by Ellie Wade
It’s Amos’s mother’s birthday, and his father insisted he drive back for her birthday dinner. Amos asked if I’d accompany him, and of course, I couldn’t say no.
Catching myself wondering what Leo is up to on a day like this, I attempt to force his gorgeous face out of my mind.
It doesn’t matter what he’s up to.
I’m hoping that, eventually, I’ll be able to have a thought that he doesn’t interrupt. I’ve seen Leo a total of six more times over the past few weeks at our twice-a-week tutoring sessions. Since his declaration of—well, I’m not sure of what exactly, but since his beautiful and broken words, it’s been okay. We meet at the office, we keep our talk strictly about his schoolwork, and we leave.
Easy.
All right, it’s anything but easy, but it’s doable. I only have to make it through twelve more hours of sessions.
“You’re quiet today,” Amos says as he takes the exit off of the highway leading home.
“Just tired.” It isn’t a total lie.
“Yeah, me too. You told your parents that you’re going to be home today?” he asks.
“I texted them. No response.” I’m honestly not surprised. Technology isn’t my parents’ thing. Their cell phones aren’t charged half the time.
“I guess they’ll be home, or they won’t.”
“Yeah.”
Amos’s knuckles bend as he grasps the steering wheel tight. He squeezes the hard plastic in a revving motion, and I know he’s getting nervous as we approach our street.
“As for dinner, we’re going to eat and leave,” he tells me.
“Absolutely,” I reassure him. “You know what? If your dad crosses the line, we’re going to get up and leave right then. You don’t have to be his punching bag anymore. You owe him nothing.”
“He’s paying for my college,” Amos adds quietly.
I sigh, “Yeah, that’s true. But still … he can’t just say hurtful things to you anymore.”
My words carry no weight though. Amos isn’t going to risk getting cut off when he’s only two months into his college career.
We pull into his driveway, and he puts the car in park and turns it off. I reach my left pinkie toward him, and he wraps his right pinkie around mine.
“We’ll be fine.” I give him a reassuring smile.
“I know. We will.” He nods once before exiting the car.
I grab the gift bag and bouquet of flowers in the backseat and shut the door. I spare a glance across the driveway to my house, and it looks just as forgotten as the girl who left it. The exterior has been untouched since we inherited it from my grandparents. The landscaping is withered, and the weed-choked grass needs a cut. My parents couldn’t care less about curb appeal, and it shows. I fight the urge to grab the mower from the garage, but it’s not my problem anymore.
“Do you want to say hi to your parents now or later?”
“Later.”
A sweet aroma hits us as we step into Amos’s home. His mother is a talented cook, and my stomach growls on instinct. At least the visit won’t be all bad.
“Baby.” His mother comes into the hallway, wearing a white apron.
“Happy birthday, Mom,” Amos says, extending his hand to give her a gift bag.
She smiles and hugs him. “I’ve missed you.” She clings to Amos, and in this moment, my heart breaks for her.
Mrs. Davis is a good person. She’s always been kind to me, but she’s never stood up for Amos. And as I watch her hold onto Amos as if her life depends on it, I realize that she’s a victim too. Now, she’s trapped here with her husband, alone.
She opens her eyes and smiles at me. She extends a hand in my direction. I clasp her hand in mine, and she squeezes gently. Finally, she releases Amos and puts his present on the small table in the hall.
“Happy birthday,” I tell her and give her the bouquet of gerbera daisies—her favorite flower.
“Thank you, Alma.” She takes the flowers. “Thank you for coming, both of you. Let’s go put these in some water.”
She starts for the kitchen, and Amos and I follow.
“It smells so good,” I tell her.
“I made all of Amos’s favorites. Barbeque ribs, brisket, mac and cheese, greens, and corn bread. Then, for dessert, I made coconut cake.”
“Sounds great, Ma,” Amos says.
“Amos,” Mr. Davis’s voice booms.
We both turn to face his dad, standing in the entrance to the kitchen.
“Dad,” Amos says, his voice void of emotion.
“I see you brought the hippie,” Mr. Davis grumbles.
Amos starts to step forward, but I grab his hand, pulling him back.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Davis,” I offer in greeting.
Eat and get out of here, I repeat our objective in my mind.
It doesn’t matter what Mr. Davis thinks of me. Fact is, I don’t think highly of him either. He’s never physically harmed Amos or Mrs. Davis that I know of, but his verbal and emotional abuse is hard to take. I recall once, after a particularly brutal tongue-lashing from Mr. Davis, Mrs. Davis told Amos that his father’s dad was worse and that Mr. Davis said what he said because he wanted Amos to be the best, to be successful and strong.
The thing is that Amos is all of those things, not because of his father, but despite him.
We sit down to eat, and I take a bite of Mrs. Davis’s mac and cheese. I have to stop myself from groaning aloud. She once told me that the secret to making anything delicious is to double the butter in all recipes. I thought she was kidding, but now, I’m not so sure.
“You look like shit,” Mr. Davis says to Amos. “You haven’t been confusing your priorities, have you?”
“No, I haven’t,” Amos answers.
“What are your grades?”
“All As,” Amos says.
“They’d better be,” Mr. Davis grunts, looking like he wants to say more.
I realize, as he stews over his plate with a grimace, he doesn’t know what to harp on Amos about anymore. Insults have been slung at Amos in the name of his future throughout his entire childhood. However, now, Amos is exactly where his father always wanted him to be.
“You’d better not screw it up,” Mr. Davis snaps.
“I won’t,” Amos replies.
“You still need to get accepted into the business school.”
Amos nods. “That’s the plan.”
Mr. Davis glowers. “Don’t embarrass me. Remember what’s important and don’t fuck it up.”
I take a large gulp of my sweet tea to stop my mouth from saying something that will make it worse for Amos. Maybe, someday, someone will tell Mr. Davis where to shove it.
“Shall we do cake? We should do cake.” Mrs. Davis jumps up from the table and hastily begins to clear the plates.
After cake, Mr. Davis leaves the dining room, and we let out a collective exhale.
“We should go, Mom,” Amos tells her.
“So soon?” she protests, her lips sinking into a frown.
“I’m sorry. I wish I could stay and visit with you, but we have to get over to see Alma’s parents and then get back. We have classes tomorrow,” he explains.
“I know you do, and I’m proud of you. I just miss you,” she says.
“Call me this week when Dad’s out, and we can chat freely. Okay?” Amos takes his mother’s hands in his.
“Yeah.” She nods and wraps her arms around his middle. “I love you, son.”
“I love you, Mom.”
I thank Mrs. Davis for a delicious dinner, and Amos and I bolt for the front door. Once the door is closed behind us and we’re standing on the porch, we both sigh.
“One down, one to go.” I grin.
“Yeah, let’s get this over with.” He entwines my pinkie with his, and we cross the driveway to my childhood home.
I knock on the front door, but there’s no response. I open it and walk in. A wave of stench smacks me right in the face, and I step back with a shudde
r. The smell is overwhelming—a combination of smoke and garbage.
I kick the cardboard boxes to the side. My parents have always been slobs, which is why I’m borderline OCD about a clean environment.
“Lee-Anne?” I call my mother’s name. She’s never allowed me to call her mom. “Vati? Papa?” I call out for my father. He’s always had me address him in his native German.
The house is quiet.
“Lee-Anne? Vati?” I call out again.
No response.
In the kitchen, there are plates of half-eaten food on the counter, and the garbage can is overflowing. Drug paraphernalia are scattered about. I continue past the kitchen, and that’s when I spot them.
“Ew,” I gasp and cover my mouth as I turn toward Amos.
He wraps his arms around me to shield me from the view.
I only saw them for a second, but the image of my naked parents passed out on the couch is seared into my brain forever.
“Let’s go,” Amos says as I keep my head buried in his chest. He leads me out of the house.
Once we’re clear of the horrors of my home, I open my eyes and inhale a breath, grateful for air that doesn’t coat my lungs with bile.
“Let’s get the fuck out of this town.” Amos pulls me toward the car.
“God, yes,” I groan in agreement.
I can’t say I’m surprised. It only ever resembled a home because of me. My parents have always cared more about epic highs and fuckfests more than they care about me. At least when I was living there, they attempted to keep their activities to the second floor of the house. Now that I’m gone, I guess every inch of that place is fair game.
Amos pulls out of his driveway and heads east, toward my new home because, let’s face it, I’d rather live in that small dorm room for the rest of my life than ever call my parents’ house home again.
“Do you think they’re worse?” I ask Amos.
“It’s hard to tell,” he says. “Maybe they are, or maybe they’ve always been that bad, and they tried to shield you from some of it.”
“That’s a sobering thought.” I let out a dry chuckle. “I don’t want to come back here.”
“I don’t blame you. Maybe, someday, they’ll get their act together, and you can have something resembling a relationship with them. But if they don’t … you’ll be okay. You’re not alone.”
“I know,” I respond.
I’ve never been alone. Amos has made sure of it. I don’t need countless people to love me to be okay. I just need one. As long as I have one, I’ll be fine.
FIFTEEN
Alma
Amos pulls up to the dorm. “With midterms coming up, I won’t be able to hang out for a while,” he says.
“I know. I’m busy too. We’ll chat soon,” I say as we lean toward the middle in our good-bye ritual.
“You’re okay, right?” Amos asks as I pull the handle on the door.
I turn back with a reassuring grin. “I am. You?”
“Always,” he replies. “Love you.”
“Love you.” I step out and shut the car door. I watch Amos’s taillights disappear around the corner.
“Hey.”
His deep timbre startles me, and I release a yelp, holding my hands to my chest.
“Oh my God, Leo. You scared me.”
“I’m sorry.” He attempts to hide a smile.
I playfully roll my eyes. “I see that.”
“What are you up to?” he asks.
“Nothing. I went home for the day. I just got back.”
“How was that?” he inquires.
“Not worth talking about,” I respond before saying, “What are you doing? Why are we … talking like this?” I’m not trying to be rude, but this kind of normal conversation isn’t us.
Leo ignores my question and instead asks, “Are you dating that guy?”
It takes me a second to understand what he’s asking. “Amos? No, he’s my best friend from home. Would it matter if I were?”
“Maybe.” He shrugs.
“Well, it shouldn’t.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
He’s taken a step closer to me now. I can smell the cologne or body wash he used, and it’s intoxicating.
“I’m going inside,” I tell him in a rush, eager to get some space between the two of us.
“Wait,” he blurts out. “I really need your help with something school-related.”
“What?” I quirk up an eyebrow.
“A paper that’s due tomorrow.”
“You need help with an assignment. Right now?” I ask slowly.
“Yes, please. It’s really important. I didn’t know who else to ask.”
He seems sincere, but I’m having a difficult time with trusting him. I am his tutor, not that I’m required to make Sunday evening house calls. Though the thought of hanging out with him is intriguing.
“Okay,” I say.
“Really? Okay, great. Do you need to grab anything, or should we just go?” He points behind him.
“Let’s just go.”
I walk in step beside Leo as we get farther away from the dorms. I should be scared, going anywhere with him since he’s a loose cannon, but I’m not.
“Did you have a good weekend?” I ask to fill the silence.
“I guess. I just hung out at home and played video games with Ethan.”
Leo turns onto a street with several restaurants. He slows in front of an ice cream shop.
“What are we doing?” I ask.
“It’s one of the few warm days we have left this fall. I figured we should stop for some ice cream.” He walks toward the ordering window.
“This isn’t a date, Leo,” I hiss under my breath.
“I know. What would you like?”
I roll my eyes. “A scoop of mint chocolate chip in a cone.”
“Waffle or cake?”
“Waffle.” I pucker my lips.
“Good choice.” He winks.
“We’ll have two large mint chocolate chip in waffle cones,” he tells the girl taking our order.
He pays and then hands me the cone.
“This is huge, Leo. I said, one scoop. I’ll never be able to finish this.”
“Eat what you want, and then I’ll finish the rest.” He says, taking a bite of his ice cream.
I walk alongside him. “Please tell me you’ve eaten something today.”
He chuckles. “Yes, I’ve eaten today, but there’s always room for ice cream.”
We stroll down the side streets of Ypsilanti until we’re across from the fraternity house.
“You live at the frat house?”
“No, I live here.” He veers toward a huge Victorian house that sits on the corner across the street from the fraternity house.
I follow him up onto his porch. “Who do you live with?”
“No one,” he replies.
“This whole house is yours? It’s huge.”
He opens the front door, and I step in.
“Your cone is huge. My house is huge. Seems to be a theme. Maybe I’ll show you something else that’s huge a little later.” He quirks up an eyebrow.
“That’d better not be a joke about your …” I halt my sentence. “Homework. Show me your homework,” I instruct abruptly, reminding myself why I’m here.
I adore charming Leo, but I’m not getting sucked in this time.
I hand him the rest of my ice cream cone. I can’t eat another bite. “I’m stuffed,” I say.
He takes it from me, walks over to the island in the kitchen, tosses it into the sink, and turns on the garbage disposal.
I do a slow turn around the room, taking it all in. It’s like something out of a magazine. The whole first level has an open floor plan. One can see across the living room and past the kitchen to the dining room on the other side. Contemporary artwork adorns the light-gray-blue walls, creating a kaleidoscope of colors reflecting on the shiny wood floor, and a leather sofa faces a flat TV screen so grand
that it could pass as another wall.
“That TV is …”
“Huge.” Leo grins, handing me a bottle of water.
“I can’t believe you live here. I’ve never seen such a beautiful home, and you’re what … twenty?”
“Just turned twenty-one actually.”
“When?” I ask.
“Yesterday,” he states.
“Oh my goodness. Happy birthday! And you just sat around, playing video games? Did you have a party or see your family or anything?”
Leo sits on the couch, and I follow suit, sitting a few feet away.
“Nah. I hate when people make a big deal about things like that—at least when it pertains to me. Honestly, I despise most people, so being forced to hang out with them would be the worst birthday gift ever. I hate parties.”
I shake my head. “I know that’s not true. I’ve seen you in action at a couple of parties.”
“I said, I hate parties. I never said I hate getting fucked up. There’s a difference.” He takes a sip from his water bottle before screwing the cap back on and setting it on a slate-gray end table in front of us.
“Oh, right.”
Our conversation from weeks ago surfaces, and I remember when he told me that he was so messed up that he didn’t remember seeing me walk in on the girl giving him a blow job. Suddenly, my ice cream isn’t sitting very well.
“I didn’t get wasted yesterday,” he tells me. “In fact, it’s been a while. I’m trying to be better.”
“Why?” I ask because I need to know.
“There’s something I want more than a high, and I don’t think she’s a fan of illicit substances.”
I swallow, finding it hard to breathe. Why is he doing this?
“We really should get to your assignment.” My voice quivers, and I swallow a gulp of water.
Leo scoots toward me on the couch. “Tell me what you want me to do.” His voice drops an octave, making him sound hoarse and sexy.
“What?” My voice cracks.
“Tell me what you want because, Alma, I can’t go on like this. I have you every time I close my eyes. You’re there in my mind, and it feels so good. Yet, when I open my eyes to face reality, you’re gone, and we’re in this weird limbo, where all we can talk about is commas and other fucking punctuation. I want you. Period. I don’t give a shit where the apostrophe goes.”