by MC Lee
There was a long moment of silence on the other end of the line, and my heart raced even harder. “If you’re sure. But why don’t you come over anyway? If you think your mother could spare you. Noah would be happy to see you.”
I couldn’t decide what my best move was. If I refused, she might go back to her original plan and insist on coming over. On the other hand, I couldn’t make any promises until I knew how Dad was feeling. “Why don’t I check with my mom and call later,” I said.
“Terrific! I’ll leave you to work out the details with Noah. I hope we’ll see you later, honey.”
She must have handed the phone back, because Noah’s low voice murmured in my ear. “Sorry, man. What do you want to do?”
“I’ll see if Mrs. Sweeney can watch Dad for a few hours,” I said. “Let me call you back.”
I disconnected and popped my head around Dad’s bedroom door. He was fast asleep, his breath catching on every inhale and then releasing with a sigh. He looked less troubled in sleep and, not for the first time, I wondered what his dreams were like. Was he himself again, whole and functional, or were his nights as murky and muddled as his days?
I closed his door quietly and left the house, walking a few doors north until I reached Mrs. Sweeney’s place. She was on her front porch, watering two huge planters, though I couldn’t see any sign of life in them.
She looked up when I approached. “Everything all right, Emmett?”
“Sure, Mrs. S. I just need to ask you a favor.”
“Ask,” she said, waving her pink plastic watering can and splashing my sneakers.
“I mean, you’re probably busy, and that’s totally fine. Only I wondered if maybe…. Tonight, I wanted…. My friend asked if I could….” I ground to a halt and ducked my head, suddenly finding my wet sneaker endlessly fascinating. I couldn’t figure out why it was so difficult to ask.
“You want me to watch your dad tonight,” Mrs. Sweeney said.
“Could you?” I asked. I hadn’t been sure how I wanted her to answer, but when she did, I felt a rush of gratitude sweep through me.
“Of course. You could do with a night off.”
I raised my head. “Thanks, Mrs. S. I won’t be out late, I promise.”
“So where are you going tonight?” she asked.
“My friend’s parents invited me to dinner.”
Her eyes widened, and then she smiled conspiratorially. “Meeting the parents already. That’s a good sign. It must be serious.”
I felt a blush fan out across my face. “It’s just dinner.”
Mrs. Sweeney laughed. “It’s never just dinner. Seven o’clock good for you? I’ll bring some food. Your dad and I will have a date of our own.”
“Perfect. Thanks, again.”
She waved a hand. “You’ve already said that. I’ll see you at seven sharp.”
It felt good to call Noah back and tell him I’d see him after all.
HOURS LATER I pulled open my wardrobe and riffled through its contents, as though there might be some chance that the clothes fairy had visited overnight and stocked my wardrobe with something even halfway decent. I had scraped my hair back ruthlessly and wrestled it into submission with a tight elastic band. I wanted Noah’s parents to think the scruffy me they had seen on the playing field was a weekend version of a cooler, tidier self.
I had just pulled my only white shirt and a striped tie out when the doorbell rang, and a minute later Mrs. Sweeney’s voice shouted up the stairs, “Emmett, I’m here.” I took a look at the pitiful clothing choices and then walked out in disgust, jumping down the steps two at a time until I reached the bottom.
Mrs. Sweeney was standing there with a suit bag over one arm and a plastic bag over the other. “Here,” she said, handing me the garment bag. “This was Ed’s. It should just about fit you.”
I took the bag. “Thanks, Mrs. Sweeney. That’s real thoughtful of you.”
“Your dad’s in here?” she asked, pointing to the living room.
I nodded my head and mumbled a yes.
“Go on up and change,” she said. “I’ll sort out some dinner for your father.” She hoisted the plastic bag to the sound of Tupperware containers clanking together, and with a smile, she disappeared into the kitchen.
I returned to my room and opened the garment bag. Inside was a suit that had probably not even been fashionable when Mr. Sweeney wore it five years ago on his way to his third and final heart attack. I pulled on my white shirt and then wrestled the pants up over my thighs, breathing in deeply so I could button up the waist. Then I pulled on the jacket and turned to look at myself in the mirror.
Mr. Sweeney had not been a particularly tall or well-built man, and his suit sat on me like sausage casing, squeezing all the wrong parts. The pants were about an inch too short, and the jacket was so tight across the shoulders I could barely breathe right. There was absolutely no chance of buttoning the thing up, and the sleeves rode so high, the frayed cuffs of my white shirt showed clearly. It was too old and tired to pass off as retro cool. I looked exactly what I was—a kid dressed in a dead man’s castoff suit.
In that moment, I’d have given my left nut to be like that girl in the movie who would have nipped and tucked for a couple of minutes and turned this piece of shit into a masterpiece.
I was tempted to take the monstrosity off and tell Mrs. Sweeney it didn’t fit right, but she’d been so proud of herself, so happy she could help me out. I just didn’t have the heart to let her down.
I grabbed my wallet, though the suit was so tight I couldn’t shoehorn it into the pocket of the pants. There was an inside pocket on the jacket, so I slipped it in there instead, even though it bulged out so I looked like I was packing heat.
“Don’t you look smart,” Mrs. Sweeney cried, when I walked stiffly down the stairs. “Look, Brendan. Doesn’t he look wonderful?”
My dad’s eyes flickered briefly away from the television, and then his face lit up with joy.
“Jamie! You’re home.”
I flinched, wondering what this latest deviation from the new normal might signify, until I remembered my hair was pulled back tight and I wasn’t dressed in my usual jeans and tee. I knew I must look a lot more like my neat, crew-cut brother.
“Brendan, it’s Emmett,” Mrs. Sweeney said loudly.
Dad squinted, looking more confused than usual. “Emmett?” he echoed.
“It’s just me, Dad,” I said.
I tried to suppress the feeling of worthlessness when the light went out of Dad’s eyes and disappointment flooded his face before he turned away. Mrs. Sweeney shoved me out into the hallway before he could work himself up.
“She’s a very lucky girl, whoever she is,” Mrs. Sweeney said. She sounded so proud, and I was glad I hadn’t tried on a lie with her. “Now, don’t be worrying about your father. We’ll get along just fine. Go out and have a good time.”
“You know how to reach me if—”
“There will be no ‘if,’” she said firmly.
“Thanks, Mrs. Sweeney.” I brushed a kiss against her wrinkled cheek, my lips coming away chalky with the taste of powder. “You’re an angel.”
THE MINUTE I walked through Noah’s door, I knew I’d made a monumental mistake coming here.
I’d almost turned around at the driveway when I’d caught a glimpse of the house—tall and imposing, reclining on its lot like a Roman emperor on a couch. It was all white columns and huge leaded windows, on a lawn that had been manicured to within an inch of its life.
The hallway was bigger than my whole house, rising two stories above my head, and chilly with white marble. Noah had opened the door, his eyebrows climbing when he caught sight of me.
“Are those for me?” he asked.
I looked down, wincing when I remembered the pathetic bunch of flowers in my hand. I’d picked them up from the forecourt of the corner garage, half price because it was so late in the day, and they were now limp and wilting. Petals had already started to fal
l off and were strewn across the floor like cheap confetti.
I wanted nothing more than to stuff the whole mess into a garbage can, especially when Noah stepped aside and I looked past him to a table in the middle of the hallway, and the biggest, most beautifully arranged floral decoration I’d ever seen in my life.
“Emmett, please come in.”
The voice belonged to Noah’s mother, who was floating across the floor as though her feet didn’t even touch the ground. She looked down at the flowers gripped tightly in my sweaty palm and smiled as though it was the nicest gift she had ever received.
“Thank you so much,” she said, sounding so genuinely pleased that I had to do a double take, just in case I’d misjudged and they really were as spectacular as her tone implied. They weren’t.
She reached out, and I handed them over dumbly, cringing when more petals fell onto the pristine marble floor so she was left with barely more than a couple of bent stalks and a few hardy leaves.
“Come this way,” she said. “We’re so glad you could make it. How is your father feeling?”
“He’s feeling a little better. Thank you.”
I followed her through one of the many doorways leading off the hall, with Noah walking a few steps behind me. I resisted the urge to reach for his hand and cling on for dear life.
Noah’s father stood up when I walked into the living room. He looked as handsome as his wife was beautiful. Though I’d seen them both at the football field, something about them here in their own house, exuding poise and radiating charm, made them look even more fabulous. I felt like a troll standing between the two of them, hot and disheveled in borrowed clothing, my townie credentials impossible to hide. Mr. Davis reached out to shake my hand, and I tried to meet him halfway, except my suit was so tight I couldn’t raise my arm properly. He stuck his hand out farther and managed to grip my sticky fingers.
“It’s good to see you again, Emmett.”
I mumbled something inane and dropped his hand.
“That’s a really old-fashioned suit. Is it your dad’s?”
“Hannah!”
I felt heat splash across my cheeks as I turned my head. Noah’s sister had come into the room and was looking at me as though I was an exhibit from a museum she’d been dragged to against her will. She didn’t look at all chastened as her father barked out her name.
Mrs. Davis came up behind her daughter, her perfect brows drawn together in a frown. “I’m sorry, Emmett. We’re trying to teach Hannah to express her opinions with confidence, but she hasn’t quite figured out the difference between being forthright and being rude.”
“I only meant it can’t be easy being poor and having to wear other people’s castoffs. That isn’t rude, is it Emmett?” Hannah asked.
I didn’t think it was possible for my cheeks to burn any hotter, but apparently I was wrong. I heard a strange grunt and realized to my horror that it had come out of me.
“If you’re going to ask Emmett stupid questions, I’m going to take him out to dinner,” Noah said.
I didn’t think that was much of a threat, but Hannah’s eyes grew round.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Emmett,” she said. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” She actually sounded contrite, so I accepted her apology with a nod. Besides, I couldn’t pretend. Hannah was right. I looked like somebody who had walked out of the pages of a gangster novel.
Mr. Davis nodded toward my jacket. “We’re not very formal tonight. I wonder if you’d prefer to take your jacket off?”
“No,” I blurted. I felt the blush scorch my skin to scalding point at the slightly startled expression on his face. Truth was, I had a burn mark on my supposedly white shirt, so high up the arm it was impossible to hide, even when I rolled up my sleeve.
Mr. Davis exchanged a quick look with Noah. I worked up the courage to glance his way, and my heart melted. Instead of a frown on his lovely face, or any indication that he was sorry he’d brought this dumbass hick into his parents’ stunning home, he was smiling softly at me.
“Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you come upstairs with me? I can lend you a polo shirt if you want. You’ll be more comfortable.”
“And we won’t feel like such slobs,” Mr. Davis said. “You’d be doing us a favor,” he added, probably sensing I was about to refuse.
“Okay,” I said. “That would be great.”
I followed Noah up to his bedroom, trying my best to think cool thoughts and flush the hot blood out of my face so I didn’t look like a clown. Predictably, Noah’s bedroom was immense, beautiful, and filled with every gadget known to mankind.
I followed dumbly as he crossed the carpeted floor and threw open the door to a fitted wardrobe that ran the whole length of one of the walls. Inside was every conceivable color. A rainbow of clothing, hanging and folded and bundled, dangling from hangers and rolled onto shelves, bulging from drawers and escaping from plastic department store bags.
Noah waved a hand toward the bright array. “Help yourself. Polo shirts are on the top shelf.”
I didn’t even want to touch the perfect display. My hands felt grubby and dirty, even though I had spent twenty minutes in the shower scrubbing them until they were red raw and hurting. But Noah pulled a couple off the shelf and threw them carelessly on the bed.
“You’d look great in the blue,” he said.
I didn’t argue. I picked up the dark blue shirt, careful not to crumple it, and glanced around looking for some place to change.
Noah laughed. “I didn’t take you for shy.”
Normally I wasn’t, but I was painfully aware of the burn mark on my shirt and the sweat stains under my arms. And I wasn’t at all sure I’d be able to peel myself out of Mr. Sweeney’s jacket without some serious contortions. Luckily Noah pointed to a door, and a minute later, I locked myself into his pristine bathroom and let out a sigh of relief.
The mirror over the bathroom sink reflected back exactly what I expected to see—a red-faced, straggle-haired idiot tucked so tightly into an old man’s suit he didn’t look as though he could breathe.
I ripped the sleeve of the jacket as I struggled to escape its crushing embrace and winced at the sight of the burn mark. It was even bigger than I’d remembered, scorching half the upper sleeve. I couldn’t remember why I’d thought it was a good idea to wear it, other than I had literally nothing else to choose from.
I tried to avoid my own eyes as I pulled off the shirt. I took the opportunity to give myself a quick wash, using the soap that smelled of Noah until I smelled like him too. Then I pulled on the cotton polo shirt and finally raised my eyes to my own reflection—and saw the person I might have been.
If every single circumstance of my life had been different.
The shirt transformed me. Made me more like Noah. It was a little wide around the shoulders and chest, but its softness molded to my muscles. The dark blue color accentuated my eyes and even made my skin glow.
It wasn’t real, of course, just a fleeting illusion, but it was sweet and bitter just the same.
When I walked out of the bathroom, Noah was waiting. He grasped my shoulders and smiled. “I knew the blue would suit you.” He leaned, he tugged, and I stepped forward into his arms. His kiss was soft and tasted of peppermint. He slid his arms around my waist and held me firmly against him, and I soon lost myself in his warmth and the heady scent of sandalwood aftershave.
When he pulled back, I groaned. He smiled and reached up to brush the stray strands of hair that were trying to escape their elastic prison.
“What’s this about?” he asked.
I shrugged and mumbled, “Trying to look the part.”
“It isn’t you,” Noah whispered. He waited until I met his eyes before adding, “Can I?”
I nodded, and he reached around and tugged the elastic band off. He combed his fingers through my shaggy hair. “That’s so much better.”
He leaned in again until our lips touched, soft and yielding.
My whole body clenched so tightly, I thought I’d sprained something. I sprung back, pushing Noah so hard he stumbled backward, and it was only his natural grace that stopped him falling on his ass. Hannah was standing in the doorway, that same look of curiosity plastered on her perfect face.
“Hannah, how many times have I told you to knock before you come into my room?” Noah sounded exasperated but not paranoid, not piss-your-pants afraid that somebody had caught him with his lips glued to another boy’s.
“Mom says you’re to come down when you’re ready,” Hannah said. I was beginning to see her pattern, ignore anything you didn’t want to face and carry on as though the other person hadn’t spoken. I admired her shrewdness. She was just about to leave the room when she tossed over her shoulder, “You look really handsome, Emmett.”
It was hard to stay mad at her after that, even though the gnarled knot of muscles in my clenched back complained silently.
I almost forgot my goodwill toward her when she asked the same boyfriend question at dinner, in front of God, her mother, and her father. As it was, I choked on my glass of soda and looked imploringly at Noah, hoping he could save me.
“You’re being very forward tonight, young lady,” Mrs. Davis chastised. But she didn’t demand an explanation or threaten to throw me out or tell me never to darken her door again. She did add a single mild comment. “Stop bothering Emmett, and let him eat in peace.”
I felt as though I’d entered the twilight zone. It was all so… undramatic.
“What does your father do, Emmett?” Mrs. Davis asked.
“He’s been mostly unemployed since the meatpacking plant closed,” I replied.
“That was a tough blow to the town,” Mr. Davis said. “How is your dad coping?”
It was hard to hear a question like that while still sporting the faint traces of a bruised cheek and not imagine that judgment was being passed in some subtle way. Mr. Davis wasn’t wrong in what he was so clearly thinking, but dignity is an unpredictable thing.
