All the Things We Never Knew

by Liara Tamani

  But this morning, I loaded it, typed, What I’ve been up to all these years, and quickly pressed Send.

  When I checked my phone at lunch and he hadn’t replied, I added, Oh that’s my new girlfriend. She can ball too.

  And after fifth period, when he still hadn’t replied, I texted, And she’s dope in a million other ways.

  Now that school’s over and he still hasn’t replied, I type, Not that you care. But something inside me won’t let me press Send. Something stupid and weak and still hopeful. You’d think that after all these years, I’d be all out of hope. Nope, not my dumb ass.

  I ring Carli. She still hasn’t texted me back from earlier. I want to know how her doctor’s appointment went, but she doesn’t pick up. Damn, did the doctor tell her she couldn’t play?

  Coach gave us a rare day off—no practice, no game, no team meeting, nothing. Said we needed rest before the playoffs. But it’s hard to rest when I don’t know what’s up with my girl.

  When I get back to the crib, my father’s Tesla is parked in the driveway. His sneakers and messenger bag are haphazardly tossed by the front door. The house is toasty. And I can hear the TV playing in the living room. It feels like home. So much so that I want to drop my backpack and yell, “Dad, I’m home!” like people do in the movies. But my mouth acts like it doesn’t know how to move.

  And my body isn’t doing any better. Instead of heading to the living room, I’m standing frozen in the foyer with my arms folded across my chest, feeling like . . . It’s hard to explain.

  Man, do you know how many times I’ve hoped to come home to my father sitting in the living room? How many times I’ve psyched myself into thinking, Today is the day. The day he’ll be chillin’ on the sofa when I get home and I’ll join him, and we’ll chop it up and maybe even bust out a bag of potato chips. Now today really could be that day. It definitely feels like that day. But what if it isn’t?

  Well, it wouldn’t be anything new. I don’t have anything to lose, I convince myself, and take off my coat and shoes and put them away in the mudroom. Then I take as much air as I can into my lungs and blow it out slow before walking down the hall and turning the corner.

  I don’t see my father, but he must be around here somewhere. A clip from my freshman year is playing on our ridiculously large flat-screen. Not one from the video Carli’s dad made. Must be YouTube or something. And I’m right on time to see my younger self cock the ball back and posterize somebody.

  “Damn, your boy is cold!” I say, out loud to myself. In case you haven’t noticed, your boy is prone to referring to himself in third person. Makes talking to himself more fun.

  But this time there’s a response. “You really are,” my father says in his soft voice, and sits up on the sofa. He looks back at me, eyes red and puffy, like he’s been crying. Actually, he’s still crying.

  And once again I can’t move or speak. This moment should feel good, right? In my head, my father watching me play, giving me praise, and shedding tears for me is like heaven.

  But standing ten feet from the man who ignored me all these years and actually hearing his words and seeing his tears is different. It’s all kinds of shock and hope and sadness and love and hurt and anger and hate—yes, hate—pushing up inside me all at once, trying to get out.

  I don’t know whether I want to run to him or away from him. Whether I want to punch him in the face or hug him. I just don’t know.

  “Why did I buy this sofa?” he asks, and reaches around to rub his back. “They shouldn’t even be able to call this thing a sofa.”

  Of all things for him to say. It’s weird. I think if he would’ve said, Sorry, or something like that, my hate would’ve come raging out. But I could feel him on the sofa tip—deeply. “Man! I. Don’t. Know,” I reply. “That sofa is trash. All the seating in this house is trash.”

  “It really is. We need new furniture, stat. I want to be out here—”

  “Word,” I interrupt, “like yesterday.” I’m not ready for everything he has to say. Not yet. I walk a few steps closer but don’t go sit down.

  “Let’s do it. This time you can pick it out. Clearly I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “Bet! Carli’s mom is a designer. I’m sure she could hook the house up,” I say before realizing he doesn’t know who Carli is. “Carli’s my girlfriend.”

  “Figured that,” he says, and guiltily shifts his eyes away from me. “The one from the video you sent?”

  “Yeah,” I say, trying to pretend that our everything-is-cool bubble just didn’t crack, trying to pretend that him not knowing Carli’s name or not really knowing who I am or never seeing me ball or him refusing to love me all these years doesn’t hurt, doesn’t piss me off.

  I walk over to the kitchen to get myself some apple juice. “Want some juice?” I call out to my father to try to repair the crack. I’m good with the everything-is-cool bubble for now. Nah, I need the bubble right now.

  “Yes, please,” my father says. “And can you heat up a couple of those arepas?”

  “Arepas! Angie was here again?”

  “Yep.”

  “Man, Angie’s arepas go so hard.”

  “Don’t they?”

  And just like that, we’re back in there.

  CARLI

  When we pull up to the house, Daddy’s Tahoe is parked in the middle of the driveway.

  “Now, why would he do that?” Mom says, and parks on the street.

  “Probably wasn’t thinking.” I defend Daddy, even though I’m mad we’ll have to walk in the cold instead of going straight into the house from the garage. But right now, it’s not about me. If Mom and Daddy have any chance of reconciling today, she can’t start off with an attitude. “You need help carrying anything?” I ask Mom to try to help better her mood.

  “Yeah, can you grab those plans off the backseat? Thanks.”

  I turn around, get on my knees, and grab two giant rolls of architectural plans. Barbara A, the name of Mom’s interior design business (her first name and middle initial), is stamped in red on the outside. “Are these for the new boutique?”

  “Sure are,” she says, smiling. “We start the build-out next month.”

  Inside, Daddy’s keys are in the singing bowl on the side table near the front door. I stop and smile at them for a second before going into the breakfast room where he and Cole are at the table playing chess on our vintage chessboard. Well, actually, Daddy looks like he’s trying to decide his next move and Cole is taking pictures. Not even with his iPhone; he brought out the Nikon—the big dog. He’s probably thinking the same thing I am—There’s hope!

  “Hey,” Cole says, and comes to give me a hug. But he has on entirely too much cologne. Don’t know what girl he was trying to impress, but he’s not about to have me smelling like that.

  I duck his arms. “Dang, bathe in cologne much?”

  Cole pinches his shirt as if poppin’ his collar. “Don’t hate. Appreciate,” he says, and laughs.

  “Brought some Ethiopian food,” Daddy says, and stands up out of the deep-seated bench flanking the window.

  Behind him the wind whips through the big tree in the backyard, making the antique brass bells hanging from its branches softly ring out.

  “It’s in there on the island,” he adds.

  He knows Ethiopian is Mom’s favorite. There’s definitely hope.

  Mom looks over at the white plastic bags sitting on the kitchen island—teal with a butcher-block countertop. “Thanks, just give me a minute to put all this down,” she says, referring to the stack of catalogs she’s carrying.

  “I’ll get ’em,” Cole says, offering to take them from her.

  “No, it’s fine,” she says, and walks past the kitchen and down the hall to her office.

  Before I hug Daddy, I place the plans down on the table next to the chessboard. Man-oh-man-oh-man, does it feel good to be hugging him in our house.

  “What are these?” Daddy says, and lets go of me. He reaches
down for one.

  Oh shit! He’s not supposed to know about the new boutique. “Oh, just some old plans,” I lie, hoping it ends there.

  But it doesn’t. He slides the green rubber band off one of the rolls and takes a look.

  “Why you being so nosy?” I ask, trying to play it off.

  Daddy spreads the plans out on the table.

  Cole walks over to take a look, too. “Oh, what’s this going to be?” he asks excitedly. “A bar? A restaurant?” Mom has designed several of those. Cole gets closer. “Big rounders . . . tiny squares . . . small rounders . . . rectangles everywhere. Oh, I see. It’s a boutique. It’s cool the way it’s set up,” he says, running his fingers along the blue lines. He’s always been able to easily read plans. But he’s terrible at reading the room. Can’t he see Daddy standing here fuming?

  “Yeah, looks like your mom is opening another shop,” Daddy says.

  “Oh, cool. I didn’t even know. Expanding! Go, Mom!” Cole says, still clueless.

  Daddy sits back on the bench, crosses his arms, and starts biting the inside of his cheek near his bottom lip. He’s pissed.

  Cole finally notices that something is up, and his face drains of excitement.

  Mom walks into the kitchen and gets four plates down from the cabinet. She hasn’t even looked at Daddy.

  I go help, taking four sets of silverware out of the drawer near the dishwasher. We are soooo close to having a family dinner. All of us together, sitting around the table, talking and sharing.

  “You know what?” Daddy starts, and stands up. The crease above the bridge of his nose is deep, his eyebrows low, and his nostrils are flared.

  Mom looks up at him. She’s holding two glass tumblers that she just got down from the cabinet.

  “I came over here to apologize. For everything. For creating this whole mess. But then I see this. You want to talk about my secrets, but you have yours, too, Barbara A.” Daddy’s voice is loud and harsh, and the emphasis on Mom’s business name is nasty.

  Cole and I exchange glances. He already looks ready to cry. But I’m sitting up here wondering about secrets. I mean, I know all about Mom’s secret. And yeah, she should have told Daddy about the new boutique, but Daddy stays trippin’ about how much she works. It’s not like he was about to be supportive. But what are Daddy’s secrets?

  Mom doesn’t say anything. She places the two glasses on the counter and reaches to get one more (there goes our family dinner). I wish she would at least say something.

  “Okay, okay,” Daddy continues, his face red. “You want to sit up here and ignore me? Well, I’m filing for sole custody. Let’s see how well you can ignore that.”

  “That’s absurd,” Mom says, like it’s a fact, and starts unpacking the Ethiopian food.

  “I have grounds,” Daddy says, turning on his lawyer voice. “With the new store, you’ll never be home. Hell, you were never home before. You can visit the kids at my house if you want.”

  “Visit? My kids?” Mom responds, her voice going uncharacteristically high. Daddy’s last comments definitely got her attention. “I think it’s time for you to leave,” she says, her voice returning to normal. “I hope you’re not serious.”

  “Oh, I’m dead serious,” Daddy says, walking toward the door. “And by the way,” he says, turning back and directing his attention toward me and Cole, “I found a house in the same neighborhood where the rental house is. So, if y’all come live with me, y’all can go to Woodside High.”

  “With Rex?” Cole asks, as if that makes everything better.

  “Rex! Who cares about Rex right now!” I yell, and run to my room.

  REX

  It’s freezing and I’ve been standing outside of Carli’s heavily studded, powder-blue front door for entirely too long. I lift the ring on the large metal knocker. I shouldn’t be here, I think for the hundredth time.

  See, Carli didn’t exactly invite me over. Actually, she didn’t invite me at all and still hasn’t returned any of my calls. And she’s never told me where her mom’s house is. Cole’s photo tags on IG helped me find the street—quiet and tree-lined in South Hampton near Rice University. And their mom’s old-school Discovery parked outside helped me pinpoint the house. It consistently appears in Cole’s feed.

  Yo, this is waaay too stalkerish. What am I thinking? I gently set the knocker back down without making a sound and put my hands in my coat pockets to warm them up.

  “Ugh.” I sigh, frustrated with myself, and a cloud of my breath hits the door. I swear it’s braver than I am.

  But I’m not getting back in my pickup truck without seeing Carli, you can bet on that. I need to make sure she’s okay. Assure her that missing the playoffs is not the end of the world. Plus, this crazy good day with my father won’t be the same if I don’t share it with her.

  The door starts making unlocking sounds from the inside. Shit! I want to run, but there’s no time! I look for somewhere to hide on the long porch, but there’s only the hanging swing and two large pots with unhappy succulents. It’s too cold for them to be outside.

  The door opens. The same tall woman with short hair from the hospital is about to walk out of the house with a thick blanket wrapped around her. But when she sees me, she stops and narrows the opening in the door. She looks at me—alarmed.

  Oh, wait. She doesn’t know me. “Hi, I’m Rex,” I hurry up and say.

  “So you’re Rex,” she says, like she’s been hearing things about me.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “No need for ma’ams,” she says, and widens the door. “Why don’t you come in.”

  “Thanks,” I say, and step in, feeling my body relax into the warmth. I swear, the insides of a house have never felt or smelt so good. It’s like the toffee candy Angie used to make mixed with her morning coffee with a little bit of Christmas and a dash of lavender. Don’t forget about the vanilla. It’s like the scents never end.

  Carli’s mom closes the door and says, “I’m Barbara,” extending her hand out from underneath the blanket to shake mine.

  “A pleasure to meet you,” I say as politely as I can.

  “Carli!” she shouts over her shoulder, “Rex is here!” Then she turns back to me and asks, “So, you go to school with Carli?”

  “No, I go to Woodside High.”

  “I see,” she says, and nods.

  Carli comes walking down the hall in a long NASA T-shirt hiding everything underneath. What exactly? My eyes are begging to know. They look closer and I tell them to stop, but they’re like hardheaded kids. They’ve never seen so much of her skin. The strong curve of her calves, the light spots dotting her right shin and knee (I wonder what those are), the dark bruise on her left thigh (I wonder how she got that), the way her thighs get paler and thicker, much thicker, as they reach higher toward the shirt. My eyes turn things over to my head and I wonder what her thighs look like higher, even higher—hot damn.

  “It’s so cold,” Carli says, hugging herself as she nears the doorway. She looks confused, like she’s wondering what I’m doing here, and her usual brightness is strained behind sad eyes.

  Damn, I feel awful. I’m standing here eyeing her up, not even thinking about the whole reason I came over in the first place. I can’t imagine having to sit out the rest of the season and missing the playoffs. I wish I could wrap my arms around her and tell her it’s going to be okay. But I don’t want to do all that in front of her mom, so I say, “Yeah, it is.”

  “Well, maybe you should go put some clothes on,” her mom says, and gives her a look.

  Carli rolls her eyes. “I have clothes on,” she says, and raises her shirt to show some small drawstring shorts.

  “Barely,” her mom replies.

  “Really, Mom?” Carli whines, widening her eyes.

  “Fine, I’m going out to put the Rover in the garage.”

  “Okaaay,” Carli says in a way that sounds like, Why you telling me?

  I’m so embarrassed I could disappear. Sad or
not, that was rude as hell.

  Her mom tilts her head, shifts her neck back, and gives Carli a look. I don’t need a mom to know that look. When a woman starts using neck action, shit is real.

  “Sorry,” Carli says, and softens her eyes. “It’s just—”

  “I know,” her mom interrupts, returning the soft look, and adds, “It’s okay,” before hitting the unlock button on a car key, tightening the blanket around herself, and dashing outside.

  I scoop Carli up in my arms.

  She hugs my neck and sighs, breath hot and sticky with hurt.

  “It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay,” I say, holding her.

  She sighs again and slides her long body down mine. “What are you doing here? How’d you even know where I live?”

  But before I can come up with an answer, she gently takes my hand and leads me farther into the warm house with its old wooden floors and colorful rugs and clusters of sweet-smelling candles burning on every table. Past paintings and masks and maps and mirrors and framed photos hanging on white walls. Past the living room with its velvet burnt-orange sofa and floor-to-ceiling books on recessed shelves. (Man, I would kill to live in this house.) And down the hall to her room.

  CARLI

  I close the door to my room, lean back against it, and grab Rex’s hands—still cold. I bring him closer to me, rub my nose against the tip of his nose—even colder. Rub my left cheek against his, back and forth, until his warms.

  “Damn, how long were you standing out there?” I say, and give him a kiss.

  “A minute,” he says, “a long minute.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t know you were coming. What are you even doing here?”

  He’s looking around at my walls. “Well, Cole—”

  “Oh my gosh. I’m so stupid. Of course it was Cole,” I say, feeling my upper lip hike up. If Cole thinks inviting Rex over tonight is about to make me peace out Mom, he has another thing coming.

  “No, no. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Tried calling and texting but hadn’t heard from you,” Rex says, and lowers the black hoodie off his head, his face holding space for everything good and sweet.