said. I’m sure he’s somehow turning this into one more piece of evidence that Rob should have dumped me long ago.
“Never mind.” I sigh, heading for the door.
“Erin.” His voice stops me just as my hand reaches the doorknob. “You should figure that out before Rob gets back.”
I shoot him the nastiest look I can muster. “Yes, Brendan, thank you. I’m well aware of all the ways you think I’m not good enough for Rob. I’ll add this to the list.”
“Who ever said I thought you weren’t good enough for him?” he asks.
“You did, every time you ever tried to talk him out of dating me.”
“Sometimes people just aren’t a good fit,” he says. “It doesn’t mean one of you isn’t good enough.”
I roll my eyes and reach for the door. “Give me a break, Brendan. You told him he was making a mistake a thousand times. It’s pretty clear why you said it.”
He starts to argue, but then his jaw snaps shut. “You understand a lot less than you think you do.”
I open the door and let it slam. I’ve heard enough of Brendan’s bullshit to last me the rest of my life.
12
Brendan
Four Years Earlier
It begins with a mosquito bite.
A bite on Erin’s ankle, one she bends over to scratch approximately once a minute, her shorts riding perilously high as she does it. There isn’t a tour leader or male client in this room who hasn’t noticed. If Mike were a better manager, he’d realize how unproductive this is and stop her. He doesn’t say a word, of course. Probably because he’s too busy enjoying the show. And I know, as I watch, that I’m going to be thinking about her bending over like that tonight, and the next night too.
“Leave that bite alone,” I finally snarl.
She looks up at me, wide-eyed with surprise and hurt. I feel like I’ve just slapped a young child, and for a moment I am desperate to fix it. It’s a relief when her hurt turns to anger. Anger is something I can handle.
“You need Prozac,” she says, glaring at me. “A bucket of it.”
“No can do,” I reply. “It causes sexual dysfunction.”
She smirks. “And you’ve already got enough sexual dysfunction.”
“I assure you, all my parts work just fine. I can prove it, if you’d like.”
“I’ll pass,” she replies. “If I’m going to have hate sex, it’ll be with someone less likely to carry disease.”
The moment she says it, I can see it—hate sex, not disease. I can imagine the thousand ways I’d like to punish her for being such a pain in the ass, for my making my summer so fucking endless in the worst possible way. I feel a shot of excitement that begins in my stomach and seems to pulse through my limbs, as if I’m suddenly electrified.
That night, with someone else, I picture it again and finish seconds later. There are no words for how much I hate that I’m thinking of Erin during sex now. And the fact that it seems like I always might.
13
Erin
Present
The phone calls from my dad are bad, but they’re not the worst calls I get. No, the worst are the ones from my mom, telling me my father never came home from work and won’t answer his phone. Those are the nights I spend driving to Denver, with every car accident I pass sending my heart rate into the red zone. It hasn’t been him yet, but one day it will be. It’s only a matter of time.
Tonight the call comes just after 2 AM. My mother, crying so hard she’s almost unintelligible.
“I don’t know what to do,” she says, again and again.
I’m already out of bed, looking for clothes. There’s no point in ever suggesting she go look for him herself. My mother only has two modes where my father is concerned: defensive outrage on his behalf or disabling despair.
When I was small and my dad wouldn’t come home, she’d cry and say, “He always said he didn’t want to settle down. I should have listened.”
Even as a small child, I resolved not to repeat her mistakes. If someone says they don’t want a relationship, you take them at their word.
Sleep dazed, I have just opened the garage door when Brendan appears, so unexpected that I gasp in fear.
“Where you going, blondie?” he asks.
The person in the world I most do not want to know about these trips is Rob. The person right after him is Brendan, as he won’t hesitate to run and tell Rob everything.
I swallow. “Nowhere.”
“You’re going nowhere at 2 AM?”
Every bone in my body wants to lie to him, yet my brain is blank, without a single plausible excuse. Maybe I’m just too tired to lie, exhausted not just from tonight but from all of the past years, all the lies I’ve told and the effort it takes.
Standing under Brendan’s penetrating gaze, I just don’t feel capable of lying even one more time. “My dad had a little too much to drink. He needs a ride home.”
“Isn’t he in Denver?” Brendan asks. “Can’t he just take a cab?”
“We don’t actually know where he is,” I mumble.
I see understanding dawn on his face. “Does he do this a lot?”
“No, of course not. I think he just had a bad day.” My answer is too hasty and too defensive. I sound like I’m lying. Which, obviously, I am. “But can you…can you not mention this to Rob?”
I can’t imagine why I’m throwing myself at his mercy here. Brendan doesn’t like me. He has no reason to show me any kindness, and I’ve never gotten so much as a hint that he’d be willing to.
“Okay,” he says, putting a hand on the small of my back. “But I’m driving. You’re half asleep, and my face is way too pretty to wind up smashed into a tree.”
“You don’t need to come with me.”
“You’re not going alone.” Something in his tone tells me this is non-negotiable. He’s coming, or he’s telling Rob.
“You’re not going to get any sleep.”
“My dad used to drink a lot too,” he says quietly.
I finally meet his eyes, wondering if he’s making this up, if this is all some elaborate ruse to pry my secrets from me so he can offer them on a platter to Rob, in a file titled See? I told you I was right about her. Bu
t his face is open and honest and serious in a way it isn’t normally.
He leads me to his car. I don’t resist.
We are silent as he takes back roads to the interstate. I don’t know how to be around him anymore unless I’m being spiteful or guarded, which I don’t entirely understand. It’s not like I’m cruel by nature. Why is it so hard with him?
He yawns. “Okay, blondie, you’ve got to keep me awake here. Tell me something.”
“Like what?”
“Tell me something no one knows about you, not even Rob. Other than this.”
I wouldn’t normally engage in this kind of game with him—or any game, really—but I’ve already handed him one of my worst secrets. The rest seem minor by contrast.
“Every time I go to Denver to visit my parents, I stop by the Ducati dealership and test drive one.”
He laughs. “Bullshit.”
I shrug and stare out the window. I’m not sure if I’m insulted or just relieved that he doesn’t believe me. Both, perhaps.
“You were serious?” he asks.
“Whatever.”
“You? You, Erin Doyle, ride motorcycles.”
“Is it really that unthinkable? You’re making it sound like I’m Queen Elizabeth.”
“Come on, Erin… I mean, you’re not exactly the type.”
Okay. Now I’m offended. “In what way am I not the type?”
“Perky little blondes in marketing don’t drive Ducatis. They drive something sensible, like a Prius.”
“Yeah, well, Rob agrees with you, so please don’t say anything.”
Rob’s like a grandmother about a lot of things. If he knew about this, I’d never hear the end of it. He’d come home with a report about the dangers of motorcycles, peppering every conversation with crash statistics.
“There’s nothing wrong with driving a motorcycle.”
“There’s nothing wrong with lots of stuff,” I reply. “It doesn’t mean you want the whole world knowing.”
“Except Rob’s not the whole world. He’s your fiancé. And that isn’t something you should feel you have to hide.”
I say nothing, but the truth is this: Rob is a big part of my world, and he would not accept this or so many other things if he knew.
Thanks to Brendan’s tendency to drive at least 20 miles over the speed limit, we are in Denver in less than an hour. With shame rising in my chest, I direct him to a particularly rough section of the city, a section neither of us would choose to enter under normal circumstances.
“Let’s try Slaney’s first,” I say, sounding, unfortunately, like someone who’s made this desperate search before. “You can wait here, and I’ll run in.”
“Are you high?” He scowls. “I’m not letting you go in there at this hour alone.”
“I’ll be fine.”
He ignores me. And when we walk in and the bartender clearly knows who I am and who my father is, yet another lie is exposed. I’m so fucked. Of course Brendan’s going to tell. Since the moment we kissed at Will and Olivia’s wedding, he’s been gunning for me, the hypocritical bastard.
After three bars and 20 minutes of searching, we find my dad, slumped in the corner of a booth while the staff cleans up around him.
“It’s Erin, right?” the manager asks.
I avoid Brendan’s eye. “Yeah. I’m sorry about this.”
“We’d have called you, but I didn’t have your number. You want to write it down so we have it the next time?”
I continue to avoid looking at Brendan. “Yes. Thank you.”
Sometimes I feel like a sandbag with a pinhole leak. I’ve spent my entire life trying to erase the small trail of debris, evidence, I’ve left behind. Tonight that leak has become a full-fledged tear, and it’s as if I’m hemorrhaging now. I wonder how much more I’ll prove unable to contain.
We load my father into the passenger’s seat with some difficulty, and I direct Brendan to my parents’ neighborhood. Their standard of living dropped a fair amount after my dad lost his job in New Jersey. It’s not as if Brendan grew up with a ton of money, but I’m embarrassed anyway—by how they live, by my mother’s tears and by the way she reacts when she realizes I’m not alone.
“I didn’t know you were bringing company,” she says, as if this is a social call. She wipes her face on the inside of her robe. “You could have warned me. I’m not even dressed.”
I’ve broken the cardinal Doyle family rule: don’t let outsiders see the ugly underbelly. People who’ve met my parents generally come back raving about them. Back when my dad was still doing okay, my parents would fly out for track meets, take me and my friends to dinner. My dad was the life of the party. “You’re so lucky,” people would tell me when it was time to go. “Your dad is so much fun.” They never realized that my mother or I had cut the night short at the precise moment we saw my dad teetering on the edge, about to descend from fun and irreverent to sloppy and irresponsible.
“He’s not company, Mom. We’re not staying.”
Brendan helps my dad to his bed and then gracefully departs, telling me he’ll wait outside.
“What an awful thing to let a stranger see,” my mother says after he leaves. “What’s he going to think of us?”
She wants me to apologize, to agree that tonight is all my fault. It has to be my fault, the whole evening, because if it’s not mine, it’s my father’s, and we can’t have that. But I don’t have it in me to apologize or play this game right now. I pretend too much. I lie too much. I’ve been caught at it tonight, again and again, and I’m just too damn tired to keep going, to lie and pretend for her sake or my own.
“He’s probably going to think Dad’s sick, Mom. And he’s going to think you and I are pathetic and broken. And I’m not going to apologize, because it’s all true.”
I’ll pay for that comment, but right now I don’t care. I walk out, shutting the door behind me.
“Everything okay?” Brendan asks.
I nod, too choked up to speak. It’s not unusual to feel this way. When one of my familial crises ends, I often find I’ve been holding my grief at bay until there is room for it, but I don’t think that’s what this is. Not entirely. I think what’s making me tear up now is kindness. Because Brendan—beautiful, reckless, irresponsible, hateful Brendan, who I’ve loathed for so long—has been kinder to me tonight than anyone I can think of, ever.
I want to continue hating him, and I know I can’t anymore, not entirely. I handed him my secrets tonight—things I’ve never trusted to anyone—and I look at him and know with a certainty I have about almost nothing in this life that he will guard them as if they are his own. Brendan, who I wanted to believe was cruel, is actually kind. And Brendan, who I thought could not be trusted, is someone I trust implicitly.
Brendan parks on the street, and we walk toward the house together. “I won’t tell Rob, but I have one condition,” he says. “I want you to call me any time you have to go deal with your dad.”
“I’ve been making some version of that trip for a long time, Brendan.” No sense pretending at this point that tonight was a one-off. “I’ll be fine.”
“You know who says things will be fine?” he demands. “Every person who insisted they weren’t too tired to drive and then wrapped a car around a tree. Every woman who has ever been raped after figuring it was safe to walk home. Your belief that you will be fine is meaningless.”
A day ago I’d have expressed some surprise over the fact that he cares whether I’m injured, that he actually seems angry at the possibility. It shocks me less now, but it’s disconcerting, once again, to think I may have misjudged him.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask. “You’re barely ever home.”
“Just text me. By 1 or 2 AM, I’m usually in.”
“No, you’re sleeping at some girl’s place. You’re really going to leave that to come with me to Denver?”
“Yes.”
“No,” I reply. “No way. The whole thing is embarrassin
g enough without that.”
“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear,” he says, his eyes darkening. “You will text me the next time you make that trip, or I will tell Rob.”
“You’re blackmailing me.”
“If you want to call it that.”
“Only you would somehow turn an offer of assistance into blackmail,” I fume.
He opens the door to the house and shoos me inside.
“I’m gonna take that as a compliment.”
“It wasn’t!” I shout, but he’s already closed the door.
14
Erin
Present
I call Olivia the next afternoon on the way home from work. Despite my lack of sleep, the pressing matter of Brendan is my first priority. I don’t know what all that was last night, but I know I don’t like feeling indebted to him.
“I need to get Brendan a thank-you gift,” I tell her. “What would he want?”
“Thank him for what?” she asks.
Fuck. I’m so tired it didn’t even occur to me that she’d ask.
Tell her, says a voice in my head. Brendan will tell her eventually anyway.
I’m not sure where that voice comes from, but I know it’s wrong. Brendan won’t tell her. He won’t tell anyone, and I’m struck once more by the odd discomfort of knowing I’ve been maligning someone for years, perhaps without cause, and a big piece of me wants to keep doing it.
“Just stuff around the house.”
“You know what he’d love? Those coconut almond bars you make. Every time you ever made them for me, he decimated them. The last time he visited us, he took the entire container, the bastard.”
“He must not have known I made them.”
She clucks her tongue. “Of course he did. I know you don’t believe me, Erin, but he doesn’t hate you.”
“Oh yeah? Then why has he gone out of his way to convince Rob to break up with me? He thinks I’m not good enough for him.”
“Has it ever occurred to you that maybe he thinks Rob’s not good enough for you?”
Drowning Erin Page 5