“I know men aren’t really your specialty, but I think the concept of douchelord isn’t completely foreign to you. And no offense, but your son is acting like the douchiest of douchelords in the kingdom of Doucheshire, and I just need someone besides me and a pregnant girl I’m not even friends with to understand that.”
Her Colgate smile was back. She was amused. Oh no, not another self-deprecating egomaniac. What was it with this family and their fondness for self-directed abuses?
“Permission to speak boldly?” she asked. I nodded. “Snake’s never been the best at relationships of any kind. He never tries to get to know people, and he never pursues anyone. Ever. Which tells me that whatever he has or doesn’t have with you matters a lot to him. If he’s bothering you, then let him go. But I would suggest getting to know him better. He’s not just the douchelord of Doucheshire, I promise.”
In all fairness, she had to say that. It was coded in her DNA to think highly of her own kid. By the same token, though, Snake really wasn’t all that bad in the moments I wasn’t dwelling on his stupidity. It wasn’t like I was a sunny stroll through the unicorn fields myself. It was a tough decision: hate him for his bad qualities or like him for his good ones. Either way, it didn’t look like letting him go would be an option.
“I’ll keep it in mind,” I said. “Thanks for listening . . .”
“Jeanine.” She pointed to the staircase. “Snake’s door is the first on the right.”
I followed the direction of her finger up a wooden staircase. Across the hallway at the top of the steps was a square picture frame nailed to the wall. It was the stereotypical, all-American family pose in white shirts and khakis on the beach. Jeanine sat next to a blond woman with curly hair, both of their hands resting on a prepubescent Snake’s shoulders. I wouldn’t have recognized him if it wasn’t for his dull blue eyes that caught my attention. They weren’t hidden behind shaggy brown hair for once. Instead, he had a spiked cut and no deformed diamond tattoo on his neck. He looked like the biggest dork I’d ever seen. I needed a photocopy immediately.
“Reggie?” a familiar, raspy voice asked from behind.
When I turned around, Snake was leaning in his doorway, wearing black sweatpants and a white T-shirt that was ripped on the shoulder.
“Don’t get all dressed up on my account.”
“Pardon me.” He grinned his signature, half-bitter, half-unconcerned Snake grin. “If I had known you would respond to one of my texts, I would have tossed on a suit and hired a violinist.”
I walked toward him. “You gonna invite me in, or do I have to stand out here and think of ways to get my hands on your best attempt at sexy?” I pointed to the picture.
“I was twelve. I bet when you were twelve you were even more unkempt than you are now.”
“My inner confidence radiates. I don’t need the add-ons. Not all of us are as insecure as Carla.”
He fidgeted awkwardly, looking down at his bare feet. “Yeah, about the other night . . .”
“Don’t worry about it. Pregnant girlfriends can be a real buzzkill. Don’t stress yourself out, babe.” I smiled with victory.
He made an exaggerated frown. “I lament that expression, but it keeps Carla happy. A happy Carla makes for a less miserable me.”
“And it’s all about you.”
“That’s not fair.”
It was incredibly fair, and the insinuation that it wasn’t made my eyes roll. “You told your moms about me?”
He rubbed the back of his neck and looked down. “I kind of felt like I needed to explain why I’ve been hanging out with a girl who isn’t Carla.”
“Stalking,” I corrected. “Stalking a girl who isn’t Carla.”
He laughed. “Again, not fair.”
I bumped past him into the bedroom. It was precisely what I’d expected. Clothes scattered on a carpeted floor. A double bed littered with candy wrappers and popcorn kernels. A computer desk with his expensive video camera hooked up to the monitor by wires. A thousand-dollar television mounted on the wall. A poster of some indie movie no one had ever seen on the opposite wall. It was one of those alternative rich-boy rooms that try so hard to be grunge they border on narcissistic. It was so Snake it was unbelievable.
“This room is a joke.”
“Thanks. I wrecked it myself.” He moved to the computer desk to grab something and quickly hid it behind his back. “You must be wondering why I was so urgent in my text. Guess why.”
“Because you’re full of shit.”
“That. And . . .” He thrust his arm out, revealing an unmarked DVD case. “Sneak peek at The Snake Project, director’s cut.”
“That’s your grand gesture? Asking me to watch an unfinished movie that you unlawfully inserted me into?”
“Still waiting on my court papers.” He walked to the TV and pressed the button on the DVD player. He stuck the disc inside and plopped down on his bed, because he was such an irredeemable narcissist that he once again made the assumption I wanted to watch his crappy movie. The truth was, I did. But his assuming nature almost made me walk right back into the hallway, take a picture of his ugly picture, and bail.
“Well?” he grinned. It was a smug grin this time. Smug. A lot like sexy. The S’s were not his best. He patted the space beside him on the bed. “Are you ready to bask in the creative interpretation of our tragic state?”
“Talk dirty to me,” I muttered.
Notes from a piano piece blared loudly through the speakers on the TV, playing a really depressing song that was the music version of what my brain did during a Zoloft-induced blackout in Stage 3. Snake reached over to his computer desk and turned off the lamp, so that the only remaining light in the room came from the colorful film pixelating on the screen. I sat down next to him on the bed, but made sure to keep a very healthy and considerable distance. If any part of his body touched any part of mine, he was going to lose that limb.
He didn’t try anything.
The film opened to faded sunlight filtering through the trees from the vantage point of a car speeding down the highway. The WELCOME TO FLASHBURN sign popped into the frame, then faded to black.
It was an ideal segue into the next shot. A waiting room at a doctor’s office. The scene was melancholy, evidenced in the sad, forlorn, and pitiful faces of the patients. From elderly to moms to children, sick and dying, and everything in between. After that was a hodgepodge of random scenes involving pill bottles and prescriptions and a thunderstorm that didn’t seem to have much of a purpose. Then, Carla. Lots and lots of Carla. Smiling, radiant Carla. A shot of Snake and Carla kissing down at the pond. Carla, grinning somewhat unhappily, holding up her first ultrasound picture. The sad music played on, a woman’s voice muffled in the noise.