CHAPTER 30
REID
I’m geared up for another hour or so of awkward silence on the drive back to LA—even more awkward now that we’ve seen Mom, now that her damage is out there, undeniable, visible to us both. The therapy session was like being cut in a hundred tiny invisible ways, and it’s inexplicable to me how that kind of opening up is helpful.
I pull out my phone to text John, but before I get far, Dad says, “I made reservations for dinner tonight.” My first thought is why are you telling me? Then I realize he means reservations for us. Oh, hell no.
“I’ve already made plans with John—”
His jaw tightens. “Push them back. Our reservations are early. Seven.”
My jaw mimics his and I fight to relax it. “Fine. I’m staying over with John. Probably tomorrow night, too.”
He nods curtly and I send John the text telling him to pick me up at ten. A late party is better than no party.
“Have you thought about what’s next, after School Pride wraps?”
What’s this? Interest in my career? “George sent a few scripts for me to look over.”
“I guess there’s no more cold auditioning for you, is there? You’ve arrived, as they say.”
I shrug.
The waiter fills our water glasses from a Perrier bottle and leaves it to the side. “Would you gentlemen like to peruse the wine list, or have a cocktail before dinner?”
“I would,” I say.
Dad shakes his head. “No thank you. We’ll be ready to order in a few minutes.”
“Yes, sir.” The waiter snaps the wine list closed and removes the wine glasses with one hand, crossing them like Marcie crossed her legs earlier today. Thinking about her doesn’t help my already fed up state of mind.
“What the hell, Dad?”
He fixes me with one of the stares he’s perfected after years of cross-examining hapless witnesses. I wait him out. “I’m aware that you drink, despite the fact that you’re considerably underage. You’ve been out from under my direct control for a while now, so I know there’s little to no hope of me influencing that behavior. But you’re not doing it in my presence, out in public. I have a reputation to maintain. So do you, not that you spare any concern for it.”
Wow. This trip is just one joy-infused moment after another. I should have stayed in Austin. “Why, exactly, did you decide we needed to have dinner together?”
He exhales through his nose, his patience as close to snapping as mine, though I can’t imagine why. He could have saved himself the agony by simply leaving me to my own devices for the evening. “I thought you might have questions about your mother’s rehabilitation process. Also I wanted…” he exhales again, his mouth a thin line, “…wanted to thank you for coming this morning. If nothing else, I know you care about her, and I appreciate the effort.”
If nothing else? What the hell kind of backhanded accolade is that? “I didn’t come for you, so you don’t need to thank me.”
“Nevertheless, I’m thanking you.”
“Awesome. Well, you’re so very welcome. Will that be all?” I sit up, put my napkin on the table.
“Why are you so hostile?”
“Why are you?”
“Look, I’m doing the best I can—”
“This is the best you can do, Dad?”
“Jesus Christ, Reid. Let’s not do this here.”
“I concur, counselor. Let’s not do it at all.” I sit back, fix an unnatural smile on my face and try to appear relaxed. “I don’t have any questions concerning Mom’s rehab at this time. I’ll let you or Marcie know if I do.” Marcie had given each of us her card and told us to call or email any time. Riiiight, that was going to happen. “Also, George and I are considering an action flick for my next project. They want someone older, bigger and more buff to do the part, but George is selling them on the idea that I can be each of those things. I’ll have to train like hell to get the role, but if they give it to me, I’m doing it.”
“Hmph,” he says, but it’s an impressed hmph. I haven’t gotten one of those in a while. I hate how good it feels—it totally pisses me off.
*** *** ***
Emma
“Have you told Emma about Derek?” Emily’s mom asks as we sit down to dinner.
“Abercrombie boy.” Jason, Emily’s twenty-something brother, moved back home three weeks ago, temporarily between jobs. Again. He makes a hobby of torturing his little sister.
Emily jerks the basket of rolls out of his reach. He’s already eaten two and was going for a third. “At least Derek has a job.”
Mr. Watson starts to laugh and tries to turn it into a cough as his wife gives him a tight-lipped look. Mrs. Watson believes that in order to succeed, young people need emotional support and encouragement. She’s the queen of cheerleading her kids, which worked well with Grant, the oldest, but appears to be backfiring in Jason. Em migrated to her dad’s way of thinking (that sometimes a person needs a swift emotional kick in the pants) when Jason moved back in for the third time.
“I’ve had jobs.” Jason scowls and digs into his pasta.
“That’s true,” Emily answers, “but keeping one seems to elude you. And really? The getting is easy; the keeping is the important part.”
“Like you know anyth—”
“Children!” Mrs. Watson says, and I wonder how that one word doesn’t make Jason go job-hunting immediately, and stay out until he finds one. “Emily, have you asked Emma’s opinion on the homecoming dance?” Uh-oh. I know this is a loaded question before Emily sets her jaw, because when Mrs. Watson invokes my view on something, she’s grasping for already rejected straws.
“Mom, seriously. You’ve gotta stop with the dance thing. We aren’t going.”
“So Abercrombie boy didn’t ask you?” Jason snatches a roll from the edge of Emily’s bowl. “What, he didn’t want to waste the money to see you wear a new shade of black?”
“Bite me, mister perpetually unemployed.” Emily takes a roll from the basket to replace the one he’d stolen. “You can’t afford to take someone to the Mini-Mart.”
“Enough! We have a guest!” Mrs. Watson says.
“Emma’s not a guest,” Jason scoffs. Which is kind of true. I’ve slept over at Emily’s house hundreds of times in my life.
“Jason, do you want dessert tonight or do you want to just go to your room?” his mother asks, no differently than she would have asked (make that did ask) when he was twelve.
“What? Mom, are you serious?”
“Dead serious.”
“I’m an adult! You can’t send me to my room.”
“The hell she can’t.” Mr. Watson glares at his son. I’ve watched them do this tag team maneuver on all three of their kids. Resistance is futile. You’d think Jason would know that by now, but I guess not.
“Dad, Jesus—”
“That’s it! To your room.” Mr. Watson points as though Jason needs directions. I bite the inside of my cheek and sneak a look at Emily. Her lips were pressed so tightly together that they’re losing color. On the counter is some sort of berry cobbler, and a big scoop of that stuff has our names on it, so we’re not getting ourselves sent anywhere.
“This sucks.” Jason pushes away from the table, taking his roll. “I need my own place.”
As soon as Jason is out of earshot, Mr. Watson mumbles, “Now there’s a notion.”
Emily turns to her mother. “Mom, no one goes to that incredibly sucktastic dance. Everyone just goes to the game. Things have changed since you went to high school.”
“See there, Vera, it’s how they roll nowadays,” her dad says, and I swear it’s all Emily and I can do not to lose it. Emily’s parents bought a book called Decode Your Teen! when Grant was in high school, and are oblivious to the fact that adolescent lingo changes daily.
Hours later, we lie in Emily’s bed, stuffed with raspberry cobbler and fresh whipped cream.
“So what’s the deal with Abercrombie boy?”
Emily sits up and hits me in the face with her pillow, and I squeal. “Your brother is a bad influence!”
“My brother is a tool.” She stuffs the pillow back behind her head.
“So, what’s the deal with Derek, then?”
She throws an arm across her face. “It’s hopeless.”
“Hopeless how?” I turn on my side, watching her.
“We’re complete opposites. He’s super prep boy. He wears khaki chinos. He’s never even heard of most of my favorite bands, and I’ve spent years making fun of his. I have purple stripes in my hair. Piercings in places I had to have parental permission to get. My favorite nail polish is called Vampire State Building. All of his friends think I’m a freak.”
“Did he tell you that?” I ask, and she turns on her side to face me.
“He didn’t have to tell me. I can see it on their stupid faces.”
I sweep her purple-accented hair out of her eyes. “Who cares what they think?”
“Oh come on, all that ‘If they’re your real friends, they’ll accept whoever you love’ is a load of crap. I can’t expect a guy to stand up to that kind of pressure. And I like me the way I am. I don’t want to change!”
“Has he asked you to change?”
“No,” she says, sounding almost disappointed.
“So how much do you like this guy?”
“Oh my God. So much.” She turns into me and buries her face under my chin, her voice desolate, as though she’s confessing to murder instead of attraction.
“Sounds like a bungee-jumping sorta moment.”
She nods her head.
“Emma?” My name is muffled by the comforter. “I think I already fell.”
“I guess all you can do is wait to see if the cord holds.”
Funny how I can in no way apply this wisdom to myself, no matter how sensible it sounds when I say it to Emily.