by P. Dangelico
This girl kills me. I get lost staring at the soft pillow of her bottom lip, the way it gets really full in the middle and tapers on the sides. I want to kiss her so badly again it’s painful. Physically fucking painful.
“Rea?”
Her voice snaps me out of my staring jag. “Yeah, let’s do this.”
We make our way up the steps to the carved mahogany front door and Lionel, my parents’ estate manager for the past ten years, is already holding it open. He must’ve seen us on the security cameras. Not a moment after he greets us, my mother is advancing down the hallway, headed straight for us, heels clicking all the way.
“There’s my baby. I see you’re still not wearing sunscreen.”
With her short blonde hair and line-free face, my mom looks half her age. She’s about Alice’s height, maybe a little thinner. The only feature we share are her eyes. People have even mistaken me for her boyfriend.
She hugs me quickly, cups my face, and let’s go even faster. My mother is a nervous person. Brisk movements, quick smiles, fast talking. It’s just how she is. Her keen stare shifts to Alice who’s been standing quietly to the side watching us. “And who’s this? A friend?”
“Mom, this is Alice.”
Alice comes forward with an outstretched hand and a shy smile and an overwhelming amount of pride invades my chest. It catches me off guard. Then again, Alice has been catching me off guard since the moment I met her. And although I’m not sure yet how I feel about it, I do know that I’ve never felt like this before.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Dr. Reynolds. And thank you so much for having me. Your house is amazing.”
Dr. Deb, as Brian and I used to call her just to piss her off, offers her a brief smile and her hand a quick squeeze. “Nice to meet you too, Alice. Reagan seldom brings friends home so it’s a pleasure to have you.”
The subtext––my mother’s fishing for clarification. She’s hoping Alice is only a friend. I also note she didn’t tell Alice to call her Deborah the way she told Jordan.
Mom’s gaze focuses intently on Alice’s face. “You have beautiful skin.”
Alice grins widely. “Thank you. I wear sunscreen.”
Mom smiles back. “I know. I’m a dermatologist. Come in. The Richardsons are already here.” While Mom walks ahead of us, headed for the den, I take Alice’s hand in mine.
Alice’s smile turns into surprise and confusion, but I don’t have time to explain that the moment we stepped inside my house a sense of protectiveness came over me. That I feel responsible for having dragged her into a den of hungry wolves. Alice only has a vague idea of what my parents are capable of and it better stay that way.
“Your father is boring them to death with stories about work. Jordan is so excited to seen you, honey.”
Shit. My steps slow. Had my mother mentioned Jordan was coming, I would never have come. My mother walks into the den ahead of us, and I pull Alice back.
“What?” she whispers at my expression of pure frustration.
“Whatever I say in there––just go with it.”
“Go with what? Reagan?”
I enter the den tugging her along. My father and Steve Richardson are huddled by the television where the Cowboys are up on the Redskins by a field goal. Glancing over his shoulder, he glares at me. “Reagan, I thought I said four?” It’s only 4:20 but the old man never misses an opportunity to bust my balls.
“How’s the team doing?” Mr. Richardson calls out.
“Opening round of the NCAA tournament next Saturday,” I reply and he gives me a thumbs-up. My old man barely musters a smile.
“Rea!” Jordan gets up from the couch and closes the distance between us in seconds. My muscles stiffen automatically. All except for my dick of course. That’s a pretty good recap of our relationship. Hidden behind me, Alice tries to extricate her hand from mine and I tighten my hold.
Jordan, easily five-eleven in heels, throws her arms around my neck and pulls my head closer. She attempts to kiss me on the lips and I turn away in time to avoid it.
“Jordan. This is Alice, my girlfriend.” If my turning away from her doesn’t adjust her expectations, then my tone better.
Jordan’s smile disappears and there’s an audible gasp in the room. Not sure if it came from Alice, Jordan, or my mother. It’s a poorly designed plan, on the fly, and the best I can do on short notice. I won’t be ambushed, and I can see now it was the plan all along. Which is why my plan is to dine and ditch as quickly as possible.
One-handed, I pry Jordan’s wrist free from around my neck and drop it. Her sharp blue eyes shuttle between me and Alice who’s looking less and less comfortable with more and more attention on her.
“Girlfriend? You never mentioned a girlfriend.”
“We haven’t talked since the summer. Alice and I met at the start of the semester.”
Jordan’s attention shifts to Alice. “Hi, I’m Jordan. Reagan’s ex-girlfriend”––she holds out a hand––“but I’m sure he’s told you all about me.”
No. Not really. I mentioned having had a girlfriend in high school once, and only in passing after Alice told me she’d had a boyfriend in high school. I never spoke of Jordan by name.
Alice goes to shake it with a soft smile of her face. “Alice and yes, he did.” She lied to spare Jordan’s feelings. Damn, I am in deep with this girl. And getting a pressing urge to take her away from here and kiss her until she admits that she liked kissing me too. That she wasn’t as unaffected as she looked.
Regaining her footing, Jordan pushes her long brown hair off her shoulder and smiles.
“Well…” my mother interrupts. She smiles stiffly. It’s so forced it looks painful. I can’t decide if she looks disappointed because I blew up her carefully laid trap, or because she disapproves of Alice. “Let’s eat, shall we?”
Alice
“I’m ready to come home. I can’t take another Boston winter,” Jordan says as she cuts her asparagus into tiny child-friendly bites. She’s pretty. Tall and willowy with straight, brown hair. Seated across from me, next to her mother, her blue eyes have not left Reagan, who’s gone completely silent since we sat down an hour ago. They’ve all been speaking around me like I don’t exist. Which, in all fairness, I prefer.
“No Harvard Medical School for you?” Reagan’s dad asks, seated at the head of the table opposite his wife.
Talk about intimidating…he’s said a total of one sentence to me since I walked in. “Nice to meet you, Alice.” That’s it. He keeps giving me the suspicious side-eye, though. That’s been fun #houseofhorrors.
Reagan looks like his dad––tall, perfect bone structure––with the exception of his eyes. His father has blue eyes like Brian. The resemblance is kind of creeping me out because he’s like…Evil Reagan. If this were a Marvel movie, that’s who Pat Reynolds would be. By the way, the only reason I know his name is because Jordan addressed him as Dr. Reynolds and he insisted she call him Pat.
All this hidden under a carefully orchestrated disguise. His mother, who I know is in her mid fifties, looks not a day older than forty with her cute, punky haircut and her expensive, casual designer clothes. Same goes for his dad. His hair does not have a single gray hair, I suspect courtesy of a very expensive hairdresser. And his clothes––the slim-fitted pink dress shirt and flat-front slacks say, I’m an easygoing, hip guy. Yeah, no. Easygoing and hip are not even in his vocab.
“No,” Jordan answers.
“With your grades, you’ll have your pick,” Reagan’s father claims.
“UCLA is my first choice. I’m looking forward to being back home, close to Mom and Dad.” Jordan smiles at her father.
“Liz, you must be so proud.” Rea’s mom beams at her friend.
“Yes. We are.” Liz shares a satisfied smile with her husband. Then she aims her pointed interest at Rea. “What about you, Reagan? Made any decisions?”
“No,” Reagan answers without hesitation.
“UCLA. Surgery,”
his father answers for him and I watch his grip on his utensils tighten.
Jordan grins broadly at Reagan. “That would be so much fun to have classes together again. Isn’t it strange how things come full circle? Almost like fate is playing a role in it.”
“It’s not fate. It’s my father not understanding what the hell the words I haven’t made a decision yet mean,” Reagan fires back.
All this hostility reminds me of what I’m missing out on. The screaming kids and the three dogs barking. The cat, the hamsters. All the food and laughter. My parents are, as usual, spending Thanksgiving at Uncle Joe’s, my stepmom’s brother’s house.
I feel so bad for Reagan I want to pull him into a hug and take him away from this awful place.
His father shoots him a warning glare, but stops short of arguing. Then, God help me, Dr. Reynolds’s pointed stare moves to me. “What about you, Alice? Any career plans or are you just going to wing it like the rest of your generation?”
Beside me, I feel every fiber of Reagan’s being drawing tight enough to pluck.
“I have a very clear career plan, actually,” I tell him with my chin held high. “I’m a film major with an emphasis on cinematography. I’m going to be a cinematographer.”
“Hollywood is a tough place for a woman. What’s your plan B?”
“Pat, things are changing,” his mom remarks.
“Not enough. For every ten men maybe one woman finds steady work. What kind of life is that?” he argues with his wife. “Unless she plans on living off her parents. I see a lot of that these days.” His frosty gaze is back on me. “What about your parents? How do they feel about you chasing this dream on their dime?”
Wow, okay, it’s the Spanish Inquisition. If this is what Brian and Reagan have had to fend off their entire lives, it’s a miracle they didn’t produce two sociopaths.
A tiny smile flirts on Jordan’s mouth. She’s enjoying this…the bitch.
“Dad, give it a rest,” Reagan drawls with a shake of his head. “She doesn’t have to justify her choices to you.”
“She’s not a child, Reagan. If she can’t answer a few harmless questions, how will she succeed in the Hollywood cesspool?”
“My parents have always been very supportive of my choices, Dr. Reynolds. And I’m not pursuing it on their dime. I have a scholarship and I’ve worked very hard to save up enough to finish my BA at Malibu.”
I squeeze Rea’s thigh under the table, reassuring him that I’ve got this. At least, I think I’ve got this. You need a whip and a chair to fend off these people. Reagan places his hand over mine and rubs.
Pat Reynolds nods. “What business are they in? Your parents?”
“My stepmom is an emergency room nurse, and my dad works for the US Postal Service.”
“Your parents are divorced?” Deborah Reynolds asks in a brisk tone.
“No, my mother died of cancer when I was five.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” No emotional reaction at all. Eyes cast down, she continues cutting her turkey breast as if I’d asked her to pass the salt. Wow, Dr. Deborah Reynolds’s bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired.
“What does your father do for the Postal Service?” This is like tag team wrestling, perfectly synchronized to take the opponent out with a power bomb. I glance at the other end of the table to find Pat Reynolds’s cold, rapt attention on me.
“Jesus Christ!” Reagan cuts in, tone exasperated. “Can we talk about something else? I saw Brian. Why don’t you take some interest in him.”
He’s close to losing it. I know what his tipping point looks like now. A beat of tension-filled silence ensues in which Reagan’s dad does his best to stare him into submission and fails. Also noteworthy, the Richardsons don’t seem fazed by any of this.
“We’re not discussing your brother today,” Dr. Reynolds declares. “I’d like to have a peaceful meal if you don’t mind.”
That has me biting back the urge to laugh. I guess I’m not entitled to the same courtesy. I sit up straighter and somehow summon the courage to stare Pat Reynolds in the eye. “My father delivers the mail.”
You can hear a pin drop. His parents exchange a look. “That’s nothing to be ashamed of,” his mother has the audacity to say with a stiff smile. With a smile!
“Mom,” Reagan growls, a storm brewing on his face.
“No, it isn’t,” is all I say out of respect for my friend. I’ll walk out of here basically unscathed. But he’ll never be rid of these people.
Reagan
“Hi, Olga.” My parents’ housekeeper is bent over the kitchen sink, rinsing dishes and loading the dishwasher. After twenty years of handling all the household business like clothing, feeding, and caring for me and Brian, all the stuff my mother never had time for, I guess I should call her part of the family.
She glances over her shoulder and smiles once she realizes it’s me. “Reagan!” I don’t come around often. Last time might’ve been three months ago so it’s startling to note the changes. The lines along her eyes more pronounced, the hair completely white.
She dries her hands and closes the distance between us. “So handsome,” she tells me as she pats my cheek. “You have new girlfriend, I see.” I return a smile because I can’t very well tell her the truth.
Her smile cuts off and her expression grows troubled. “You see Brian?”
Brian has always been her favorite. When we were kids, during the summer, the two of them would spend hours by the pool. Olga reading and Brian yelling at her to watch him swim laps. She loved indulging him. And maybe because she doesn’t have kids of her own, she thrived off his need for her attention. I shake my head and her mood gets darker.
My mother walks into the kitchen with a smile on her face, completely unfazed by the skirmish at dinner. That’s her superpower. Her ability to completely block out the fact that my father is an epic asshole and that she sometimes comes in a close second. Ignore the problem and it ceases to exist. The Reynolds family motto. She did the same with Brian.
“Olga, you don’t have to do that,” she says. “Leave it. Consuelo can do it tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Dr. Reynolds. Good night.” Olga’s worked here for twenty years, lives in this house, and never once has my mother given her permission to address her by her first name. It has pissed me off since I was old enough to understand.
Olga’s grin returns when her attention shifts back to me. “It’s so good to see you, Reagan. You come home more, okay?”
“See, even Olga thinks you don’t come home enough.”
Ignoring my mother’s constant nagging, I focus on Olga. “Good to see you too, Olga. Happy Thanksgiving.” Yeah, some Thanksgiving.
Nodding, Olga smiles one last time before she leaves the kitchen. Mom grabs a bottle of white wine out of the wine cooler and sets it on the kitchen island.
“Where’s Alice?”
“Looking at old family photos.” She retrieves a bottle opener from a drawer, places it on the marble counter next to the bottle, and stares at it.
“Honey…” She glances up at me and her expression softens. “She’s a sweet girl and I’m sure she’s got a bright future ahead of her, but she’s not for you.” She starts picking at the plastic seal with her nails. “Dammit,” she whispers less than a moment later and stops what she’s doing to inspect the damage done to her pale nail polish.
I take the bottle out of her hands and rip the seal off, set about uncorking it. “Relax, Dr. Reynolds. No need to plan a wedding…it’s casual.”
A self-satisfied smile replaces her carefully crafted neutral expression, the same one she wears every time she thinks she has the upper hand. “I see the way you look at her, Reagan. Give me a little credit for knowing my own son’s mind.”
Instinct kicks in, the pressing urge to protect Alice from my parents at all cost. Because I don’t trust them not to tear her apart. Quietly, patiently, with a million tiny cuts. That’s how they do it. The same way they did it to Brian. The
same way they’ve been trying to do it to me.
“Then I guess you don’t know me as well as you think you do because I have no feelings for her and she’s got even less for me.”
The minute the words are out of my mouth I recognize them for the absolute bullshit lie that they are. Do I have feelings for Alice? I think so. The thought of her being with anybody else makes me break out in a cold sweat and want to kill someone. So, yeah, I’d say I have feelings for her.
But what do I do about them? My life is so complicated right now I can barely keep my head above water. And Alice…she’s the only good thing in it. I can’t risk losing her by asking for more and then not giving her what she deserves.
And that doesn’t even speak to the fact that she’s told me repeatedly that I’m not her type––whatever the fuck that means. Essentially, we’re both completely unavailable.
“You’ve got your entire life ahead of you. Medical school is hell on relationships and residency even worse. You’ll be in your mid thirties by the time you have a minute to spare. Do you really want to do that to her?”
“You and Dad survived it,” I find myself saying, defending a nonexistent relationship that I know for a fact Alice does not want.
“Barely. And only because I was just as busy.” My mother walks around the counter and brushes the hair off my forehead. “If you care about her at all you’ll put a stop to it now. Don’t string her along. It’s not fair to her.”
Chapter 22
Alice
That was fun. Heavy sarcasm. Only a few hours in the presence of the esteemed Dr. and Dr. Reynolds and the secondhand pressure nearly suffocated me to death. It’s impossible to breathe around those people. And it breaks my heart for Reagan and Brian. I can’t even imagine what it was like for them as children, growing up with all those expectations placed on them.
We drive back to Malibu in complete silence, the tension so thick you need garden shears to cut it. I guess it’s the observer in me that made me stop and listen when I heard Reagan talking with his mother. I should’ve kept walking to the bathroom. I should’ve stayed home and read my shitty book. But I did neither. Instead I came, I saw, I overheard. I have no one other than myself to blame.
