Layover

by Amy Andelson

  “Oh shit!” Shappy calls out from the other room.

  “They’re worried something actually happened to us,” Amos continues. “You guys see how messed up this is, right?”

  “I know we should feel bad that we’re ruining Mom and Dad’s vacation, but they’re about to ruin our lives. I really don’t want to leave,” Poppy chimes in.

  “Well, what if we just tell them that?” I suggest.

  Amos rolls his eyes at me.

  “I’m serious. Let’s tell them we know about the divorce and we’re not coming on the trip. We can assure them that we’re alive and well, but we just need some time. And we’ll be back in touch when we’re ready,” I propose.

  “Oh yeah, I’m sure they’ll go for that,” Amos sarcastically quips.

  “Please,” Poppy begs. “I’ll never ask you for anything again. I just want more time with us together. Can we please just stay here a little longer?”

  “Come on, Amos. We have to show them that no matter what, we refuse to be separated.”

  He bites his lip, skeptical. “What do you mean? Like an ultimatum?”

  “Exactly!” I exclaim. “Don’t you want to take a stand against the tyranny of divorce?” I continue, my voice getting stronger. This is more than just a silly act of rebellion, and I can see Amos knows that.

  He considers our plea. “We can give it a shot…but don’t blame me when the US marshal comes a-calling.” Amos thinks for a second. “Shappy, lemme borrow your phone.” Shappy gets up from the couch and tosses his phone to Amos. “Here goes nothing.” Amos takes a deep breath and types: “Dear Jack and Louisa, we are together, and we are safe.”

  “And we’re not coming back!” Poppy pipes in.

  “Let me work on the language.” Amos continues to type as Neel waltzes into the kitchen with the pizza.

  “Who’s hungry?” Neel asks.

  Poppy and I sit down at the table and dig in. “Well, I sent it,” Amos says as he hands the phone back to Shappy. I take a bite of warm tomatoey cheesy goodness, and relax a little—it seems like we’ll get to stay on this adventure…at least for a little bit longer.

  After dinner, Shappy breaks out the bottle of Cuervo and suggests he and Neel call some girls over. And I swear, Neel looks at me when he says that he’s “all good.” Shappy then turns to Amos, who corroborates by saying, “Not tonight.” Not surprisingly, shortly thereafter Shappy says he has to bounce, and he calls an Uber. So Poppy, Amos, Neel, and I hit up the screening room while Bebe retreats to her bedroom off the kitchen.

  Poppy is wired from what’s turning into the longest day ever, so we all agree to let her pick the movie, which means we’re watching another one of her favorites, Edward Scissorhands. I’m trying to focus on the screen, but it’s hard with Neel’s hand on my inner thigh, under one of what seems like an infinite supply of Neel’s father’s cashmere blankets. I’m pretending not to be fixated on his hand slowly inching up my leg, even though it’s literally the only thing I can think about. His hand. On my leg. Neel, however, seems entirely relaxed—like we live in a world where hands and legs are always meant to be touching. Who knows, maybe they are.

  An hour and a half later, Poppy is fast asleep, curled up in a blanket at the end of the row that Neel and I are in. Amos sits alone, in the front row. On the screen, Winona and Johnny are dancing in the fake snow, which means the movie’s almost over. Then we’ll all have to go our separate ways to bed, and I’m already getting anxious about what’s going to happen. What do I want to happen?

  I hate feeling like this. I hate feeling so…unsure. But that’s not really true. I know what I want. At least I think I do. I guess if I’m being totally honest, I hate knowing what I want and not knowing if I’m going to get it.

  Like when Aisha’s dad gave her two tickets to Beyoncé a few weeks ago. And I knew I wanted to go. But I also knew Sabrina wanted to go. And I also knew Sabrina well enough to know that she always gets what she wants. In other words, no matter how she engineered for us to “fairly” decide who got the ticket, the end result would be her backstage at Beyoncé and me back at home. So I told Sabrina to take the ticket. That I was over Beyoncé anyway.

  But I’m sick of taking the backseat, of just letting life happen—to other people. I’m sick of giving away what I want. So when the movie’s done, and Amos takes Poppy upstairs to Neel’s sister’s room, I grab Neel’s hand and lead him into his bedroom.

  It’s the middle of the night, and I’m awake. I tell myself to go back to sleep, but my mind is racing. I can’t lie here any longer, so I get up and tiptoe downstairs. There’s something simultaneously unnerving and comforting about being the only person awake in a house full of people sleeping. I go into the kitchen and start to pour myself a glass of water from the tap, but suddenly I’m thirsty for something else.

  The bar is set up in the living room, and there’s every kind of liquor on display. Top shelf. Not like I would expect anything less from Mr. Khan at this point. I realize I haven’t had a real drink in almost four months. Sure, I’ll sneak the occasional beer in my room at school, but seeing the way all the kids are so preoccupied with getting shit-faced makes it feel like pretty much the last thing I want to be doing. Having an alcoholic father really has a way of souring you on the stuff. But right now, I need something to take the edge off.

  Neel seemed surprisingly concerned about protecting his dad’s booze, but Shappy left with that bottle of shitty tequila. So, sorry, Neel. Looks like you’re going to have to take one for the team here. I consider the bottle of Tanqueray, but there’s only a little left. And anyway, my dad always said gin makes you angry. So I settle on scotch. Scotch feels like a drink meant for the middle of the night, and there’s a big bottle of Macallan 18 with my name on it. As I take one of the crystal glasses neatly lined up on the shelf, my fingers slip, and I almost drop it. I need this drink more than I thought.

  I pour a splash of amber liquid into the glass. I force it down in one gulp, feeling the burn of every drop, and promptly pour a little more. Drink in hand, I walk over to the sliding door that leads out onto the terrace, and I step outside.

  There’s a full moon tonight—it’s hanging big and bright over the Pacific, and it looks, well, beautiful. The air is cool and damp, and I think about going inside to get a sweatshirt but take a warming sip of my drink instead. I forgot how cold LA gets at night, but then again, it’s been a while since I’ve been here. I sit back on a lounge chair, and for a minute I just listen to the thunderous sound of the waves crashing.

  I want to get lost in the rhythm of the water, but no matter how hard I try, my mind keeps going back to the same thing. The click of the lock on Neel’s door, the sound of their hushed whispers. But if Flynn likes that douchebag, then she should do whatever she wants with him. It’s not like I have any say in the mistakes she makes.

  I know I was a total dick to her today. And that makes me feel like crap. Because that’s the last thing I planned on. In some bizarre way, I was actually kind of looking forward to being on the boat. Even if our family is messed up, we’re all we’ve got. And I thought that maybe it’d finally be time for us to talk about what happened back in June. But what’s the point? Now that we’re not going to be a family anymore, does that mean Flynn and I will just be…friends? Ex-stepsiblings? People who once knew each other?

  “Of all the gin joints…”

  I turn around, startled. There she is. She’s wrapped in a blanket, and there’s moonlight in her stupid short hair, and I can’t really look at her because the second she appears, my heart starts beating faster. She takes a seat in the chair next to mine. We don’t say anything for a minute. She looks at the glass of scotch on the ground in between us, reaches down, and takes a sip. She winces from the taste. She’s still Flynn—whether she likes it or not. She puts the glass back down and then says, “I couldn’t sleep, either.”


  We sit like this, in silence. And then, finally, I ask, “So, what made you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Run.”

  Flynn looks out at the ocean, and then just sort of shrugs. “Believe it or not, it seemed like the only reasonable option at the time.” She thinks for a moment. “I can’t face them. I can’t think about what’s going to happen next.”

  “At least you’ll be going back home. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?” I ask, hoping it’s not true.

  “I guess,” she replies. And I can’t help but wonder if it’s really how she feels, or if she’s just saying it to hurt me.

  “Are you surprised? About the divorce?” I ask her.

  She nods. “Which I’m sure you think is so naïve.”

  I do. But in a good way. “I hate to say it…but do you think it was Hans?” I ask her.

  “Hans Gleitman? Really?”

  “You saw how Louisa was always throwing herself at him whenever he was over for dinner. Calling him a visionary and whatnot. Saying his work was transcendent,” I say, mimicking my mom’s air of pretension. Flynn cracks a smile. My Louisa impression is spot-on.

  “Let’s not jump to any conclusions,” she says. Flynn always wants to see the best in people. “But his studio is in Amagansett….” She trails off.

  “I’m telling you. She has a type.” Flynn looks distraught; her brow furrows. “What is it?” I ask.

  “All this time, I wanted to think that my parents’ divorce was okay because at least my dad had found what he was looking for in Louisa. Like it was worth it. But now that their marriage is over, too…I don’t know what to think.”

  She picks some lint off her borrowed sweatpants.

  “Just because something doesn’t last, or doesn’t turn out the way you thought it would, doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth it.” I want her to believe me, but I don’t think she does.

  “It’s just so…sad. All of it. Things ending. People leaving.” She looks at me, and it’s clear we’re talking about more than Jack and Louisa.

  “Flynn, I…” But I stop myself. There’s so much I want to tell her. Like how sorry I am for leaving New York, for leaving her, without even a goodbye. And how I’ve spent the past few months trying to figure out what it is that I feel for her, but all this time later, I still don’t know. And how sitting here now makes me glad we ran. I want to tell her all of this, but a strong wind blows, and she shivers from the cold. And suddenly I’m afraid of what I might say. Or do. So instead I say, “Come on. It’s freezing. Let’s go back inside.”

  We quietly slink back through the house. I follow Flynn upstairs, relieved when she slips into Poppy’s room instead of Neel’s.

  My legs are burning, and I’m almost out of breath, so I turn around and head back to the house. I’ve probably only gone a mile or two, but running barefoot on the beach is harder than I anticipated. I woke up early—everyone else in the house was still deep in sleep, but I was weirdly wide awake. Blame it on the time change. But it was like the muscles in my body were begging me to move.

  So here I am, in Neel’s stepmother’s coordinated Lululemon sports bra, tank top, and shorts, with the dog walkers and personal trainers on the beach in Malibu. The fog is so thick, it feels like I’m running through the clouds. Usually running helps clear my head, but today it’s having the opposite effect. Because with every step, I’m flooded with memories of last night.

  The door closed to Neel’s room, and he pulled me in and kissed me. I had waited all summer to be with him, and now it was finally happening. We kissed for a while like that, standing up, until Neel led me over to the bed. Then we kissed lying down, which was nice, too. But the thing was, I couldn’t get out of my head. I tried, I really did. But every time he put his hand somewhere, I’d think, This is Neel’s hand going up my shirt. This is Neel’s hand going…other places. I pulled away to catch my breath.

  “You okay?” he asked me.

  “Yeah,” I answered.

  “Okay,” he said as he lifted my shirt up over my head. It all felt like it was moving so fast. My heart, his hands, everything. Could he tell I was a virgin? Was my virgin-ness something that non-virgins could detect?

  “Neel…I’m a…you know, I’ve never…,” I said nervously.

  “It’s cool,” he said. “Do you…want to?” he asked, in between kissing my neck.

  “I…I don’t know,” I answered. “Maybe. But just…not, like, right now.”

  “That’s okay. You’re pretty fun to make out with,” he said.

  I could feel my cheeks turning red, but luckily, he couldn’t see that in the dark. I woke up in the middle of the night with Neel snoring next to me. I got up to use the bathroom, and as I stood by the window looking out at the full moon, I noticed a silhouette on a lounge chair on the deck downstairs. I glanced back at Neel, still snoring, and tiptoed out.

  There’s still so much we need to talk about. Like how the last time I saw Amos, we were lying together in my bed. But I’m not ready to go there. Not yet. Last night was the first time in a long time that it felt like Amos and I were just hanging out like normal people. Normal people who had just happened to run away from their family vacation.

  When Amos and I went inside, I didn’t want to go back to Neel’s room. Maybe it was because I didn’t want Amos to see me go in there. Or maybe it was because I was worried it would be awkward waking up next to Neel. Or maybe it was because of his snoring. Either way, I crept into Neel’s sister’s room and crawled into bed with Poppy instead.

  By the time I’m at the house, the fog has finally lifted, and it looks like an entirely different day. The sun is out, and there isn’t a single cloud in the sky. I’m sweaty and panting as I slide open the glass door, and before I even have a minute to catch my breath, Poppy grabs my hand and drags me into the kitchen to proudly show me the breakfast feast she and Bebe have prepared.

  “Welcome to Hotel Malibu!” Poppy says as she sits me down at the table, offering me coffee and orange juice. “Fresh squeezed—no pulp.” She fills my glass with a smile because she knows that’s just how I like it. Amos sits across from me, with a plate of chocolate chip pancakes piled high.

  “Hope you’re hungry,” he says.

  “Starving.” I smile, relieved that we’re at least starting the day off speaking. Poppy presents me with my own stack of pancakes, and then pours way too much maple syrup. I’m starving from my run, and I’m about to take my first bite when Neel walks in. All I can think about is that this person saw me half-naked a few hours ago. Should I say something, or should he? I should. No…he should.

  “Hi,” he says, looking right at me.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Well, what do you three gangstas have lined up for today?”

  I really wanted to go to Disneyland, but Neel said we couldn’t because then we wouldn’t be back in time to go to some party later. I could feel my cheeks turning red and my eyes filling up with tears, but Flynn just squeezed my hand and whispered in my ear that we were going to have the best day no matter where we were. She promised. I could tell she didn’t want me to start crying in front of Neel. She gave me the same look my mom gives me when I’m about to have one of my “episodes,” as she calls them. This will be the first full day I haven’t taken my medicine, and I should maybe say something to Flynn or Amos about it, but I don’t want them to worry. Or worse, I don’t want them to call Mom and Dad.

  So now we’re wandering around Venice Beach, and while it’s nothing like Disneyland, it’s not like anywhere I’ve ever been. It kind of seems like a circus, but everyone is walking around like it’s totally normal. There are people zipping by on bikes and skates, and even a guy on stilts. There are street performers, and a million stores selling T-shirts and jewelry I know Mom would call “trashy.” I got excited when I saw a giant Ferris wheel ov
er on a pier, and asked if we could go for a ride, but Neel and Flynn shot me down again. I don’t really like Venice Beach at all. Flynn and Neel keep laughing at jokes that Amos and I don’t seem to get. And then out of nowhere, Amos says he’s got somewhere he needs to be.

  “But we’re all here. Where could you have to go?” I ask him. He says he has something to take care of, and he looks at Flynn. She’s confused for a second, and then she just sort of nods. I forgot how they do this sometimes—speak to each other without using any words.

  “Promise you’ll come back?” I ask.

  “Of course I’ll come back,” he says, kneeling down, resting his hand on my shoulder.

  “But how will you find us? We don’t have our phones.”

  Amos looks around. “How about we meet at that skate park in two hours?”

  I look at the empty concrete pool overlooking the ocean, where shirtless skater dudes fly through the air. “Promise?” I ask.

  He sticks out his pinky and links it with mine. “Promise.”

  He’s probably still sleeping. After all, it’s what, midday? Or, better yet, he’s probably passed out with the bottle of tequila between his legs. Those were fun times. When Louisa would come home from work and find him like that on the couch. I’d be in my room, pretending to be oblivious to the whole mess. Louisa would do her best to clean up the obvious evidence of the train wreck that was Clay’s life, but New York City apartments are small, especially for us back in those days. There was no way to hide the sounds of their inevitable arguments when he’d finally sober up.

  I guess if I knew the shit storm Louisa would throw at me when the buzz wore off, I’d keep drinking, too. I can’t really blame him. Except that I do. Not so much for being a lousy alcoholic, or a mediocre painter, or even a fair-weather father. Not even for leaving. It was the way he did it. He seemed to just pick up and move to Los Angeles—a place that was so clearly the opposite of us—without ever looking back. Without any remorse.