by CL Walters
She turns and looks at me with a full-wattage smile, dimples in both cheeks. I have a thing for dimples, I decide, and picture Max’s smile. I miss the opportunity of making her smile.
“Okay. Thought I’d ask.”
“We could plan ahead for coffee or something,” I offer, wanting to maintain the heat of the pleasant warmth in my chest of feeling worthy of someone’s attention. Do I like her? I don’t know her. Is she cute? Yes. Am I interested? Maybe.
Her eyes—brown—come back to mine, the edges curl with that cute smile. “That would work,” she says. “I’ll give you my number.”
I feel lighter. After the self-confidence killer that is Bella along with my insecurities about Max, having someone interested in me is pretty, fucking fantastic. I return her smile and enter the numbers she gives me, then send her a text. I smile. “Sounds like a plan.”
I pick up Chinese food, take it to the farmhouse, and eat with Cal. We talk about stuff: school, work, and Max comes up, but he’s reserved about it. I don’t push because I know that never works with me, unless you’re Max.
The next day, I arrive at Cal’s ready to work. The sound of my boots as I stomp the thin layer of mud on the mat echo like gunshots in the acoustics of the stripped farmhouse. “Cal?” I call and wait to hear his voice.
No answer.
We’ve spent the last weeks since his return from his visit with Max, working in companionable silence. I’ve heard about what happened in snippets over text from Max. I wonder if Cal’s withdrawal is because of what’s happened with his daughter, or about something else. The isolation in his emotional cave isn’t how I know him, but I recognize it. I live there most of the time. Thing is, even recognizing it, I don’t know what to do. Mostly, I feel helpless. From the outside, I can see two people who adore one another unable to find handholds against the cliff where they’re both hanging.
“Cal?” I call again.
“Back here.” His voice bounces against the recently installed drywall in the living room.
I stomp over naked floorboards through the empty main room until I reach the back porch. Since it’s an enclosed space, he’s using it as a staging ground for cutting, sawing, and storing as the winter weather sets in.
Cal glances up from the board he’s cutting, and resumes running the blade across a squared-off space. He cracks the gypsum along the bladed line, and it opens, splitting cleanly along the line into two sections. “Think you can manage tearing out the rest of the kitchen?” he asks as he walks past me with his board.
I retrace my steps following him. “Yeah. I can do that.”
“Try and save the cabinets. We’re going to reuse them.”
“In the kitchen?”
“No. Probably in the workshop. New cabinets are ordered and should be here in a week or so. I’d like to get that kitchen back online before Christmas.”
“Max coming home?”
“So she says.”
The way he says it is layered with the sound of what’s remained unsaid. I figure it’s an opening. “Everything okay?” I ask.
He holds the board up to a space by the new window. “Why wouldn’t it be?” He uses his tape measure and a carpenter’s pencil to make marks.
I shrug even though he can’t see me, and search for a way to open a door for him. He’s been there for me, after all, and it feels like Max has saved me. “I don’t know. You just seem kind of–” I stop when he glances at me. His frown and his pinched forehead with heavy eyebrows over his disconcerting gray eyes land on me. I fidget but commit– “off. Since you went to visit her.”
He sighs, looks away, cuts the board, then levels it off before taking the nail gun to it. Then, instead of marching back the way he came, he leans against the unfinished wall joint. “My ex-wife showed up to visit Max at school and made claims about me as a dad.”
I raise my eyebrows with a question to invite him to continue but keep my mouth shut. I don’t want to say something wrong or hint I know more than I’m letting on.
Cal looks down at his hands, flips them over. “When I was your age, I was more worried about where the next party was.” He stands, hesitates, then says, “You don’t want to hear this drama.” He walks back the way he came. “Help me with these boards.”
“I don’t mind listening,” I tell him as we carry several back into the room.
He doesn’t say anything at first, concentrating on leaning the boards to be hung against a space in the room that’s easily accessible. Then he surprises me by breaking the silence when he says, “Indigo just walked out—that’s her name, my ex-wife. Max was five. I should have known that it was coming, but I was blind to her struggle. I just told myself Indigo was a free spirit. After Max was born, though, I couldn’t use that excuse anymore. She’d slip into these dark places. It wouldn’t matter what I did or didn’t do, what I said, how I acted. I just wasn’t enough.”
I help him with a board, holding it up, and he uses the nail gun to fasten it in place.
“Then one day,” he continues while he uses a tape measure to the next board, “she just walked out of the house with a suitcase and didn’t look back. I thought she’d be back because she did it a lot, but when she didn’t show up the next morning, I called her parents. We found her high in one of her usual haunts.
“I asked her if she wanted to come home with me and Max, she refused. Her parents took her and placed her in one of those ritzy in-treatment centers. I tried to visit her, but we weren’t allowed. Then she hopped to a ritzy meditation retreat. An artists’ commune. A whole string of ways to find herself and no intention to include Max or me in those plans. Finally, I was served with divorce papers, no contest for custody, so I signed them.”
He stops and puts up another board. I help him. We put up three more, saying little more than what needs to be said.
“And she never asked to see Max?”
“No, but I didn’t make it easy either. I moved us, at first, because I needed new scenery. Max was going to start school, and I thought it would be a perfect way to start over. Found us a fixer upper and off we went. I hadn’t considered we’d leave there, but I got an offer on the house after I finished it that was too good to pass up, so I found another fixer upper somewhere else. And again, until we’d left a trail across the country. It worked when Max was little, but I should have known better when she reached middle school. Now, we’re here.”
“And your wife-”
“Ex-wife. Indigo.”
“–Indigo is back? For good?”
He nails in the board we’re holding. “Showed up outside of Max’s class and claimed I’d kidnapped her. That I’d intentionally kept Max from her mom. I don’t think she stayed, just dropped in, dropped that bomb and left.”
“Shit. That’s heavy. How’s Max?”
“She’s mad.”
“At you?”
He itches his cheek with the back of his hand. “She’s upset about her mom showing up because of the therapy exercise she was doing—feels used. I can understand that. She’s upset at me because I moved her like an Army kid when it didn’t need to be that way. And maybe—deep down— I was trying to keep her from her mom. I don’t know.” He turns and leans against the wall now covered with new drywall. “I just thought–” he swipes his hands over his face and sighs. “I don’t know what I thought.”
“Can’t change it now.”
He pushes off the wall and looks at me. “You’re right. Past is the past, but I’ve got to try to figure out the road ahead. That might be different than what I’d had planned.”
“Yeah? How’s that?”
“Don’t know yet.” He leads the way back through the house to the porch. “Since we’re gabbing away like two old ladies, maybe just help me finish the drywall, and I’ll help with the kitchen after. Then I can teach you how to tape later this week.”
“Got it, boss,” I say.
When I get home after a day hanging drywall and some time spent pulling things ou
t of a kitchen falling apart, my body aches. I’m hungry, and I’m ready to collapse into a dead sleep, though some time spent lounging on the couch in front of the TV sounds awesome. But when I walk in through the front door of my house, Mom is there with Bill—used-car manager Bill—and a cozy dinner for two is set out on the dining table.
I ignite from tired to volcanic but hold in the eruption and vent steam by shutting the front door, removing my shoes, and moving my toolbelt from one shoulder to the other. Mom having Bill over is a strange thing to be angry about. I was the idiot, after all, who’d suggested she start dating. I suggested she quit one of her jobs so she could have more time for herself. Now, though, seeing the idea in the flesh, I’m strangely upset about it. I also know that I have no right to have an opinion, but I fucking do.
“Hey Griffin,” she says when I walk into the house.
I grunt at her.
“Would you like to join us?” she asks.
“And impose? No thanks.”
Her smile fades with embarrassment, I’d imagine, and it makes me feel guilty which increases my irritation. “It’s no problem, right?” She looks at Bill and then back at me. “You remember Bill?”
Her deference to Bill makes me see red. She’s never asked permission to do something. Not from us. Not in her own fucking house.
“Griffin. How’s the car?” Bill responds, and I can tell he wants anything but me sitting down with him and his date. It’s on his face. The forced smile, the disappointed way his brow has fallen over his eyes.
She’s my mom. My mom. I ignore his question. “Where’s Phoenix?”
“Out.”
A meeting, I guess. He probably wanted to be around this as much as I do.
I harumph a noise at her. “I’ll just clean up and get out of here.” I trudge down the hallway and duck into the bathroom before she can say anything. She doesn’t, and that makes my mood even worse.
It’s irrational.
I text Max: My mom has a date at the house!
Max: Good for her.
Me: No! Not good. The guy’s a tool.
Max: How do you know?
I don’t. I know nothing about Bill. And I don’t think my mom does either.
Max texts again: Why does that bother you?
I want to throw my phone. Fuck! I don’t know.
I look at myself in the bathroom mirror and realize I’ve felt like this before. With Tanner. When he pulled away from our friendship and started dating Emma. I was angry and wanted to hold onto him because he was my best friend. I’d gotten sullen and sarcastic. He’d always been there for me, and I’d become afraid of losing him as my friend. My fear had been a self-fulfilling prophecy. That is exactly what had happened. Jealousy IS the most apt description.
Max: Relationship rules, SK. Trust your mom.
Me: Ok
Max: I’m here to listen.
I look at myself in the mirror. I don’t want to do the same thing to my mom as I did to Tanner. What had Cal said earlier? Past is the past, but I’ve got to try to figure out the road ahead.
By the time I’m showered, dressed, and leaving the house, Mom and Bill stand side by side at the kitchen sink, cleaning up the dishes. Still annoyed but more aware of my feelings, I sneak out the front door without saying a word. As soon as I make it to the car, I hear my mom coming out the door and down the walkway.
“Griffin. Wait.”
I turn and look at her.
It’s cold, and she’s come out into the frigid night air without a jacket. Her arms are crossed over her chest, her hands each holding an arm.
“You don’t have to go.” She tilts her head like she does when she’s studying me as if I’m a puzzle to be solved.
“You’ve got a date. I’m not staying.”
“But Bill doesn’t mind.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t care what Bill minds, Mom. I care what you mind.” I get into the car.
She knocks against the window until I unroll it. “You’re annoyed.”
I sigh. “I’m tired.” Which is true.
“You suggested I date.”
I look at the keys in my hand.
She stands in the cold at the window.
“You should go back into the house. You don’t have a jacket.”
She nods. “I don’t know if I’ll see you tomorrow, but I wanted you to invite your boss and his daughter over for Thanksgiving. You mentioned their kitchen is torn up, and I know they don’t know anyone in town.”
“You’re doing Thanksgiving? Here?” The idea is preposterous in my mind since she’s always worked. We’ve never actually had a real Thanksgiving.
“Yes. Shit, Griffin. Give me some credit.” She turns away. “I do cook.”
“Okay,” I call after her. “I’ll tell him.”
She waves at me without looking back, hurries up the walk and returns to the house. Back to her waiting date. I clench my teeth and back the car from the driveway, not sure where I’m even going.
2
The past is the past; I’ve got to figure out the road ahead.
Cal’s refrain plays through my head as I drive, and after mindlessly driving around town, I find myself in Tanner’s neighborhood, which is perhaps creepy on the surface. I rationalize that I’m not a creeper and pull my car over on the side of road outside of Tanner’s house, considering that maybe if he’s home, I’ll go apologize.
Most of the windows at Tanner’s are dark, and though I can see the glow of the kitchen, Tanner’s room faces the back of the house, so I can’t tell if he’s home. The garage doors are closed, which means I don’t know if his truck is parked inside without going to check. That would definitely make me look like a creeper. I can’t say I would knock on his door if I did see his truck.
I’m not angry at him anymore, just embarrassed, and insecure about my own role in the disintegration of our friendship. It’s weird to think how if one were just measuring the superficial differences of us, we’d be like night and day. Like our houses, for example. They are so different and yet our experiences are similar. Divorced parents, an older brother gone—though Tanner’s died and mine’s the prodigal son. The two-story monstrosity of his house might seem to insulate him from the same kind of hurts, but it hasn’t. When I consider the fissures between my best friend and me, I’m realizing I was the one to widen them. Tanner tried building bridges, while I just blew them up. He has every right to be angry with me, and that’s what I’m afraid to face: the truth through his eyes.
I imagine walking up to the door. Knocking. Tanner opening it, seeing it’s me, then slamming it in my face. That’s something I would have done. I did it to him when he chose Emma. Told him not to come crawling back to me when she left him because he wasn’t good enough. Thinking about it now, I cringe. I deserve a door slammed in my face, but I can’t face the idea of it occurring. Pride or something like it. Knowing Tanner though, like I do, it’s doubtful he would slam the door in my face. He’d sort of waved a white flag at Danny’s Swearing-In Ceremony, but still, I don’t take the risk. Instead, I decide to text him and take my phone out. I open my messages and press his name, but then stare at the bouncing line in the space. I start a message. Delete it. Start another one. Delete it.
With an annoyed huff, I toss my phone in the seat and drive away.
I don’t want to be at home with my mom and Bill. I can’t bring myself to talk to Tanner. Max is gone. I don’t want to do the same stuff I used to in order to feel numb. I’m not sure where to go, but then my stomach rumbles with hunger. I can eat.
I park at a diner. The restaurant isn’t full, a few patrons at the counter, and a smattering scattered throughout the joint from the tables set up along the rock wall on one side and the booths along the window of the other. I’ve never gone to a restaurant and sat by myself. With a sigh and a belly growling, I leave the safety net of my car and walk in, where I sit at the counter and pluck a menu from a holder.
But I’m not really looking at
the menu. I’m thinking about Cal and his words. The past is the past. I get I don’t have to live there, but I also know that I need to face that I’ve messed up too. Like they talked about at Phoenix’s meeting, seeking forgiveness and shit.
I pull out my phone and text Danny: How’s basic?
I set the phone down and resume studying the menu. The message wasn’t what I should have said. I pick up the phone once more and try again:
ME: I wanted to say you were right, bro.About everything. Thanks, and I’m sorry for being such a tool.
I set my phone down and select something from the menu, wondering why I can text Danny but am avoiding Tanner. As clear as the picture of the hamburger and French fries on the page, I hear a voice in my head: You have more to lose with Tanner. Why had Phoenix hidden the truth from me? He’d been afraid. Why am I avoiding Tanner? I’m afraid he won’t forgive me. I haven’t hurt Danny like I hurt Tanner. Tanner is my brother, and I stomped on that trust, that bond, and cracked it like bones. Danny told me the truth and drew a line, but I didn’t grind the heel of my foot into Danny’s heart.
The waitress stops to take my order. As she walks away, my phone buzzes.
I look at it, hoping the message is from Danny. It isn’t.
Hi. It’s Lauren from class. Ready to make a plan?
My eyebrows arch on my forehead. A couple of days ago, I was interested in the hypothetical idea of meeting up with her. Receiving the text, however, feels more real. I may have had quite a few encounters with girls, but I have no experience outside of Bro Code. Just Max. Without the alcohol and the party, how does one interpret another’s intentions?
Lauren’s text blazes in my eyeballs like a foreign language. Is it a hook up text? An ‘I’m interested in you’ text? A friend-zone text? I feel out of my element and too deep in my own swamp to know for sure.
I need help, but I’m too embarrassed to ask my brother. My former friends aren’t an option, so without thinking it through, I text Max: Hey. I need help.
Max: Yes. You do, SK. You good?
My heart bounces in my chest when her text comes through, and I smile. The waitress catches my eyes as she delivers the chocolate milkshake and my food, so I look up and wipe the smile from my face. When she’s gone, I pluck a French fry from the basket with one hand, smile again at my phone and Max’s text in the other. I grip the food between my teeth to free up both hands to text back.