Love in the Time of Cynicism (16 page)

“We watched
The Breakfast Club
and I fell asleep on his couch,” I reply as calmly as possible. “And even if anything happened between us, it wouldn’t be your business. I don’t care what goes on between you and the various girls you have here; in fact, I cover for you with mom and Michael whenever you need me to without hassling you over it.”

“Need I remind you that you are barely seventeen and I am a consenting adult?”

“Barely,” I mutter under my breath.

“What does that mean?”

Sucking in an irritated breath, I reply harshly, “Trent, you’re twenty three. You’ve been living at home since graduation and go to classes strictly to meet girls you only want to have sex with. You have more drugs in your bedroom than a pharmacist and you drive a car older than you are.”

“Like you’re so much better?” He retorts angrily while keeping his voice quiet, “You don’t leave the house except for work and school and mom’s bullshit parties and, apparently, some boy you barely met two weeks ago. You get straight As but you haven’t applied to any colleges for reasons unknown to me.” My brother pauses like he’s not sure about saying what follows.

As my fists ball up at my sides and pent up emotions rage under my ribs, I ask softly, “Can you stop talking for a second?”

He’s going now, though. Each following word is a punch in the gut. “You’re afraid of
living
, aren’t you? Ever since you and that prick Eric dated when you were a freshman, you’ve avoided anything that could change you.”

My heart thuds and I try to turn around, to get out somehow as everything he’s said crashes over me. I move to run past him as my eyes clamp shut for a moment, trying to block everything out. But Trent grabs my shoulder and I instinctively flinch away. Without thinking about the consequences of my words, I yank my arm away and shriek violently, “You have no idea what you’re talking about, okay? Just…just
shut the fuck up and get away from me!
”

“Woah.” Trent stops, steps back, and reaches out. When his hand touches my shoulder again, it’s with fear and worry and love. “Talk to me for a minute.”

And then the words I never wanted to tell my family about Eric – truth like I haven’t spoken to anyone for two years and even then only to Sky – tumble from my unprepared lips in an unending waterfall until I’m sobbing and stuttering and sniffling through them and Trent’s hugging me to his smoke-scented chest and everything hurts but everything feels a little better, too.

Allow me to paint you a picture of that afternoon once I return from school.

Around four, Mal arrives with a suitcase and hugs for everyone. Unlike every other one of Michael’s offspring, she’s pleasant enough to be around. Her golden blonde hair’s been sheared ‘boy short’ and she spikes it up in the front; Michael comments how much she looks like a young lady, really coming into herself. She wraps me in a tight hug and tells me how much she loves my hair and how independent I’m getting, etc., etc. Then Michael carries her (large, designer) bag upstairs because this is one of many stops on her trip back to school in New York from a summer vacation somewhere exotic and even farther south than here.

Around five, Amanda, Mal, and I are somehow bribed and coerced into helping mom with the dinner preparations. She’s planned on making a disproportionately large feast for the seven of us and especially for Clayton, who’s coming home for the first time in a year. The meal is supposed to consist of potatoes cooked more ways than I can count, several whole chickens, desserts to give a child a heart attack, and vegetables that are only in season in very remote parts of the world. It’s relatively mundane and nice at this point, with lots of cordial conversation as we’re inculcated with the details of Mal’s far away life. Trent and Michael take positions in the living room while they wait for the arrival of Clayton, who’s two years younger than Trent and about four lifetimes more successful. The apple of Michael’s eye. The eyelash stuck in everyone else’s.

At 6:17, two hours later than promised, he struts into the house wearing basketball shorts and a navy muscle shirt emblazoned with Penn State across his chest. The number nine party school in the country, but of course Clayton’s studying law and legal practices so,
of course
, there’ll be none of that. I watch as Michael gives his son a bear hug and then Trent shakes his hand. Mal and Amanda rush forward to hug their brother and mom follows in close suit. I hand back for a bit, assessing the situation, as Trent briefly excuses himself to ‘take care of something,’ which is almost always going to smoke a few in his room.

The dinner is completed at seven and the whole family sits down once the men put the extra leaf in the formal dining table which we’ve never used before and all feel uncomfortable sitting at. And so the Kanes and the Singers sit down at a meal together once more.

And everything goes surprisingly well.

For a while.

For the first fifteen minutes of the dinner, I sit and eat as slowly as possible as I try to exactly match the eating pace of the talkers while avoiding talking at any cost. I’ve made it through the formalities of
what grade are you in
and
when’s your birthday, again
and
what college were you planning on going to
without much emotional trauma induced so I feel I’ve reserved the right to completely zone out from the rest of the conversation without feeling guilty.

After this initial phase, the tension settles in.

It starts with Mal raising her glass of white wine (even though she isn’t legally allowed to drink) and announcing vibrantly, “I’m getting married! I couldn’t hold it in much longer!”

Thus commences appropriate oohing and aahing at her (large, expensive) ring and the (über-romantic, over-prepared) proposal under the Mexico stars and such. She tells us that it’s the same boy she brought to mom and Michael’s wedding (she actually calls them ‘mom and dad,’ for the record) and everyone approves. Clayton apologizes for about the fourth time that his
steady girlfriend
Jess couldn’t come because of classes or whatever.

Then, much to my dismay, the conversation moves toward me.

“So, Del, you been doing any dating recently?” Clayton’s voice, marred by a mouthful of my mother’s food, which tastes, well, more
edible
than it ever has before, drifts over to me. Innocent enough, but I can already feel my hands go clammy under the table and my mouth dry up.

“Not really.” I shrug noncommittally and pray that my next forkful of food might be the one to choke me. Maybe, if I’m extra lucky, my drink will be poisoned by a vengeful step-sister.

“No, wait,” he continues just as Mal sees my awkwardness and tries to move things along. “A while back, mom said you were getting serious about some boy she hoped you would, like, marry or whatever it is you hope for these days. Whatever happened to him? Elliot, was it?”

“Oh!” Suddenly excited to jump back in, mom corrects him, “Eric. Eric Gainsborough. What a gentleman. Absolutely perfect for Del. What ever happened with you two, honey?”

I bite my lip briefly, exchange a glance with Trent. He looks absolutely pissed, nearly ready to explode; his wounds are fresher than mine. I shrug once more and take a bite of food for emphasis on how absolutely normal this conversation is to me. “He graduated. Went to college. It happens.”

“There’s got to be more to it that that,” Clayton argues like he’s some omniscient god of relationships and the complex infrastructure known as the female mind. “There has never been an average-looking girl who breaks up with a rich boy because he’s going to college. So what happened? Couldn’t agree on prom colors? You caught him cheating?” My nails dig into my knees and bite into the skin as I try to keep myself calm. Clayton isn’t finished, though, as he takes another sip of his (fourth? Fifth?) beer and continues, “Or was it something bad? He decided you weren’t pretty enough because, let’s face it, with a face and hair like yours-”

“You pathetic fucker.” This out-burst is from Trent, who has prepared himself for this family gathering by being high as a damn kite and utterly silent until now. His words are calm and sharp as knives as they’re thrown out and fall at Clayton’s feet.

“What the hell did you say to me?”

Michael clears his throat at this, loudly, and tries to calm them down. “Boy, watch your language. We brought you here to-”

“No, dad,” Clayton spits. “I won’t be talked to like that in my own goddamn house. And sure as hell not by some stoner asshole.”

Trent stands up and stares Clayton in the eye. “You don’t know
anything
about my family and I swear to god if you ever talk to my baby sister like you just did, I will
kill
you.”

He leaves in a huff and I’m left there, awkwardly shoving food to the sides of my plate and trying to think up ways to excuse myself without being rude. I glance at the clock. 7:45. My nightly call with Rhett won’t be for another hour and I’m already itching to talk with him again, to enter that impossible space where it’s the two of us drowning and floating in waves of music that wash over us not quite in sync as we both think of the next line.

So mom and Mal serve dessert as the family simmers with Trent’s absence. If I got up and left right now, things would cool off a lot faster. But that would backfire. Mom or Amanda or Mal would come up to my room to try to girl-talk and it would be awkward for everyone.

I stab my pumpkin cheesecake and take a bite, choosing, for now, to enjoy what has always been my favorite dessert instead of over-thinking the asshole who won’t even be in my house in a few hours. But then I get to realizing that the house was his way before it was mine. Clayton grew up in this home. He drew on the walls here and teased his younger sisters here and punched the lights out of Mal’s first boyfriend here (or so I’ve heard), which would make me the intruder. Which begs the question: who gets the rights to something? The first owner or the current?

Without hesitation, my mind answers.

“Hey, Del,” Clayton says once he’s finished off his (sixth?) beer. “I’m sorry, alright? Sometimes I can be a dick. It’s just how I am.”

“Preaching to the choir,” Mal jokes as I say, “It’s fine.”

Amanda laughs, and that’s that.

Everyone finishes up. Then commences clearing plates and washing dishes and helping mom put away leftovers like we’re on an episode of
The Brady Bunch
and are actually polite human beings. Michael wants us to watch ‘the game’ so we pile in to the living room. Even after he turns the TV on, I can’t tell if we’re supposed to be watching baseball, football, or basketball since the only thing the channel’s showing is announcers arguing. What’s the point? Michael and Clayton make lots of anguished noised like a puppy’s recently been hit by a truck every other sentence while Amanda and Mal catch up. My mom’s contentedly filling space on the couch and being doted on at regular intervals.

Looking over this family that’s supposed to be mine, I feel out of place because the person who covered for me, the person who cared why I was gone and stayed up the entire night to make sure I got home safe, the person who hugged me when I told him my story, is upstairs sulking and here I am with the asshat who made him leave.

“I think it’s about time for me to gracefully bow out,” I say over the din of the (football – Cowboys vs. Eagles) game. Apparently, there’s a rift between the men over who to support now that Clayton goes to school in the Eagles’ backyard but grew up in the Cowboys’.

“Yeah, sure,” Michael waves me away as one of the teams – the ones in the weirdly tight sea foam leggings – scores. Clayton gives me a ‘good night, kid,’ Mal gives me a tight hug and promises to see me before she leaves in the morning, and then I’m off.

Up the stairs and down the hall and knocking on his door. He answers immediately and I walk in, lean against the wall instead of sitting on his bed out of fear for infection. Let’s face it, Trent’s room is a cesspool of filth and disease. I make a point of only coming in here when it’s absolutely necessary, and now seems like a good enough time to risk it.

“What’s up, sister?”

It’s hard for me to swallow down what I’d normally say to him, or anyone, for that matter, after what he tried to do for me.
You didn’t have to do that. I don’t need your help. I could’ve handled it on my own
. Even though it’s difficult, I know now, with Rhett’s help, that’s saying those things has been me trying to push away people I care about. And that’s bullshit. He wanted to help. So I simply say, “Thanks, Trent.”

Puzzled both at the statement and my change of heart from the norm, he respond, “For what?”

“For caring enough to do something.” I delay these next words, try to deny the truth of them from my lips. “And for being willing to listen to my side of everything. I tried to tell mom a year ago and she thought I was lying, for attention or whatever. So thanks.”

“What am I good for if not blatant trust?” He laughs. Very Trent. “And if that Rhett kid ever hurts you, let me know and I’ll, ah-” he cracks his knuckles and neck “-take care of it for you.”

“What are you, a Corleone?”

He puts on his best Italian accent. “Only on the weekends.”