by Karina Halle
“Yeah right,” I scoff. I feel like my ass has gotten wider ever since school finished. All this writing and sitting all day has made the excess fat and wine congregate in my butt cheeks. I figure it’s my body’s way of giving me a permanent seat—you’re a writer now, here’s your portable cushion!—but even so, it’s not appreciated.
“Don’t listen to me, then,” she says. “Besides, your boyfriend seems to like your body.”
“Not my boyfriend,” I tell her quickly. “Never my boyfriend.”
She opens her mouth but I cut her off. “Not my fuckboy either.” Speaking of fuckboy adventures, I wonder if I should text Rio about this. I want to dish all about it but at the same time it doesn’t seem right. She’ll wonder why I’m spending all this time with someone I’m supposed to hate.
And I do feel like I hate him this morning.
Just a little.
For being so damn smooth.
And firm.
And good with his lips.
Tongue.
The hard length of his cock.
The way he made me moan, louder than I ever have before.
“Look at you,” Ana coos. “So in love.”
I let out a strangled cry of frustration. “Oh my god, I can’t talk to you anymore,” I tell her, getting up just as my phone rings. I expect it to be Blake with his ears burning but my heart sinks when I see it’s my mother.
“Shit,” I swear. “What day is it?” I’ve totally lost track after school ended.
“Thursday,” Ana says.
Fuck. I promised to have lunch with my parents today. They’ve been hounding me about coming over for ages now and I’ve deftly avoided it. Until they brought up me being selfish and having no respect and blah blah blah.
“Hello, Mother.”
“Don’t sound so happy. You knew I’d be calling,” her crisp voice comes through.
“It’s early.”
“Early to bed, early to rise, that’s the life of a successful adult,” she says, and it’s loud enough for Ana to hear because she’s already rolling her eyes, motioning that she’s blowing her brains out with a gun. I don’t know why parents always have to talk so loud on the phone, it’s like they think they’re underwater trying to talk through a tin can.
“Right,” I tell her. “This successful adult is on vacation now.”
“That may explain why you’ve been ignoring your parents. No need for school funding, no need to talk to us.”
Ugh. The guilt trip. “I’m not ignoring you, I’m just…so what time is lunch?”
“Eleven-thirty,” she says. “Your dad is making your favorite. Don’t be late.”
I assure her I won’t and say goodbye. My parents are these real sticklers when it comes to punctuality. Actually, they are real sticklers when it comes to everything in life that is proper and safe and orderly. No matter how much I feel like I’m progressing and becoming an adult—on my own terms—they’re always there to remind me that I’m still their child and most likely doing it wrong.
I show up at my parents’ house at twenty after eleven, just in case, and to my surprise I see my Uncle Seth’s 1980s hunter green Jaguar outside. Uncle Seth and Aunt Sylvia are ridiculous. When I was growing up I was taught to view them as eccentric, but now that I’m older, I realize they’re dumb and kind of senile. I know everyone has relatives and family friends that embarrasses them for one reason or another but these two take the cake.
This is the house I grew up in. It’s a large two-story built in 1912, which gives my parents an edge over their friends—at least they think so. “Anyone can build a new house. Not just anyone can buy something historical,” my mother has stated. I mean, it is gorgeous and has been updated a lot and I loved how vast the property was as a child. I’d flit around, pretending to be a superhero, running from the nanny and interrupting my father’s croquet game.
Yup. Some people actually do play croquet. My parents. Along with bocce ball and any other game that involves standing on the lawn in white pants with a drink in one hand.
Actually, that sounds kind of ideal. Except for the white pants thing.
Out front there’s an iron gate flanked by a pristine brick wall that spans the brick driveway and stately columns on the front porch. At the back there is a clay veranda that overlooks the oasis and pond.
That’s where I find my mother, Uncle Seth, and Aunt Sylvia, huddled around the table, sipping tea from fine china and snacking on scones and crustless cucumber sandwiches from a copper tiered serving tray. My mother likes to pretend her house is the Empress Hotel when guests are over.
“There you are,” my mother says as if they’ve been waiting forever. “Your father was worried.”
I roll my eyes and don’t even bother pointing out that I’m early.
My mother gets up and gives me a light hug. She smells like Chanel and disappointment. Aunt Sylvia gives me a shy little wave and Uncle Seth just nods. He doesn’t say much in general, which is just as well because the few times he does it’s usually racist or sexist.
“There you are,” my father says, coming outside, wiping his hands on his apron. At least his hug is more genuine than my mother’s. I bask in the affection for exactly three seconds before he says, “You know, I had lunch with Alan’s parents the other day.”
Everything inside me freezes. “Great. Hope they’re well.”
No, I don’t. I fucking hated his parents.
“Where is Alan?” Aunt Sylvia yells in that grating, nasally voice of hers. Think George Costanza’s mother on crack. Uncle Seth can’t hear that well and she assumes no one else can hear well either.
My mother gives her a look. “You know they broke up in January, Sylvie.”
I look at my dad, dying for a change of subject. “Let’s eat. I’m starving!”
There’s a vague sense of awareness in his eyes before he heads back into the kitchen that perhaps I don’t want to talk about my ex.
We head into the dining room and sit down at the table, all made up with layers of place settings like royalty is coming. My father serves my favorite salmon salad, and as usual there’s more tea.
Aunt Sylvia gets an extra strong martini, as that’s her thing. All day, every day. In fact, my father leaves the shaker beside her glass and a small jar of olives because he knows how fast she’ll go through them. Saves time this way.
“So how do you feel having only one year of school left?” my mother asks as she picks at her salad.
Hmmm. A “how do you feel” question. I rarely get those.
“Great,” I tell her. “I love school but I honestly can’t wait to be done.”
“Have you started looking for jobs?” my dad asks.
Sigh. I glance at him, keeping a smile pasted on my face. “Not yet. Next year.”
“Do you still want to be a writer?” Sylvia yells over her martini.
Another sigh. “I’m studying to be one.”
My dad puts his elbows on the table, folding his hands over each other in a near offering of prayer as he looks to my aunt. “With her degree, Amanda can work as a teacher if she wishes.”
“But I’ll be a writer,” I remind him.
“Even though writers don’t make money,” my mom scoffs. “Who is going to pay for your place and your clothes and everything else? Once you’re done with school, our help is gone. You’ll be living on the streets.” Here we go. Same old, same old. “You really made a big mistake breaking up with Alan.” She throws down her napkin, genuinely upset.
“Um, I didn’t love him,” I reply testily.
“Why not?”
“Maybe she loves women,” Aunt Sylvia yells.
I give her a withering glance before turning back to my mom. “Because I didn’t love him. I don’t know. He’s a nice guy but...”
“The best guy,” my mother finishes.
“Men like him don’t come around very often,” my father says, jumping in. “He’ll make one hell of a dentist.”
; “I’m not sure that’s a good thing,” I mutter, spearing a piece of salmon with my fork.
“But he could have supported you,” my mother says. “If you had just said yes, you’d be planning your wedding right now. I’d be planning it! Then you’d get married when you graduate, you’d be having children by twenty-five and learning what it’s like to be a mother, a real woman, and then if you still have your flights of fancy, you could dabble in writing on the side. Maybe write children’s books.”
My face is burning with rage. I have a million things I want to say and yet my throat is so choked with anger I can’t even say it.
“There’s nothing wrong with being a lesbian,” Aunt Sylvia prattles on.
My mother ignores her. “Amanda, you threw away the one good thing you had going for you. Alan would have made you a woman. Instead you broke up with him, humiliating him in the worst way, and you’re back to the petulant child that you are. You’ll never grow up now, you’ll be lonely and single and chasing something that doesn’t even exist.”
I’m close to tears now and I never cry.
“I love writing,” I manage to say, staring down at the salad. “It’s what I’m good at. It’s what I love.”
“I love a lot of things too,” my mother says. “And I never even dared to make them a career. You need to stop living in this fantasy land and start living in reality.”
“Your mother is right,” my father says, voice all low like he’s really getting down to business and throwing his man of the house card around. “The minute you graduate, you’re getting a steady, respectable job. I don’t care where it is, but it’s not going to be based on some half-assed dream of yours. Very few people in the world get to write for a living. You have to be pretty damn special to be one of them.”
“Oh my god!” I cry out. “You haven’t even read my stuff! You have no idea at all if it’s any good.”
“You know, it’s pretty acceptable nowadays,” Aunt Sylvia says, sloshing her martini around as it splashes over the side of the glass. “One word—Ellen Degeneres. She’s a big deal. Oops, I spilled my drink.”
“I’m sure you’re good, sweetie,” my father says, changing his tone. “But having talent and being good at something doesn’t mean you’ll get far in life. Stick to what’s dependable. You know. Alan’s getting pretty serious with a new girl…”
I frown at that. Really? Already??
“Apparently she’s going to be a genetic scientist,” he says. “But you know, if you want him back, I’m sure I could put in a word for you.”
“Jesus Christ, I don’t want Alan back!” I yell.
“Amanda!” my mother cries at me. “You do not use the Lord’s name in vain in this house. In any house.” Her hand goes to her chest and she looks like she’s having a heart attack. “You are just taking a turn for the worse. I think you better start coming to church with me again.” She makes a faint sign of the cross.
“When I was in college, I had a very good girlfriend,” Aunt Sylvia notes.
“Amanda,” my father warns. “You better shape up or ship out. I’m serious. You need to get a hold of yourself and act like an adult, or we’ll stop paying for your education. You won’t survive very long on a government loan.”
I try to breathe in deep but it’s hard. My whole chest feels thick, like I’m drowning on the inside. No matter what, they still have this fucking noose around my neck.
“What did we do wrong?” my mother asks my father, shaking her head slightly. “After Dahlia threw her life away, I had such high hopes for this one.”
“One night my girlfriend stole some barbiturates from her mother,” Aunt Sylvia continues, finishing her martini. “Boy, did we have a wild night. I had rug burns on my knees for days.”
I pause mid-chew. Now she has my attention.
“Amanda,” my father says. “Just promise me that you’ll think about it. About taking him back. Or at least letting us set you up with one of the Birmingham boys. All of them are going to law school now.”
I don’t say anything. There’s no point.
Aunt Sylvia sighs dreamily. “Sometimes I wished I had run off with her to Mexico like we’d planned. I would have never had to marry Seth.”
“What?” Uncle Seth says.
“Yeah, what?” I repeat.
Surprised, Aunt Sylvia looks up at us with glazed eyes. “What were we talking about?”
“Never mind,” my father grumbles. “Let’s just try and eat the rest of the meal in peace.
And that’s how lunch went with my parents. Not only do I think Aunt Sylvia and Uncle Seth are getting a divorce now, but I’ve learned just how much my parents don’t believe in me.
It makes me realize how badly I want this book to succeed, to prove them wrong, even if in secret.
It also makes me realize that there’s no guy I want to be set up with, none that I would be interested in dating. There’s only one guy for me at the moment.
And after last night, the thought of him scares me more than anything.
By the time I get back home, I’ve pushed my parents out of my mind and Blake’s found his way back in. I’m a nervous wreck again. Fortunately, I have the place to myself so I have time to stew over shit in silence.
Blake hasn’t stopped texting me.
Let me know when you’re free to talk – Turd Ferguson.
Give a shout when you can – Homer Sexual.
I just booked the editor for this weekend – Yuri Nater
Seriously, I’m not good at this game. We need to talk books. I promise I won’t kiss you – Hugh Jass.
Call me for the sake of your future – Mike Rotch.
The last one has me laughing, even though I can’t take a threat from Mike Rotch seriously.
I text him back.
What up?
He calls me.
I knew it.
I pick up the phone. “Why can’t you just text me?”
“Why can’t you use your mouth?” he answers smoothly.
Tread carefully. “I’m better at writing things out than saying them.”
“Oh, you mean you’re socially awkward and prone to saying the wrong thing all the time? You don’t say.”
“Shut up. What do you want?”
He snorts in amusement. “What do I want? As your business partner I’m here to remind you that we’re on a deadline. We only have a couple of days to finish the book and then it’s off to the editor and then it’s uploaded to Amazon. Release day, baby.”
“Did we figure out a cover yet?”
“The designer is looking. She knows the drill. Hot guy, shirtless, abs for days.”
“Well, why doesn’t she use a picture of you?”
“Riiiiight. You haven’t even seen me with my shirt off. How would you know?”
“I felt your abs through your shirt last night,” I tell him.
“Ah. She admits that last night happened.”
“Fine, but it’s over so please stop talking in third person.”
“I’m flattered that you think I do steroids, but honestly I’m way too pretty to be on the cover of an erotica novel.”
“I think your ego may be in some need of a boost,” I muse dryly.
“So you’ve noticed? It’s hard to stay confident when the main woman in your life won’t return your goddamn texts.”
“Well, you won me over with Mike Rotch, so what does that say about me?”
“It says let me come get you, let’s write this bloody thing.”
“Fine. At the library. The one at the school is still open.”
“What? Why?”
“I don’t think we should be alone together.”
Silence. I can practically hear him thinking. “And why is that?”
“Because sex makes things messy.”
“Messy is good.”
“And according to you, so is greed and we won’t even get a chance to be greedy if we’re too preoccupied with sex.”
“Believe
me, you’ll be greedy,” he says lazily. “You’ll have the greediest cunt around once I’ve gotten through to you.”
My cheeks flame. Damn.
“You’re speechless,” he says after a beat.
I clear my throat a few times. “I’m trying to think of a witty comeback.”
“Don’t think so much then. In case you didn’t notice, we didn’t have sex. I just kissed you. And I asked permission.”
“No you didn’t, you just told me you were doing it.”
“And you were totally fine with it.”
“I was caught up in the moment.”
“And there’s nothing wrong with that. When should I get you?”
“I’m serious,” I tell him, my resolve coming back. “Meet me in the library at six, the same corner we were in the first time we met there.”
“Ah, memories.”
“See you then.” And I hang up on him before he can say anything else.
Lord help me get through this.
Despite not texting Rio earlier, she ends up texting me about wanting to go to the beach and smoke some weed, so I agree to spend the day with her on the sandy shores of Cordova Bay.
Though the sun is hot and strong and I have to apply SPF 50 every twenty minutes, it’s still May and the ocean is only for the brave. I don’t smoke a lot of pot but I have a toke or two, enough to just relax and get my mind to stop racing over all the Blake and my family bullshit. Rio, however, runs in and out of the water, shrieking as she goes, much to the annoyance of families nearby. She’s actually quite the sight—even though it was her idea to go to the beach and she managed to pack a cooler full of cider and sandwiches, she’s wearing mismatching bra and underwear in lieu of a swimsuit and you can totally see her nipples.
I really want to talk to her about Blake but somehow I keep it inside. It helps that when she gets high, she talks a mile a minute and about her own romantic endeavors. I learn that the single dad is gone, some foreign exchange student named Xan is in temporarily, and she’s seriously considering abstaining from sex and chocolate for the rest of the summer.
“You’re nuts,” I tell her.
She shrugs, her dark curly hair falling over her shoulder. She’s lying on her stomach on her ratty towel, reading the latest issue of Travel and Leisure with a dreamy look on her face. “I like a challenge. Don’t you?”
