by Brea Brown
But she won’t tell me anything. She’s giving me nothing to go on. Only… silence.
Well, that’s not entirely true. She did say one thing: “Go away, Nathaniel!”
That statement wasn’t very elucidating, though.
I slap another mosquito and wipe the streak of blood from my arm. “Sonofa…!” I hiss, then mutter, “Effin’ West Nile virus, malaria, shit…” I pop to my feet and speak at the front door again, my nose pressed against the wood. “Betts… Are you there?”
Nothing.
“I’m going to assume you are. And I’m going to say one more thing; then I’m going to go away. For real. Because you don’t want me here. And you won’t tell me why. And I… I can’t take this anymore.”
I guess Plan E is crying… again. I clear my throat. “So here goes. For the first time in my life, I’m going to lay it all out there, and I’m not going to give a shit how it makes me look or sound.”
Yeah. Tough talker. It’s a bit harder than that, isn’t it? Now you have to follow through and do it.
I take a deep breath and poke at a knot in the wooden door with my left index finger while swatting distractedly at a mosquito on my neck with my right hand. “Okay. So, last weekend… I know it may not be right, and I wouldn’t even admit it to myself for a long time, because it means I wasn’t any better than her, but… what happened last weekend is something I’ve wanted to happen for a long time. For most of that time, I denied it was even true. Then I told myself if it was true, it was wrong, so I couldn’t allow it to be true. What was wrong, though, was staying with Frankie when all I really wanted was to be with you.
“Last weekend, you asked me why I stayed with her so long. The sad answer is, because it was easier. And because she felt like my last decent chance at… whatever.”
I stop, realizing I’m generalizing in an effort to save face. Punching at my thigh, I grit my teeth and say, “No. Not ‘whatever.’ I… I used her as much as she used me. She seemed like my last chance at settling down, at having the family I want. That’s part of why it took me so long to give up.
“The other, stronger reason I stayed with her was that I knew if she and I were over, then you and I were over, and… and… I couldn’t face that. That’s why, even while planning to break up with her, I told myself I could still be Frank. But you were right when you said it wouldn’t work. I wanted to be free of him and Frankie. But I didn’t want to be free of you. It sucked that it was a package deal.”
I sigh at the hopelessness of it all. “I should have known you didn’t need me to rescue you from an oversight as stupid as forgetting to cancel Frank’s conference registration. I should have known I was just falling into another one of Frankie’s traps. And maybe I did know, deep down. It seems so obvious now that I had to have known. Maybe I just didn’t care. Or maybe I allowed myself to be tricked so I had an excuse to be with you again. Or maybe I wanted to pretend I was rescuing you, playing the part of the big hero, whether you knew it or not.”
I chuckle bitterly at myself, feeling the heat from my blush radiating from the top of my head. “Gosh. It was such an effing Mr. Darcy stunt, now that I think of it. Arrogant, but well-meaning. Ultimately selfish, though. Because doing it made me feel good. And it was an outlet for how I felt about you. Feel about you. It was nice to finally find an acceptable way to show you how I feel. I was so sick of denying it, hiding it, being in the closet about it. Because I… I can no more tell myself to stop feeling the way I do for you than I can tell my heart to stop beating, to tell my cells to stop regenerating, to tell my… my… brain to stop organizing my scrubs by color.”
Clawing my fingers down my face, I moan at myself. “I’m rambling. Sorry. It’s just… I’m determined not to say something dumb, like ‘Thanks for the omelet,’ then spend the rest of my life hating myself for not telling you exactly what I wanted to say. I’m going to leave here, knowing I said what needed to be said, so I can live with myself.” I reflect for a few seconds, mustering all of my remaining nerve.
Go big or go home. Or in this case, Go big AND go home.
“I love you. And I know at one time, even if it was only for that one night, you felt the same way about me. I know it. I felt it. And I’ll never forget it. You made me believe that maybe it was okay to be me. Even better, that it was okay for me to be me and to love you. Like, none of the factors that kept me from acknowledging my feelings for you up ’til then made a damn bit of difference. All that mattered was you. And me. And our happiness. Because… we were happy. So happy.”
I brush away the tears I’m glad she can’t see. “I’m starting to accept I’ll never know why you’ve changed your mind, but understand this: I haven’t changed mine. I still love you. And I can’t imagine that changing. Ever. But I love you enough to let it go, if that’s what you want. I just wish you didn’t want that.”
I push away from the door, then stop on the top step and announce at the top of my voice, “I’m leaving now!” willing her to run onto the porch, to throw herself into my arms. It would happen in a chick flick. Or a Nicholas Sparks book.
When it doesn’t happen in real life (that bastard, setting us up for letdown with every new release!), I swallow my disappointment and call, “Make sure you have that door locked! Crazy rednecks up here. And gosh! Have your step-father spray for frickin’ mosquitoes. Damn health hazard.”
It’s a beautiful night for a long, tear-soaked drive, if I do say so myself.
Chapter Thirty-One
I’m going to be okay. I am okay. Things are fine. I’m fine.
This is what I’ve told myself every day for a month, even as I’ve spent my days around other people’s kids and my nights listening to Jon McLaughlin’s greatest breakup hits, my nose in a girlie book while the rest of my family whispers about me behind my back and speculates about the personality quirks keeping me from finding my other half. But no matter what they think, I think I’m okay. I really do.
However, that doesn’t mean I’m ready for today’s events.
Once again, I’m in front of a mirror, practicing for my next performance. I’m wearing my normal clothes—simple (non-skinny) khakis, a long-sleeved, sage-green t-shirt, and a pair of Vans—so there’ll be no mood inspiration there. I have to do this as me.
I stand in the bathroom and test out my smile. It still works, amazingly. I guess that’s because there’s still much to be happy about in my life: French-press coffee, chick flicks, chick lit (that I don’t have to pretend to have written), hot baths, long runs, peace and quiet, cuddles with Reba…
Who cares if it’s a tad bit boring? And lonely. Maybe it won’t be for forever. Then again, maybe it will be. And if it is, forever is plenty of time to get used to just about anything.
And when I want a taste of chaos and companionship, I can always count on my family. Like this afternoon, the reason for my latest acting gig.
It’s a beautiful fall day, and I’ve been invited to Nick and Heidi’s for a “special announcement.” I’ve been telling myself all morning they’re calling both of our families to their house on a precious football-watching day to tell us Nick’s been promoted to Chief Surgeon-Big-Wig-Head-Dick at the hospital, or something. Yeah, that’s it. I’m getting damn good at this “denial” thing.
Turning my attention to my reflection, studiously ignoring the tiny dot of toilet paper on the shaving cut next to my Adam’s apple, I say now, “Hey! That’s great!” My smile fades to a more thoughtful expression. “Hmmm… okay. A little crazed. And your eyes are dead. Is there a way to force them to smile… other than by being sincere, of course? Because that’s too much to ask. I get it.”
Again, I arrange my facial muscles into a smile, this one less manic, and try again. “Hey! What great news! I’m so happy for you.”
I nod. “Better.”
Clacking behind me distracts me from my task. I half-turn to see Reba sag to a sitting position in the bathroom doorway.
“Hey!” I test out on he
r. “That’s awesome, man!”
She promptly rises, performs an about-face, and leaves.
“Too much?” I call after her. “Sorry! I know, you’re not a man! Just practicing!”
I grip the edge of the bathroom sink, drop my head, and sigh. This is ridiculous. No matter what the announcement is, of a personal or professional nature, I shouldn’t have to practice a positive response. Only a true jerk begrudges his brother—a brother who’s been good to him, for the most part—all the success in the world. A) It’s mean; and B) Nick’s prosperity isn’t the thief of my happiness.
I haven’t even had to consult my parents for those pearls of wisdom. I haven’t consulted anyone for anything lately, as a matter of fact. I’m standing on my own two feet, not seeking validation from anyone else, and most days, when I remind myself I’m independent but not alone, it feels pretty freakin’ fabulous. Okay, that’s hyperbole. But it does feel good.
It’s almost time for me to go, so I push away from the sink, flick off the bathroom light on my way out, straighten the bedspread that Reba’s rumpled since I made my bed this morning, and stride down the hallway, whistling for the dog.
She’s still a bit skittish around kids, which I found out the hard way when I took her to the farmers’ market last weekend (See? I still have a girl to do things with, albeit one who knocks over apple carts when over-excited children get too close), so knowing Nick’s place will be crawling with Heidi’s nieces and nephews, I plan to leave her at home.
Filling her water bowl and food dish before leaving, I tell her, “Trust me; I’d rather stay here with you,” pretending she looks sad to see me go. Really, I think she wants me to step aside so she can get to her bowls.
She nudges my ankle with her nose. Yep. If only I could read the nonverbal—and verbal—cues of women as well. Before I get too melancholy about that, I take a deep breath, straighten my back, and remove the toilet paper from my neck.
“I’m going in, Rebes,” I say, rolling the paper between my thumb and forefinger, tossing it in the trash, and moving to give her access to her food, which she attacks as if I haven’t fed her in days. “Send help if I’m not back by seven. That means I’m being sucked into the Sunday night football game.”
She grimaces at me, but I know it’s because she’s trying to work loose a piece of food stuck in her back teeth, not because she’s sympathizing with me, as I’d like to believe.
“Eat slower!”
Ignoring my advice, she buries her face in her lunch. I grab my car keys from the kitchen counter. “Whatever,” I mutter. “I won’t be here to give you the doggy-Heimlich, you know. And if you puke on the couch again, I’m going to be super-pissed.”
Her only response is enthusiastic crunching and a subtle cough.
Since the conversation is only getting more and more pathetic (on my part), I exit without another word, silently vowing for the umpteenth time to put both of us on a strict diet this week.
Hm… yeah. Not gonna happen.
*****
Despite my usual pathological punctuality, I’m the last one to arrive, so when I step onto the deck, my parents, my former future in-laws, and all three of Heidi’s siblings, plus their spouses and children, are crowded around Nick and Heidi. Everyone’s smiling and laughing, and my mom’s crying.
My smile becomes more forced while I anticipate receiving the “news.” Mom takes an interest in our careers, but I don’t think a promotion announcement would ever bring her to tears.
Cautiously, I enter the melée, put up a hand in a tentative wave, and say, “Hey… everyone. Sorry I’m late… although, I didn’t think I was.”
Nick pushes through the crowd to get to me. “You’re not. Everyone else got here early, and we couldn’t wait to tell them our news.”
“Big job news?” Maybe if I pretend for a few more seconds, it won’t sting as much when I finally hear it.
He grins. “No… we’re going to have a baby!”
I let loose with an “Aaagh!” of fake-delight, the most unconvincing performance in the history of bad acting, and pull him to me in a hug. “That’s great, Bro!”
Bro? That’s his word. I never call him that. Oh, shit. I’m blowing this harder than an emphysemic octogenarian in front of a birthday cake. I look at the group gathered around us and can tell I’m not fooling anyone. My mom’s no longer crying tears of joy; instead, she looks worried. Or is that pity I see in her drying eyes?
I smile at her. It must come off more genuine than my previous act, because her face relaxes, and she smiles back.
I let go of Nick and reach for Heidi. “Give me a hug, Mama,” I say quietly.
For some reason, that ridiculous request sounds completely natural.
After my hugs have been delivered, everyone seems to breathe a collective sigh of relief. Hands in my pockets, I look around at the dispersing conjecturers and try to exude confidence, but I must have used up my finite stores of thespianism during those months of being Frank. I can tell by the way most people are avoiding eye contact with me that I look as awkward as I feel.
Heidi’s dad bravely nods at me, so I nod back and smile.
Her mom breaks away and says, “Hey, Nate. How’s it going?”
I reply with a simple, “Fine, Mary Jo. How are you doing?” which launches her into a ten-minute gush about how excited she is that her baby girl is going to have a baby.
My dad, thinking he’s rescuing me, approaches us, places a hand on my shoulder, and booms, “What’s new?”
While I search for an answer, he searches my face. Finally, I say, “Not much,” which seems to disappoint but not surprise him.
He rushes to fill the resultant void. “How’s Reba doing? It’s too bad she’s not a fan of these big gatherings.”
Mary Jo’s face brightens. “Oooh… tell me about this new girl of yours!”
I blush and fidget. “Uh. No. I mean, Reba’s… She’s a Corgi.” When it’s obvious Mary Jo still thinks we’re talking about a person (a social-phobic person from the little-known island of Corg?), I clarify further. “A dog. My dog.”
Her eyes widen, and her face flushes. She fingers the pearls around her neck. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought… That is, I assumed… Because I heard you were… unattached… again.”
“I am.”
To prevent another worry-filled silence, I inform Dad, “Hey, I enrolled in UW-Milwaukee’s nurse practitioner certification program.”
Dad’s eyes light up at that information. I’m sure he’s mostly just relieved to have something to talk about, but I’d also like to think he’s proud I’m furthering my career. “That’s great!” He sounds a lot more sincere than I did saying it to myself not too long ago in the mirror.
When he calls my mom over, she smiles expectantly and joins our circle. “What’s going on over here? More good news?”
Dad squeezes my shoulder. “Nate’s going forward with his practitioner certification.”
Mom leans forward and kisses my cheek. “Good for you, sweetie.”
Mary Jo interjects, “You’re so good with the kids.”
I’d almost forgotten she was still standing there with us. Shooting her a grateful smile, I reply, “Thanks. They’re a lot of fun.”
“It’s a waste you don’t have any of your own,” she says more to the watered-down drink in her hand than to me.
I feel Mom tense next to me. “Still plenty of time for that, right?” She places a supportive hand on my forearm.
“Sure,” I humor them all, like a good sport. “Anyway… it’s good to see you again, Mary Jo,” I say, edging away. “I’m going to see what the kids are up to.”
Without waiting for them to reply, I trot down the deck stairs and approach the unorganized Wiffle ball game in the large area of thick grass to the side of the now-covered pool. I wonder if Nick realizes how badly his nieces and nephews are trampling his sod. Oh, well. He’d better get used to not having nice things, now that he has a booger-muncher on the
way.
“Hey, Captain Poop Head!” Kingsley greets me. “Wanna play?”
“Heck-to-the-yeah, I do!” I reply, holding up my hands so he’ll throw me the holey ball. “I’ll pitch for you guys.”
Remus cheers and runs for home plate, where he snatches the hollow plastic bat from his younger brother. Percy promptly screeches indignantly. Should have named that one Hedwig, I can’t help thinking with a private chuckle.
I’m still—technically—the adult here, so I call to Remus, “Alright, hang on! Give that back to your brother. We’ll let him go first.”
After several minutes of barely contained chaos and at least two knocked noggins, I notice Nick hanging out on the periphery of the game, probably lamenting the condition of his lawn. Looking more closely at him, though, I see he appears to be studying me with that disapproving look on his face.
What did I do now?
Pretending not to notice or care that he’s staring at me, I pitch to Amber, then Ruby. As Kingsley’s catching a fly ball, Greta, hugely pregnant with yet another witch or wizard, waddles to the deck rail and calls down for the kids to wash their hands for dinner.
Nick helps me round up the half-dozen Wiffle balls.
“You okay, man?” he asks me as we drop the balls into a pile in the middle of the yard.
“I’m fine,” I lie dismissively before swiftly changing the subject. “I was wondering, though, what theme are your kids’ names gonna follow?”
“Huh?”
“Well, it’s a Plotzler family tradition. Heidi’s parents chose the Lederhosen theme with Hans, Greta, Sonya, and Heidi. Greta’s stickin’ it to the Muggles with her Potter theme. What’s the new baby’s name? Hagrid? Sonya’s kids, Jude, Justin, and Jeremiah, are rockin’ the J’s. And Hans, with Amber, Ruby, and Violet, has made his colorful contribution to the population.”
Under the deck, Nick finds the mesh bag that holds the balls. Holding it open for me, he says, “I’m not sure we’re going to have enough kids to have a theme for names.”
