If I Told You So

by Timothy Woodward

  When Steve figures out I am not about to shake his hand, he forces a smile that says, I understand. I wouldn’t shake my hand either, and sits back down. If my mother is aware of my rudeness, she doesn’t show it.

  “We were just having a nightcap.” She grabs the wine bottle again and holds it up to me, proving her point. “I thought you were out watching the fireworks.”

  “I thought you were, too.” I can’t help letting a little teenage impudence sneak into my tone. “So you should know they ended almost two hours ago.”

  She cocks her head. “Of course.”

  “I just came down because I thought we ‘needed to talk.’ ” I do finger quotes. “But clearly that isn’t an option tonight.”

  My mother’s mouth opens slightly, but no words come out. She doesn’t want to show anger in front of a guest so she’s choosing her words carefully. “Maybe . . . ” She trails off and looks at Steve. I can tell she’s contemplating asking him to leave. She tightens her lips into a forced smile, and she stares down at the wine bottle in her hands.

  I look at her hands, too, and I notice that they are not the hands of a young woman. My mother has always aged gracefully, as they say, and so I often forget that she is nearly fifty. Her hair is not gray, she has kept her figure, and she goes out on school nights. But her hands give her away. I can see blue veins protruding slightly on the backs of them, and her knuckles are small knobs in the middle of her bony fingers. My mother’s face and body may pass for ten years younger, but not her hands. And I realize that I can’t remember the last time my mother had a boyfriend. She and my dad have been divorced for five years, and my father has moved on and is starting over with a new girlfriend. But my mother is still single. Part of me likes it that way; I get her all to myself. But a smaller, less selfish part of me understands how unfair I’m being.

  “Forget it, Mom. We can talk tomorrow. I didn’t mean to interrupt your date.” I turn to go, but stop and turn back. “It was nice to meet you, Steve.” There’s a moment of awkwardness, and I book it out of there before any more weirdness takes place.

  Chapter 31

  I’m anxious to see Jay when I get to work the next day. I didn’t sleep well, and it would do a lot to ease my mind if I could just talk to him. But when I walk in the back door and see the fabulous Renée, I know something’s up.

  “Sean, fabulous.” Renée dumps a tub of mocha chip in my arms before I even have a chance to say hello. She’s in nonstop mode, and in her Pink Cone T-shirt, she reminds me of the Energizer Bunny. She heads into the storeroom and begins tearing it apart. I can barely hear her over the sound of boxes being thrown from shelves. “Jay called in sick. Harleigh sprained her ankle horseback riding, and I can’t find the cherries. I called Ashley, but she’s not answering her phone. I sent Becky out to buy cherries. We open in fifteen minutes. Where is she?”

  “I’m right here!” Becky is pushing through the back door with a brown shopping bag full of jars of maraschino cherries. “They didn’t have any of the bulk jars at Porfido’s Market, so I just bought all of the little jars.”

  “Fabulous!” Renée steps out of the storeroom. Her face is red, and the hair on one side of her head is sticking out where she’s been pulling at it. “Jay was supposed to order cherries, and now he’s not even here. No Jay. No cherries. No Harleigh. No Ashley. What else don’t we have? Do we have spoons? This is an ice cream shop; we’re supposed to have spoons. Where are the spoons?!”

  Becky shoves the bag of cherries onto the warming table and grabs Renée by the shoulders. “Breathe. Sean and I can handle this. There’s spoons for everyone.”

  Renée’s eyes are wide, and they keep sliding from side to side like she expects a SWAT team to come bursting through the doors at any moment. I grab a container of plastic spoons and hold it up to reassure her.

  Finally, after several deep breaths, Renée has calmed down. She waves her hands in front of her face like she is brushing away a mosquito. “I’m sorry. You guys must think I’m crazy.”

  “We already knew that,” Becky says.

  “It’s just that Hannah’s parents are in town this weekend and . . . ” Renée clenches her hands into fists, searching for the right words. “We . . . don’t . . . see eye to eye. They still blame me for turning Hannah into a lesbian.”

  Becky and I just stare. What do you say to a forty-year-old lesbian with in-law problems?

  Renée closes her eyes and shakes her head. “Why am I even telling you this? You two are, what? Sixteen? Seventeen?” She snorts in disgust and goes back in the storeroom. We hear boxes being slammed around again. We have been dismissed.

  Renée finally leaves the Pink Cone an hour later after completely reorganizing the storeroom in alphabetical order, which is not necessarily a good thing. Now the pineapple topping is next to the paper dishes and pint containers, while the chocolate chips are next to the condensed milk. It takes Becky and me almost ten minutes to figure out that the coconut is on the shelf with the strawberries and sprinkles because it is called “shredded coconut.”

  “People who organize things when they are stressed out,” Becky says, standing in the storeroom doorway, “stress me out.”

  It’s a slow day for customers, most people having met their ice cream quota last night during the fireworks, so Becky and I have plenty of time to talk.

  “Where do you think Jay is?” I ask during one of the lulls.

  “Probably hungover.”

  “I really wanted to talk to him.”

  “What would you say?”

  “I just want to know why his boat was here.”

  Becky is crouching down, restocking a cabinet with bowls and spoons, and she doesn’t look up to answer. “You’re still on that? If it’s that important, why don’t you just call him?”

  There’s a good reason for that. “He doesn’t pick up.”

  Becky lets out a short laugh. She finishes stocking the cabinet and admires her work for a second before standing to face me.

  “Sean, I hope you’re not getting the wrong idea.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s just—” Becky takes a breath. “It sounds like you hooked up.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I mean, like, you hooked up. Just hooked up.”

  I don’t understand, and my face must show my confusion because Becky explains.

  “I don’t think Jay ever wanted to be your boyfriend.”

  “What?”

  “Think about it. I mean, what kind of boyfriend doesn’t answer his phone when you call, or at least call you back?”

  “We work together. I see him, like, every day.”

  “Okay, then where is he? What about his other friends? The ones he goes clubbing with? What about the guy I heard him talking to on the phone?”

  “Friends.”

  “Sean, he’s eighteen.”

  “So?”

  Becky sounds like a doctor giving bad news to a patient. “Jay just wanted you for one thing.”

  “What about Camp Aweelah?”

  “He was having fun. He said himself his plans were canceled. ”

  “We had sex.” I don’t want to believe Becky, but a gnawing in the bottom of my stomach is growing. I feel my gut twisting, and I take deep breaths to keep from throwing up. “He said he loved me.”

  “Oh, babe.” Becky pulls me to her and pushes my head into her shoulder.

  My eyes are hot with tears. “I don’t want to be a cliché.”

  I let Becky stroke the back of my neck, thankful for a friend like her. After a minute, my nose is running, and I sniff to clear it. I pull away from Becky to wipe my face. She hands me a napkin from the dispenser by the window and gives me a look of pity. Her eyes are shiny, and I can tell she feels bad for me, but she’s also enjoying her role as comforter. And then I realize, Becky has every reason to sabotage my relationship with Jay. She’s just jealous. It’s not that Jay lied to me, it’s that Becky wants me to think that Jay lied to me
. The gnawing in my stomach turns to an icy certainty, and I take a step away from Becky.

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. I don’t believe you.”

  “Sean?”

  “I don’t believe you. Jay does love me. You’re just jealous because I want to spend time with him.” If Jay didn’t love me, then why would he spend so much time with me? Take me out on his boat, flirt with me at work, kiss me the way he does? Why would he say he loves me? Jay wouldn’t say it without meaning it. He just wouldn’t.

  “What?”

  “Why? Why would you say that?”

  “Don’t get upset.”

  “I’m already upset. You almost convinced me that Jay didn’t love me. That he used me for sex. I thought you were my friend. ”

  “I am.”

  I clench my jaw, and I barely open my lips. “Not anymore.” I turn and walk out of the Pink Cone. Becky doesn’t say a word.

  Chapter 32

  I don’t go straight home. I ride my bike to Mann’s Hill and sit for a long time on top of my favorite rock. I go over every moment I’ve spent with Jay until I am convinced that I am right. I can’t believe I almost listened to Becky. Jay has been nothing but sweet to me since my first day at the Pink Cone. Why would I ever think he didn’t love me? Just because his boat wasn’t where he said it would be? It’s late afternoon before I finally head back to my house.

  My mom is in the kitchen when I get home, but I go straight to my room to change. I pull off my work shirt and throw it in a ball in the corner of my room. I spilled hot fudge on my shorts, so I slide them off and kick them in the corner, too. Looking around for clean clothes, I realize my room is a mess. I haven’t cleaned it all summer, and it shows. How am I supposed to find anything in here? I pull out the second drawer in my dresser for a new pair of shorts. It’s empty. When was the last time I did laundry?

  I’m suddenly very tired. I collapse into my desk chair. I sit there in my boxers, not sure of what to do next. There’s a pile of dirty clothes spilling out of my closet; maybe I can find a wearable pair of shorts. I spin around in my chair, relaxing my eyes and letting my room turn into a blur until I’m so dizzy I can’t take it anymore. I fall over onto my desk. The sudden movement wakes up my computer and the screen comes to life. I focus my eyes. There he is in my instant message buddy list: Jayman814.

  NHBeachBoi: Hi

  I wait a few seconds. There’s no away message this time.

  Jayman814: sup?

  NHBeachBoi: you weren’t at work

  Jayman814: so hungover

  NHBeachBoi: feeling better?

  Jayman814: yea

  NHBeachBoi: I was hoping to see you

  Jayman814: sry man

  NHBeachBoi: tonight?

  Jayman814: not relly up 2 it

  Jayman814: Hey, gtg

  Jayman814: ttyl

  Before I can reply, Jay’s screen name disappears from my buddy list. I notice I have goose bumps on my arm. I get up and start to dig through the pile of laundry. I need to put on a shirt.

  I pull a yellow T-shirt from under the pile and hold it up to my nose for inspection. It passes. Barely. I turn it right side out so I can put it on and I realize it’s the sign language shirt that Becky and I bought at the thrift store at the beginning of the summer. I smile at the memory. I almost throw the shirt back in the pile, but I change my mind. I pull it over my head.

  I find a pair of cargo shorts I’m pretty sure I only wore once and pull them on, too. I’m just doing the button when there’s a knock at my door.

  “Honey?”

  “It’s open.”

  My mom walks in and lets her eyes scan the room.

  “I know. I’ll clean it this weekend.”

  She nods. She shifts a pile of rejected T-shirts from the end of the bed and sits down. She reaches out a hand and guides me to the spot next to her. I swallow. I can sense that she’s about to cash in on that talk I owe her.

  “After last night, I thought a lot about how I’ve been treating you.”

  I keep quiet. I don’t know where she’s going with this yet.

  “And I realized that I haven’t been fair. How can I be upset with you for staying out late and not telling me where you’ve been when I’m doing the exact same thing to you?” She puts a hand on my knee and squeezes it. “I guess what I’m trying to say is I’m sorry. At school, I’m always telling parents that the ‘Do what I say, not what I do’ method of parenting never works. And here I am, not following my own advice.”

  I still don’t say anything. I’m afraid if I agree it’ll sound like I’m saying I told you so.

  “From now on, let’s be honest with each other. I’ll tell you about Steve, and you tell me about Jay.” She turns to look at me and then slides an arm around my shoulders. “Is it a deal?”

  I nod my head. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

  She squeezes me in a one-armed hug. After a while she pulls me up from the bed, and we head downstairs.

  At the top of the stairs, my mom says, “There’s someone else you might think about telling about Jay.”

  “Who?”

  But she doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. We get to the bottom of the stairs, and my dad is sitting on the living room sofa. He’s facing the picture windows that look out over the lake, but he turns around when he hears us on the stairs.

  “Sean! I was thinking you might want to go out fishing with me tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “You have other plans?”

  I want to say yes, but in this whole new spirit of honesty, I just shake my head.

  “Great! I have to head back to Georgia next week, and I thought we could go out on the lake one last time.”

  I look at my mother, and I am angry. I feel ambushed. She feeds me a story about our new open-and-honest policy and then lures me downstairs to my waiting father. “I don’t think so.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to go fishing. I don’t even know why you came up here. Don’t you understand? I went out of my way to get a job here in Bell Cove so I wouldn’t have to spend the summer with you. Just because you traveled a thousand miles doesn’t change that.”

  My mother puts a hand on my arm, but I shake it off. “And you! ‘Let’s be honest with each other’? This is bullshit.”

  “Sean, don’t talk to your moth—”

  “BULLSHIT!” I storm back up to my room and slam the door so hard it sounds like a gunshot.

  My knees are sliding beneath me as I sink to the floor with my back against my bedroom door. It wasn’t that long ago I found myself in this position because I didn’t know how to tell my mom about Jay. And in a strange way, that’s why I’m here again. If I’m honest with myself, I’m not really mad with either of my parents. I’m mad because everyone keeps telling me that my boyfriend isn’t who he says he is. And they’re all wrong. It’s true that I’ve let Jay have a little piece of my emotions, and instead of taking care of that like a rare gift, he’s tossed it away like a prize from a Cracker Jack box. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love me. I know he does.

  Chapter 33

  I make it out of the house the next day without seeing my mother and head to the Pink Cone for an opening shift with Jay and Becky. I’m prepared for a showdown and am surprised and relieved that Becky isn’t there. Jay tells me that since Becky ended up working half her shift by herself yesterday, Renée gave her the day off today. Yeah, I feel a little guilty about that. But only a little.

  And any guilt I have is quickly forgotten when I realize I will have Jay all to myself for the whole shift. This will give us a chance to talk, and if it’s slow, who knows?

  I have a lot of fun shamelessly flirting with Jay all afternoon. I take every chance I get to tickle him, tousle his hair, and basically be in constant contact. Of course, I don’t do anything in front of customers, but there are long stretches where it’s just us, and I love it.

  I keep making exc
uses to go get things from the storeroom, hoping that one time Jay will suddenly “remember” something that he needs also, and we can sneak a kiss, but he never catches on. Finally, we run low on plastic spoons while I am helping a customer, and Jay goes to get them. Of course, since plastic spoons are on the “p” shelf it takes Jay a while to find them, and I am finished with the customer before he returns. I decide that he must need help looking.

  I find Jay in the storeroom and come up behind him. I snake my arms around his waist and try to kiss his neck. He shrugs me off.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m giving my boyfriend a kiss?”

  “We’re at work.”

  “There aren’t any customers.” I start to put my arms around him again, but he catches my hands. His grip surprises me.

  “Cool it. Out on my boat, that’s one thing,”

  “I’m only your boyfriend on your boat?”

  “I’m just saying I like my space. You’re a little clingy.”

  “Clingy?”

  “The constant contact thing. Just because we’re together, doesn’t mean we have to always be together.” He crosses his fingers and holds them in front of my face to emphasize his point. Then he snaps them apart. I get the picture.

  “Fine.” I set my jaw and turn away, but when I reach the doorway, he stops me.

  “We can go out tonight, if you want.”

  “Woohoo, on your boat again?” My sarcasm drips like a sugar cone in mid-July.

  “Don’t be like that. No, let’s get dinner. Like at a real restaurant, where they bring you menus?”