Come As You Are

by Theresa Weir

  He gathered up everything and stuffed it into his backpack. “This is my first year as a TA. I couldn’t believe they wanted me to take over the class.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine, especially now that you have the syllabus.”

  “I don’t know. I’m trying not to freak out about it. But it’s Psychology 101. I should be able to handle it.”

  We were both standing. I was waiting for him to leave. Either leave or come upstairs. Upstairs was not a good idea. Or maybe it was.

  “Okay, I better go. Thanks.” He offered his hand. It was supposed to be a shake, but instead he just kept holding on while he stared at my face. I think I smiled. I might have smiled. “I wish I’d visited before now,” he said breathlessly.

  “I don’t live here,” I told him.

  “Oh.”

  I could tell he was disappointed, because now he wouldn’t know where to put me in his mind. He was one of those shy guys, a bit naïve, a bit of a geek, all things I found attractive.

  The longest I’d had a boyfriend was six months. I think because I find a relationship too intimate. Not the sex, but once the guy starts wanting to understand me and get into my head I’ve had enough. I begin to feel smothered, and I begin looking for a way out. I begin finding fault in all the little things he does, all things that had attracted me in the first place. But naïve guys tended to take a girl at face value. To Sabal, I would be a pretty and quirky and sad girl whose cool father just died. He might not look any deeper.

  He smiled, and his smile made me feel better than I’d felt in days.

  “If you’re missing some notes, let me know. We can look more.” I didn’t know how much longer I’d have access to the house, but I got the impression Ian wouldn’t care since he’d invited me to stay. Wouldn’t that be weird? To stay? I almost shuddered.

  I heard the sound of a key in the front door. I dropped Sabal’s hand as if stung. My chest tightened, and heat rushed to my face. It took me a moment to rearrange my brain.

  The sound of the key in the door. The time of day… My response was purely a conditioned reaction—I thought my father was coming home.

  And even though I realized that wasn’t the case, I still expected to see him step inside, put down his briefcase, and hang his coat and hat on the rack.

  Muffled footsteps. “Hello? Anybody home?”

  I closed and opened my eyes slowly while taking a stabilizing breath. Ian. My new brother.

  My weird reaction had triggered an equally weird one in Sabal. He was blushing and gathering his stuff, slipping out of the office and hurrying through the living room, stopping when he came face-to-face with the new owner.

  I followed, composing myself as I went. “Sabal, this is my stepbrother, Ian.” I would work this stepbrother thing as long as possible because Ian bugged the hell out of me and I needed to torment him.

  They did the normal awkward stuff. Hello. Nice to meet you. And then Sabal ducked out, leaving me with Ian.

  “He was my dad’s TA.” I felt the need to explain why I was in the house, and why another person was in the house.

  “That’s okay. This place isn’t really mine yet anyway. And like I said, stay as long as you want.” But his backpack was near the door, so he must have been planning to spend some time here himself.

  “Come on. I’ll give you the tour.”

  “I don’t know.” He remained glued to the living room floor. “I thought the house would be empty. You said you were going to work. I’ll come back some other time.”

  “No problem. I’m leaving soon, and I was lying about work.”

  He nodded, as if that didn’t surprise him.

  I showed him around, but after the tour started I thought: How stupid. He doesn’t need me leading him around, pointing to the kitchen. “And here’s the refrigerator.” I opened it. The fucking ham was still there, and it looked like there was more of it now. Christ, there was another whole one next to the platter of slices. I slammed the door.

  “And there’s the sink.”

  I reached around a corner, groping blindly for a switch. “Basement is down here. Washer and dryer, plus a shower and toilet.” I turned off the light because I saw no reason to go downstairs.

  Back through the living room. And why wasn’t he talking? At the bar I just wanted him to shut up, but now, with him in my house—correction, his house—things felt even weirder, and I didn’t think that was possible.

  He’d already seen the living room and dining room and office. He followed me upstairs, our boots way too loud on the wooden steps. I wished I’d put on some music because I seemed to be picking up sounds I didn’t want to hear, like my stomach making noises. Not hungry noises, but nervous and abused noises.

  “You know, Iceland has an app that will tell you if two people are related,” I said as I turned the corner at the landing, my hand on the square post the way my hand had touched it ever since I was tall enough to reach. “That would have come in handy last night, huh? So if you’re out drinking and you meet somebody you…” My words trailed off. “How does it know? I mean, you can’t put a drop of your blood on the iPhone screen.”

  “Maybe you enter your personal info. Like age and date-of-birth. Maybe the names of your parents and grandparents.”

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “That might be.”

  Once again I wanted to run. I pictured myself pushing him aside, tearing down the stairs, jumping on my bike, and pedaling away.

  “Three bedrooms.” I sounded like a real estate agent. “Bathroom at the end of the hall. We had it redone about five years ago so it’s pretty nice. And up there?” I pointed above our heads to the square door in the ceiling. “That’s a crawl space. I know it’s hard to believe, but I’ve never been in it. Too creepy, and I don’t like dark, tight spaces. But you might want to check it out. Not sure if there’s anything stored there. Kind of doubt it.”

  And then we reached my room.

  Purple walls. India print bedspread from a head shop in Dinkytown. Incense burners and candles and band posters, mostly bands from the sixties, but later ones too.

  “Kurt Cobain,” Ian said.

  It was the signature headshot of him with the mussed hair and black eyeliner and striped shirt. As if to justify the poster, I said, “I was born on September 24, 1991, the day Nevermind came out.”

  “Oh, wow.”

  “And I haven’t used this room in years. Just so you know.” But then I instantly felt bad about denying my relationship and obsession with Kurt. “I’m signed up for a pop culture class,” I told him. “Nirvana and the Life and Death of Kurt Cobain.”

  “That sounds cool.”

  “Well, I’m not sure if I’m going to go back this semester. Trying to decide.”

  “You could always ask for a deferment.”

  “I’m thinking about it. But this class is only offered every few years, so… I don’t know.” It was unusual for a freshman to get accepted, but I’d pulled the birthday card. I’d written a letter to the instructor explaining how I needed to take the class. And it was just possible my father had pulled some strings. Ordinarily that would have horrified me, but this was so important that I hadn’t cared. He could have pulled strings like a mad puppeteer.

  “Listen, I know you don’t want to talk about this…but the will… We need to talk about it. Not today. Not now, but soon.”

  I shook my head. “I’ve said all I want to say. It’s okay. I mean, how much money could he have had anyway? I don’t know what he made, but it couldn’t have been that much. We never had money for anything extra. And this house? Like I said, I’m not attached to it. Really.”

  He had a strange look on his face.

  “What?”

  He shook something off and said, “You can stay here. I told you that.”

  “I have my own place.”

  “How can I eat all that ham? Did you see all that ham?”

  I laughed. And he laughed.

  How strange. Less than twenty
-four hours ago I’d ripped off his pants and cradled his penis in my hand. And now here we were, standing in my old bedroom next to a poster of Kurt Cobain, talking like two old farts.

  Chapter 10

  “I’m sorry,” Rose said, but her tone told me she wasn’t sorry. Her tone sounded defensive. That was Rose. She was a good friend and she was a shitty friend. Like pretty much everybody I knew, myself included, she was self-absorbed until she was forced to focus on something or somebody.

  Then she could be the sweetest girl on earth, and she would make me forget about the times she’d stood me up because of a dude or because something better had come along.

  I was sitting at the kitchen counter of our duplex, a nasty-looking bowl of oatmeal in front of me, a cup of coffee cradled in my hands. I wore an old T-shirt that I’d slept in and a sloppy pair of yoga pants even though it was too hot for yoga pants.

  It was almost noon and I’d just gotten up, mostly because my three roommates had kept me awake all night with their music and partying. A girl doesn’t really feel like partying two days after her father’s funeral. You’d think they would have respected that. But no, Taylor had even poked his head in my room and offered me a joint.

  “Come hang out.”

  The joint was tempting, but then I remembered how pot gave me a headache. And not just a headache. One time Rose and I made pot brownies and before we knew it we’d eaten half the pan. I had to be taken to the ER because I broke out in hives and my lips and tongue swelled. When they asked if I’d ingested peanuts or anything else I might be allergic to I just shook my head.

  I shook my head again when Taylor asked me to join them. He didn’t really want my company. I was a buzzkill right now. Until he’d poked his head in the door Taylor hadn’t said a word to me about my dad, and he’d made a point to leave the house whenever I showed up. Stoners seemed to have a problem dealing with real emotions and serious situations. It was like that part of their brain had been short circuited or something. I’d like to think Taylor felt bad for me, but I wasn’t sure.

  But this new thing… It hurt.

  “I’m sorry,” Rose repeated as she kicked the fridge door closed with a bare foot and carried a carton of orange juice to the counter. She was dressed in folded up jeans, boots, and a black tank top. Her eyes were puffy; she hadn’t been awake long either.

  “I know this is bad timing,” she said, “but Isaac and I have been talking about moving in together for months.”

  “Yeah, but I figured he’d move in here.”

  “We want privacy. We want it to be just the two of us.”

  The biggest blow had come when she’d told me Devin and Taylor were moving out too. Seemed they wanted to live in another part of town, closer to the café where they both worked, and they’d found somebody who could sublet our space. The catch was we had to be out in a few days.

  “I figured you’d move into your dad’s house anyway,” Rose said.

  Ah, no wonder she’d been after me about moving back to my dad’s yesterday. I swear Rose always had an agenda. The second I thought she didn’t there it was, making me feel like an idiot. Just say it, you know? Just come right out and say it.

  I’d been anxious to tell her about the will and my new relative, and I’d imagined her reaction. All shocked and outraged—things that would have made me feel better, but now I didn’t want to share my insane story with her. Maybe later, but not now. Maybe never.

  She poured herself juice. “I’m sure you can find another place. People are always looking for roommates. And you could move in with me and Isaac while you look if you have to.”

  The last thing I wanted to do was cozy up with the two of them. In fact, I didn’t even want to be around her right now. I picked up the oatmeal and coffee and headed in the direction of my room. “I’ll figure something out.”

  An hour later I left even though I didn’t have to be to work until late afternoon. But I needed to get out of the house. Well, I needed to get away from my roomies. As I pedaled away on my bike I passed my broken-down car. What the hell was I going to do with it now that the duplex was no longer my home? Maybe Rose had been right when she said to just leave it and let it get towed where it would go unclaimed and end up in auction.

  I never thought I’d say it but I found myself wanting to go home. My old home. And that’s exactly what I’d be doing right now if not for penis boy.

  I thought about his offer. Ha! Offering to let me stay in my own damn house. But it would be rent-free. And if he tried to charge me maybe it would help me hate him. I suppose I’d have to pitch in for utilities, but whatever. It would make it easier to stay in school without the added expense of rent. No car meant no insurance and no gas and no repairs. So there was a savings. The five hundred bucks I got as a pat on the head wouldn’t even pay for all of my books next semester, but it would help.

  Halfway to work I parked my bike in front of a Starbucks. I usually support indie shops, but I had a weakness for Starbucks’ pumpkin spice lattes. Inside I ordered just that, then moved to the waiting area where the barista looked over the row of flavorings and asked, “So, how’s your day going?”

  “Fine,” I said in a monotone voice, hoping the flatness along with my deadpan expression would be enough to make him stop right there.

  “Just fine? That doesn’t sound very exciting.” Now he was flirting. Fake flirting. I swear if I’d been eighty he would have behaved the same way.

  “On a scale of one to ten today would be a five,” I lied. “So yeah, just fine.”

  “Any plans?”

  “I’m going to work.”

  “Where do you work?”

  I made a sweep of my hand that meant anywhere but where I was standing. Shut up. Please shut up.

  But he just kept going. “Did you make it to the state fair?”

  Should I tell him that two days ago I woke up in bed with a stranger who turned out to be my brother? And should I tell him that my recently deceased father had cut me from his will, leaving everything to this brother? And should I tell him that I’d seriously considered jumping off a bridge and committing suicide, a consideration I was really wishing I’d acted on, especially right this second as he kept knocking home the supreme dark and dismal that was my life. And should I tell him that I was now homeless?

  “Here ya go.” He gave me a fake but lovely smile that actually reached his eyes. “Have a good one.”

  “Like in a good life, or just a good day?” I asked him, putting a cardboard sleeve on my drink.

  “Both.”

  “I seriously doubt either of those are going to happen.”

  Chapter 11

  Ian didn’t think he’d find a café called Mean Waitress, didn’t think it really existed, but the café showed up on Yelp, along with over a hundred reviews, many five stars but a lot of one stars, those from people who seemed to have no sense of humor.

  Using his GPS app, he headed to the Uptown area of Minneapolis to check out the café and see if Molly really worked there—and to see if the service was as bad as some Yelpers claimed.

  Our waitress was high!

  I never got my fries!

  We never got anything to drink!

  Our waitress was high!

  Ian spent the past four years working his ass off with school and a part-time job at the campus museum. Now, to have his whole schedule pretty much empty except for getting the professor’s stuff straightened out…it seemed weird.

  He called him the professor because he couldn’t think of him as his father. Actually he’d called him asshole for years, but that seemed inappropriate now, all things considered. But days and basically a life with no plans seemed wrong and lazy, and he kept thinking he had to get busy and look for a job.

  But then he realized he didn’t have to look for a job. He could take a year off and submit applications to different schools. Maybe he’d even check out the University of Minnesota. It had a good reputation, party school aside. What school didn�
��t have a party rep? What school didn’t have frat boys sitting on roofs with lawn chairs and coolers? Parties that lasted all weekend?

  Ian had been pulled into a little of that, but it wasn’t his thing. Not that he was antisocial, but the whole pounding-your-chest and spending every weekend wasted wasn’t him.

  Mean Waitress was pretty easy to find, not that far off I-94, but parking didn’t exist and he found himself circling several blocks until he found a space in a residential area.

  The café had two sets of glass doors, maybe a buffer to the Minnesota winter. In the entry was a bulletin board. He paused long enough to spot an eight-by-ten sheet of typing paper on top of other notices. Someone looking for a cheap living space. Someone named Molly.

  At the bottom of the paper were phone numbers that could be torn off. One was already gone. He ripped the paper from the tack, folded it, and shoved it in his back pocket before stepping inside, the bell sounding above his head.

  It was one of those retro-cool places. They had a lot of them in Berkeley. Meant to be ironic, inhabited by the cool hipsters and cool hippies and a few people who looked out of place and uncomfortable and would most likely never come back. A freestanding sign told him to find his own damn seat. Which he did—at one of the only empty tables, which unfortunately was near the center of the room. He preferred walls.

  He spotted Molly and she spotted him at the same time. She didn’t waste time getting to his table.

  “Are you stalking me?” She wasn’t happy to see him.

  “Thought I’d check this place out, that’s all. And I’m hungry.”

  “Everything here sucks.” She handed him a menu. Like the other girls, she wore tight black pants and a tight black T-shirt with the Mean Waitress logo on the front—a vintage image of woman with an order pad. Around Molly’s waist was a short red apron and on her feet were some kind of flat ballet slipper type shoes. Her shiny dark hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup that he could detect. He wasn’t good when it came to that kind of thing, but since she had dark shadows under her eyes he guessed no makeup.