CHAPTER 10
REID
I haven’t seen Dori since I left her standing in the bathroom with her mouth hanging open. I wanted some privacy to get my shit together after that exchange, but with a yard ful of people, solitude wasn’t an option. So, I did the next best thing—I grabbed a shovel and dug a big f*cking hole.
By lunch break, we’ve planted three trees and half the shrubs. Dori materializes outside, talking with some tool I haven’t seen before today. They load their paper plates and she takes the lawn chair next to him, eating her burger while he talks. He seems unfamiliar with a basic principle of conversation: reciprocal speaking. Despite this, she seems engrossed in his monologue. Either that or she’s too polite to be real with people other than myself.
Gabriel e is literal y sitting at my feet in the stil -patchy new sod. I don’t have to do anything to keep her enthral ed outside of an occasional smile. She’s jabbering about her modeling and acting aspirations, her loathing of school and her immature classmates, and what kind of car her older ex-boyfriend drove. (A Mustang? Please.) I think this last is an attempt to il ustrate her experience with boys. And/or an attempt to il ustrate her experience with boys. And/or fast cars.
“The car you had was a Porsche, right?” She flutters her lashes as though this isn’t a peculiar subject for her to bring up, or for us to discuss.
“Um, yeah. Had being the operative word.” Her eyes widen. “I guess you’re pretty pissed it got wrecked, huh?” As though my car wrecked itself.
“You could say that.”
She lays her hand on my knee. “Aw, I’m real y sorry, Reid.”
I can’t help but chuckle. This is the most awkward exchange ever. “You’re sorry… that I drove my Porsche into your house?”
“It’s not like you did it on purpose.”
I laugh out loud and smile down at her, “Wel , that’s true. I wish you’d been the judge in my case.” She beams up at me.
I hazard a glance at Dori, who’s staring daggers into me.
I swear if we were within striking distance and she had a plastic fork in her hand, I’d be concerned. Instead of returning her heated expression, I keep the grin affixed to my face and add a sardonic air to it—one eyebrow arched, indifferent eyes. This look has been refined to perfection over many years with Dad. Sends him through the goddamned roof. Does it work on Dorcas?
Oh, yes. Yes, it does.
I can hear the guy next to her saying, “Uh, Dori? Did you hear what I—” just before she leaps up and charges inside without answering him. From the look on his face, this is uncharacteristic behavior for her.
I think I’l spend the last couple of hours planting shrubs, and get Frank to sign my sheet. No sense in pushing her too far this afternoon. I have two and a half weeks to harass her to the edge of insanity.
*** *** ***
Dori
“I understand your concern, Dori, but I don’t think he’l actually do anything…” Roberta’s sentence trails off indecisively.
It’s up to me to convince her. “I’d be less concerned if Gabriel e was assigned to work with someone who’l keep a better eye on her, that’s al .” I feel like I’m tattling. Having just told the project director that I suspect an adult volunteer of socializing too warmly with a juvenile volunteer, I guess I am tattling. “Just to be safe,” I add.
She taps her pen on her clipboard, gnawing her lower lip. “Wel , the least confrontational thing might be to reassign Gabriel e to you, and reassign Reid to Frank.” A puzzling sense of disappointment settles over me, but I shake it off. “That works for me.”
“Gabriel e doesn’t come in on Fridays, so I’l leave Reid with you tomorrow, and I’l talk to him about moving to Frank’s crew next week before he leaves for the day. We’l get Gabriel e situated on Monday.”
“Thanks, Roberta.”
“Yes, wel , better safe than sorry, I suppose.” She bustles off as I clean up for the day and prepare for tomorrow. Reid off as I clean up for the day and prepare for tomorrow. Reid is going to be furious at the interference, and Gabriel e wil probably have a meltdown when she isn’t al owed to hang around him. There’s no way for her to see that we’re trying to protect her; the separation wil look like pure malice from her point of view.
***
My last day to supervise Reid has been almost stress-free.
He showed up on time and made no comments or snide remarks (other than cal ing me Dorcas al day, and what can I say to that since it is my name). He was a model volunteer. He even kept his shirt on.
My iPod fried itself last night, so I brought a radio this morning and had it tuned to a pop station when he came in.
I told him he could change it to whatever he wanted, but he hasn’t moved the station. As we’re wrapping up for the day, the DJ plays a new duet. Without realizing it, I hum along. At the end chorus, Reid turns to me and sings into his paintbrush, “Where were you, baby, where were you? When I was al alone, with no one of my own?”
I sing back, “Where were you, baby, where were you?
When I needed you there, when nobody else cared?”
“I was here, I was right here, looking for you, yeah…” we both sing, and then we laugh at our own goofiness.
“You have a great voice,” he says, but not like he’s surprised.
I lower my glance and mumble, “Thanks,” oddly pleased.
Coming from him, the words feel different, as though I haven’t heard that exact expression of praise a hundred times before.
From the doorway, Roberta says, “Mr. Alexander, could you see me before you leave? I’l be in the kitchen, checking the sink hookups.”
“No problem.” Sliding his eyes back to me when she disappears, his head tilts a fraction to the side and he asks, “What’s that about?”
Uh-oh. With Gabriel e gone al day, I almost forgot about her and the supervisor swap occurring on Monday. “Um, something about work assignments. Probably.”
“Work assignments? I thought you were the boss of me.” His smile is tentative, like he’s teasing me but also testing to see if there’s something I’m not tel ing him.
Coward that I am, I shrug and begin cleaning the paintbrushes, and Reid is silent for a moment before he hammers the lid onto a 5-gal on bucket of paint and then places his folded timesheet on the floor next to me. “I’l swing by to pick this up after I talk to Roberta.” When he returns five minutes later, I brace for an offensive comment or another quarrel over my unwelcome judgments or interference, but neither occurs. He snatches the paper I’ve signed without a word and leaves. As he storms out, I cringe, guilt-ridden after the il usory camaraderie in which we spent the day. At the inevitable slam of the front door, someone in the hal exclaims,
“Jesus!” and a moment later, I remember to breathe.
Monday is going to be a nightmare.
***
Nick is coming over tonight. After he showed up at the Diego House yesterday—a breath of fresh air in his non-designer jeans and thrift store t-shirt—I couldn’t say no when he asked if we could hang out.
I hear his voice downstairs, his courteous, “Good evening, Reverend Cantrel ,” though Dad has urged him countless times to cal him Doug.
As I leave my room, I glance at the clock on my wal .
He’s exactly on time, the minute hand clicking onto the twelve as my father intones, “Good evening, Nicholas.” Nick fails to hear the playful nature I immediately recognize behind Dad’s words. “It’s actual y just Nick, sir.” He spares a quick look in my direction as I reach the last step.
“And it’s just Doug, Nick.” My father slaps his shoulder lightly.
“Do you want to go out?” Nick asks after Dad disappears back into his study. “I think that movie starring your new associate is stil out… School Pride, right? I heard it was… cute.”
Nick isn’t into cute, and general y speaking, neither am I.
I’d not even considered seeing School Pride, but now that Nick’s mentioned it, I’m curious. I know Reid Alexander from his fame, but I know nothing of his so-cal ed talent. I’ve never seen a single one of his movies—like Nick, I don’t real y term them films. A film is something social y consequential or historical y evocative. A movie is hol ow entertainment.
Oh my gosh. I’m a film snob.
Despite my sudden compulsion to see Reid’s movie, there’s no way I’m sitting through it with Nick. “Let’s order Chinese and watch something here. Dad just got a new batch of DVDs.” Nick smiles his agreement. Pul ing the takeout menu from our menu drawer and grabbing the phone, I determine not to think of Reid again tonight. “I’m getting sesame chicken. Anything with chicken is pretty good. Their beef dishes, not so much.”
When the food arrives, Dad materializes momentarily.
“Would you like to watch the movie with us, Rever—uh, Doug?” Nick asks.
Dad sighs and shakes his head. “This week’s sermon is being a butt. I’m determined to wrestle a few inspiring concepts down.” Grabbing a diet soda, his carton of fried rice and a pair of chopsticks, he adds, “I won’t be leaving the study until your mother comes home.” Then he winks at me, as though Nick and I plan to canoodle on the sofa (a Dad term more fitting for his parents’ generation than his own). Mom’s shift ends at midnight.
I’m never sure if Dad just has absolute confidence that I’d never do anything wicked, or if he actual y thinks I should loosen up. I hope it’s not the latter, because if I’m the girl whose pastor father thinks she’s too uptight, that would be pretty darned depressing.
Nick takes the center of the sofa while I nestle into the corner, legs pretzeled. His elbow rests lightly on my bent knee in between bites. Everyone in my family tends to comment throughout anything we watch, but Nick never talks during films. It’s a sure bet I’l end up biting my tongue figuratively or literal y at least half a dozen times. Final y, the credits rol .
“That was less clever than the reviews promised,” he observes, clicking the remote. His hand rests lightly on my knee, a non-insistent pressure not easily read. The world has gone dark outside, the room dim in the solitary lamplight without the glow of the screen. “Your house is always so quiet. Mine is the exact opposite—thinly contained chaos.”
Nick is an only child, but his parents take in special needs foster children and train service dogs, and his house is in an almost constant uproar. I’ve wondered but never had the nerve to ask if he ever yearned for the individual attention he would have been due as an only child, or if he felt neglected by his parents’ dedicated care of other peoples’ children.
My eyes find our elderly dog, curled on her pil owed bed across the room. “That’s true, Esther and I don’t produce a lot of commotion.” Her ears perk at the sound of her name, black eyes blinking as she waits to see if I require her attention. Her whitened muzzle rests on her equal y whitened paws.
Nick leans into my line of vision, pushing thoughts of Esther from my mind as he inclines his head and kisses me. His lips are warm and his kiss careful and gentle. I kiss him back, wishing he would deepen the kiss, that his hand would stroke my leg, or stray to my waist to pul me closer.
None of these things occur. This is not our first kiss, but each one we’ve shared has been the same: pleasant.
He pul s away, smiling. I smile back, and tel myself I’m not disappointed.
Neither am I in danger of losing control. Which is good.
Safe. And exactly what I need.
Esther huffs a soft doggie sigh from her pal et and closes her eyes. Nick, even with the multiple dog and people scents attached to him, is no risk to me.