Can't Always Get What You Want (19 page)

After thirty years together, you’d think he’d have learned by now that Mom couldn’t care less about museums or the History Channel.

Accustomed to his usual chatter and halfhearted plans, she simply replies, “Wow, that sounds fascinating, Henry.” She’s usually flipping through a book, not really paying attention to what he says, or sometimes smirking at his absurd running commentary.

“And your mom? She’s still working?”

“Yep. She teaches high school English.”

Brett sucks in a breath through his teeth. “I hated English class. All those stupid essays, and Shakespeare. Could never get into it.”

“Then you’ve never had my mom for a teacher.” I laugh. “She’s the sort of person you’d remember as being your favorite teacher. She’s the reason I love books so much.”

Brett grunts. “I doubt that anyone could make me enjoy
Hamlet
. Or essay writing. Although I didn’t mind
Lord of the Flies
.”

“I loved
Lord of the Flies
. Poor Piggy.”

He grins at me, seeming pleased that I remember the characters.

July has passed seamlessly into August, and the drive to my parents’ acreage is filled with green fields and cows grazing sleepily along fence lines.

We eventually pull into my parents’ yard. Their old white farmhouse is surrounded by a circle of tall willows. A large vegetable garden and greenhouse are behind the house, just to the south.

My parents greet us in the yard before we’ve even left the car. Dad, tall and thin as ever, with his horrid dress sense. Today he’s wearing pleated brown plaid wool trousers that are about two inches too short, an olive green sweater vest (doesn’t he know it’s summer and thirty-five degrees outside?), and reading glasses from the seventies. In an offhanded way, I suppose he might be considered a hipster. My dad wore suspenders and pointy shoes decades before they were “cool.”

Mom is more conservative. Her graying blond hair is tied neatly into a low ponytail. She’s wearing a loose white T-shirt, baggy jeans, and flip-flops. I’ve never, ever seen her wear makeup. She often reminds me of Jane Goodall. I tried once to get a picture of her holding a chimpanzee toy, but she refused.

Spoilsport.

“Hey, Mom! Hey, Dad!” I call out.

We do the cursory introductions, and my parents offer to show us around the yard before we go in. Mom shows us her garden, while Dad talks incessantly about world history, and how gardening and planting crops changed the course of humanity.

Brett smiles politely and nods along.

“Oh, stop bothering the poor boy, Henry,” my mom says. “As if he cares about hybrid corn.”

“It was revolutionary! It grew in drought conditions, and now hybrid seed is common—”

“Who wants lunch?” my mom interrupts. We walk across the front porch and settle into the cluttered kitchen. She’s set up a fantastic spread of food: chicken and pecan salad sandwiches, fresh salad greens, lemonade, and oatmeal raisin cookies.

“Can you cook like this?” Brett mumbles to me.

“Guess you’ll have to stick around and find out,” I reply.

“Julie,” my dad says, “did I take my pills yet today?”

“How should I know?”

Dad teasingly narrows his eyes at her. “You
should
know—you’re the one who fills the pill thingy every week.” He leans toward me and points at Mom. “Some nurse she is, eh?” he says in a stage whisper.

I giggle, and stand up from the table. “Where do you keep your pills?”

“On the counter by the microwave. Thanks, love. Oh, and while you’re up, can you grab my juice from the fridge please?”

I clutch the pill organizer, then start rooting around in the fridge.

It’s completely full of grapefruit juice.

“Why do you have so much grapefruit juice?” I ask.

“Because your father’s on this new health kick,” Mom calls out.

“It’s great for your blood vessels. Stops hardening of the arteries.”

I examine his meds.

“Dad, are you still taking Verelan and Lipitor?”

“Lippy what?”

“Your blood pressure and cholesterol pills.”

He takes another huge bite of salad. “Yup.”

I come back to the kitchen and set his pills and a glass of water in front of him.

He looks sternly up at me. “Funny-looking juice.”

I laugh and settle back down into my chair. “Listen to Nurse Richards,” I say happily. “You can’t have grapefruit juice with those pills.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because grapefruit juice interacts with those medications.”

He frowns at me, contemplating. “How?”

“Basically, it reacts with certain medications in such a way that you risk overdosing.”

“Hmm.”

“Call your pharmacist if you don’t believe me. Or Google it.”

Eventually his expression relaxes into a smile. “Oh, if you insist.
Nurse
Richards.”

—

After we’ve finished, Dad claps his hands and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “All right, kids, let’s get this show on the road!”

He leads us toward the basement. I can already smell the dank, moldy scent of wet carpet and cardboard.

“Ugh!” I protest, hearing my shoes squish into the saturated carpet.

I survey the main room, and glance toward the three bedrooms. They’re stuffed with furniture, boxes, broken TVs, and whatever else that managed to make the move from our old house. Dad rubs his hands together and smiles encouragingly at everyone.

“Well, let’s get this show on the road. We just need to move one thing at a time. Rome wasn’t built in a day, you know.”

Mom simply rolls her eyes, and leads the way.

I peek up at Brett. What is he thinking? Perhaps this wasn’t the best way for him to meet my parents. You know, stomping through a mushy basement and sorting through thirty years of their accumulated crap.

He shrugs and smirks at me.

“Let me show you my muscles in action,” he whispers, while bending over to pick up a couch.

My goodness…he just lifted up an entire couch. By himself! I feel like I’ve just discovered that I’m in love with Superman.

Oops. Did I just think the “L” word?

Am I
in love
?

—

It’s four hours later, and we’ve managed to clear out everything.

“It’s going to take forever to go through,” my mom says fretfully, looking at all the boxes stacked in her kitchen and foyer.

“Most of it should just be thrown out,” I say. I can guarantee that nothing in that basement has been touched since the day they moved in six years ago.

“Absolutely not! There might be something important in there.”

“Important. You mean like…” I say while rifling through the box closest to me, “…the June 1994 edition of
Good
Housekeeping
?”

She crosses her arms. “I won’t keep
everything.
Just the really good things.”

Dad bursts through the front door, looking red-faced and sweaty. Brett joins him a few seconds later, fresh as a daisy.

“We’ve just loaded your car up,” Dad announces proudly.

“With what?”

He shrugs dismissively, while cleaning his glasses with his sweat-drenched green sweater vest.

“So, what’d you put in my car?”

“Mostly a few boxes from your college days.”

Translation: ratty scrubs, that gross floral bedspread I used at Samira’s house (I really should just burn it), and a sweater that I never wore because it was boxy and stiff as cardboard.

Mom grabs Brett’s hands warmly. “It was lovely meeting you, Brett. Thanks so much for all your help. You can come back anytime.” Her eyes dart toward his well-toned arms. Did she just
flutter
her eyelashes at him?

I laugh, and grab him by the arm.

“Come on, lover boy. Let’s get this show on the road.”

A snorting sort of laughter erupts from his chest.

“What?”

“You sounded so much like your dad there.”

“Really?” I ask, screwing up my nose.

“Yep. ‘Let’s get this show on the road’ is pretty much his catchphrase.”

Huh. He’s spent an afternoon with them, and already knows them better than I do. Go figure.

We wave goodbye and start the drive back home, bathed in the glow of a perfect sunset.

—

“That’s the last one,” Brett announces, heaving a heavy box onto my bed.

“Thank you for today,” I say. “I think my parents love you.”

I think I might too.

We lock eyes, and can’t seem to look away. Our lips meet; our limbs entwine. It’s a slow, deep, languid kiss. One that steams up the windows and makes me want to act out scenes from my favorite smutty romance books.

“Are you absolutely, one hundred percent sure about this no-sex thing?” I ask, jokingly. Well, not really.

Brett laughs, pressing his forehead to mine.

“You’re killing me over here.” He takes a cathartic, cleansing breath. “I’m going to get a glass of water. You want one?”

“Sure. Thanks.” I could use a cooldown.

Once he leaves, I go about opening the boxes. Rummaging through random things, like old tea light candles and term papers.

And that’s when I see it.

It’s a cheap, green plastic picture album.

Adrenaline runs wild through my veins. I can feel my pulse near my ear, roaring with blood. Each beat seems to say, “
Look. Look. Look
.”

I cautiously pick the photo album up, as if touching it might hurt me. I take a deep breath and turn the first page.

The first half of the book consists of pictures from my trip down the Atlantic coast with Samira, when we took a year off between high school and university. A year of campfires on the beach, wrapped in sarongs we bought in California. Eating take-out pad Thai in the front of the Volkswagen camper van. Beautiful sunsets.

And then…

I know what’s coming. The pages beyond are an irresistible siren call. I can’t stop myself, even if the memories are going to tear me in two.

And there it is. The first picture we ever had taken of us together.

The football game.

We’re both dressed in warm, thick hoodies and jeans. I’m sitting beside him, with the biggest face-splitting grin ever. His chin rests on my right shoulder; his arms are draped casually around me. The sleeves of his sweater are pushed up, exposing muscular, tattooed forearms.

I can still remember the way he smelled. Something to do with his cologne mixing with the scent of his skin. And his longish brown hair tickling my face.

He looks so perfect, so incredibly happy.

A small sob rips through my chest.

I miss you. So much.

The next page is filled with labels from jars of peanut butter and jam. I cover my mouth, and let out a small, surprised chuckle.

How could I have possibly forgotten about PB&J?

“Find anything interesting?” a deep voice asks over my shoulder.

“What? No! Nothing! Nothing at all!” I nearly shout. I shove the album back into the box. “Just a bunch of junk.”

I wince at my words.

You could never be junk to me. Please forgive me. I just don’t know if I can talk about you yet. Especially with Brett.

Brett eyes me curiously and hands me a glass of water.

“Want any help going through those?”

I laugh nervously, and shuffle him out of the room.

“No thanks, I’m good. I’ll go through it another day. I wouldn’t want to bore you. Most of it will probably be thrown out anyway.”

That was
way
too close. If he’d walked in even a second sooner, he’d have seen something more than labels from peanut butter and jam jars.

We settle onto the couch, and I quickly lose myself in his kisses. I need to forget, even if it’s just for a little while.

Chapter 16

Sweethearts Together

October 19, 2008

We’re seated around Nita’s kitchen table. It’s a weekend, and my mom has driven in from her new place in the country for a visit. Unable to pass up an opportunity to cook for someone, Nita has prepared an elaborate lunch.

“How’s the new house?” I ask.

Mom shrugs. “It’s good. I love the extra space. I think it might be bad for your dad, though. He hasn’t made an effort to make new friends, and spends the day watching CNN or the History Channel. If I have to hear one more time about Hitler’s Germany or natural disasters, I will scream.”

“Sophie has a boyfriend,” Samira interjects.

I blush furiously, and frown into my plate.

Traitorous cow.

Doesn’t she know the best-friend code of ethics? Thou shalt not reveal anything about new boyfriends, bad habits, skipped classes, or ugly haircuts until expressly given consent to do so.

“Oh?” my mom says.

All eyes are turned on me. I feel like I’m under a microscope.

“His name is Aaron. He’s just…wonde
rful.” I know I sound wistful. At any moment I’ll start spewing romantic crap about hearts and rainbows.

“You’re such a dork,” Samira grunts.

“Sounds pretty serious,” my mom offers.

I nod, unable to say anything that will convey just how happy I am.