It's Kind of a Cheesy Love Story

by Lauren Morrill

  “I don’t know. It just … it made me a thing before I even got to decide what thing I wanted to be.” I sigh. “She meant well,” I say, more to myself than to Tristan, who I’m not even sure is still standing there. If the last week has been any indication, he should have bolted by now. We haven’t said two words to each other since his bus pulled away from my house.

  “Who cares how she meant it? She made you feel like shit.”

  I glance up in surprise. Yup, he’s still there, leaning against the brick wall, arms crossed over his chest, feet crossed at his ankles. Julianne was definitely right about his James Dean act. I don’t know what to say to him.

  “You don’t have to be so tolerant, Brix. It’s okay to, like, unclench.”

  “Unclench?”

  “Yeah. Relax your jaw. Tongue out of the roof of your mouth. Shoulders out of your ears.” He lists the directions like a recipe, and I follow them to the letter. I do what he says, one at a time, and it feels good. I didn’t realize I was actually so annoyed that it was causing me physical pain.

  “I thought you were just being metaphorical,” I say as I roll out the tension in my neck.

  “Well, that, too.”

  “I’ll take those tips as well,” I say.

  He pauses, glancing at his phone, then back at the door. “You closing tonight?” he asks.

  I shake my head and pull my phone out of my back pocket, hitting the button to illuminate the screen. “Fifteen more minutes,” I tell him.

  “Screw that. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Don’t you have more deliveries?”

  “Not at the moment. They’ll text me if something comes in, but it’s been ridiculously slow tonight. I won’t even make the gas money back in tips.” He pushes off the wall and pulls his keys from his pocket. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride.”

  “I need to clock out,” I say.

  “Email Del and tell him you forgot. He’ll fix it.”

  “And Julianne. I can’t just ditch her.”

  He sighs, then pulls the back door open, shouting into the kitchen, “Hey, Jules! You care if Beck cuts out a few minutes early?”

  Her voice comes echoing back through the kitchen. “Sure.”

  “Cool. Later.” Then the door slams and he’s walking around the side of the building toward the bus. “You coming?”

  “Lemme grab my jacket,” I say, suddenly realizing that it’s kind of chilly out here, and I’m only wearing my Hot ’N Crusty T-shirt. Apparently my simmering rage was quite the insulator. I duck back into the kitchen and take my jacket off the hook, grabbing my purse, and then start to head out. But I pause to clock out, because I’m not going to lie to Del. Tristan may play Rebel Without a Cause, but I always follow the rules. I can only unclench so much.

  Outside, the bus’s engine is already rumbling. Tristan’s behind the wheel getting it warmed up. I climb into the passenger seat.

  “Where to?” he asks.

  “I thought you had some kind of plan,” I tell him.

  A silence falls between us, like we’re both just remembering the last time we were here together.

  “I’ve got to stop by the house and let my dog out before anything else,” he says, like that’s an answer. “You mind?”

  I shrug. “Fine with me.”

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  Tristan lives on the edge of downtown in one of the little neighborhoods that was built in the fifties. In middle school social studies we learned about the identical little brick houses that were built for soldiers returning from World War II, ready to start their lives with their children that they were often meeting for the first time in perfect little homes built just for them. You can drive down the street and imagine what it must have looked like back then, with little squares of manicured green grass and window boxes of flowers, all the brick and driveways brand-new, the doors freshly painted, the shiny glass in the windows. But the neighborhood has since grown old and weary, and as more people have moved farther out of town into the newly developed subdivisions, the houses have begun to look shabby, the driveways cracked and the grass overgrown, with a few faded American flags waving from rusty poles and shutters hanging at odd angles.

  Tristan’s house, though, is immaculate. But not fancy. There are no flower boxes, but the grass is trimmed with military precision, like someone got out there with a ruler. The paint on the front door is black with nary a chip to be found, and there are no crooked blinds in the windows. Tristan pulls into the driveway and cuts the engine. I climb out and follow.

  Inside, it’s dark and sort of musty, but still neat. The living room is like a museum, as if it’s been staged to show what life was like when the houses were built. There’s a floral living room set and a coffee table with curlicues on the legs and gold etching. The books on the shelves all have faded spines, and there’s an actual grandfather clock the size of a coffin in the corner. There are honest-to-god doilies on the backs of the couch and the wingback chair. The only thing that looks like it’s from this century is the flat-screen TV hanging on the wall above the brick fireplace.

  A floppy-eared, brown-and-white oaf of a dog comes bounding through the living room and jumps up on Tristan, who catches his enormous paws with a practiced ease. The dog gives him a big lick on the chin, then drops down to the floor and looks at me with big, watery eyes.

  “This is Bandit,” Tristan says. “Bandit, meet Beck. You okay with dogs?”

  “Yeah, I hate to tell you this,” I say, “but I think that’s a pony.” I hold my hand out, and Bandit wanders over to give it a sniff. He must determine I’m okay, because he takes a few steps forward and leans into my thighs. He’s so big and heavy that he nearly takes me to the ground.

  “C’mon, Bandit. Let’s go outside.” Tristan disappears through the doorway with the dog hot on his heels. I hear a door open, and I assume Bandit’s out doing his business. Then Tristan is back in the living room, where I’m standing awkwardly, trying not to disturb anything.

  “You can come on back,” he says, though he doesn’t say back where, just heads down a hallway. I follow him, but immediately get hung up by the framed photos that line the wall. There are black-and-white ones of people in stiff clothing, the men in ties and the women in dresses with buttons down the front and cinched waists. I realize right away that they’re standing in front of this very same house. The color photos, with their orangish tints, show guys in jeans and tight T-shirts, hair long, the women in maxi skirts and long ponytails. The photos get newer, and I spot Cecilia, her pea-soup-green paint job looking new even in the old photo. A white guy who must be Tristan’s dad leans against the door. He has the same flyaway hair and freckles, only he’s blond and pale to Tristan’s tan skin and dark hair. And then I see the same guy in a wedding photo with a beautiful black woman, her hair long and curly with a delicate tiara atop her head. Her dress is bright white and beaded, with thin straps, little pearls in her ears. She’s grinning at the photographer, but Tristan’s dad is grinning at her.

  “Is that your mom?” I ask, pointing at the photo.

  He pauses, glancing at the photo, then quickly looks away.

  “Yeah.”

  “What does she do?”

  “She was a real estate agent, but she died when I was a freshman.” He says it sort of fast, his voice never wavering, like he hopes maybe I won’t pick up on the meaning of the words. That his mom died. That she’s been gone nearly four years. I get the same selfish flare of panic I always get when I hear about parents dying. That fear that it could be catching. That my parents could die. Just the thought makes me want to lie down on the floor and cry. The reality would be so much worse.

  “Oh. I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.”

  He shrugs, like I’m apologizing for spilling a drink on the carpet. “She had cancer. They said she only had a few months, but she lived another four years.” And then he disappears into the room at the end of the hall.

  Conversation over
. Textbook Tristan.

  I move to follow him, but stop at another set of photos, because there’s a tiny Tristan, perched atop a tricycle, grinning, followed by one of him climbing inside Cecilia with his front teeth missing. And there’s a whole set of photos of tiny baseball players, their pants bright white and their ball caps too big for their heads, so that they’re slipping down over their eyes. There’s a professional team photo, the front row of kids sitting cross-legged in the dirt while the second row stands behind, their arms crossed behind their backs, all glaring at the camera like serious athletes.

  I squint at the photo, looking for Tristan’s dark, floppy hair, but I don’t find him.

  “Which one are you?” I call to him, tapping the glass in the frame.

  He pokes his head out of the room and grimaces, then steps out and jams his finger down on a kid sitting cross-legged in the front row. I missed him, because tiny Tristan is missing the impressive hair. Tiny Tristan looks like he’s sporting a buzz cut underneath his maroon baseball cap. The kid next to him has pretty impressive hair, though the kid is blond, and—

  “Oh my god, is that Mac?” I ask, pointing to the kid sitting next to him.

  He doesn’t even have to look up. “Yup.”

  And then I see the next frame, one of those collage ones with holes in varying shapes for different snapshots. There’s one of Tristan batting, the ball just leaving his bat, and one of him on the pitcher’s mound looking like he’s ready for the World Series. And in the center, in an oval mat, is Tiny Tristan and Baby Mac, gloves in hand, arms thrown around each other as they grin at the camera.

  “You and Mac were friends?”

  “Yup.”

  “Do you know any other words?”

  He pauses. Then, “Yup.”

  “So that’s how you knew all about the Golden Girls theme song and the Boy Scout camp incident.”

  “It wasn’t Boy Scout camp. And let’s not forget his indifference to the Beatles.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Because you guys were friends! Good friends, from the looks of it.”

  “Because we’re not anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know, because we grew up? We went our separate ways? You’re welcome to ask him that question.” Then Tristan turns to walk back into his room.

  I follow him, ready to grill him some more about his friendship with Mac and his illustrious Little League career, but as soon as I step inside I’m distracted by his room. It’s tiny. Partially because it’s not a particularly big room, but also because it’s positively overflowing with stuff. It’s like for every word he’s saved by being silent, he’s acquired something to store in here. There’s a tall set of shelves in one corner stuffed full of books, with stacks going every which way and two deep. Another bookcase is packed full of records, some in fraying sleeves, some encased in plastic. There’s a record player in a suitcase sitting atop an enormous speaker next to it. Next to that is a small wooden desk with a surface covered in stacks of papers, some rumpled and some rolled up with rubber bands, stray pencils and little block erasers littering the space. His closet looks like it’s attempting to eject its contents, with piles of clothes—maybe clean, maybe dirty, I doubt even he knows—strewn about. There are posters on the wall of album covers and long-haired guys playing guitar or singing into an old-fashioned microphone in front of enormous crowds.

  But what really draws my attention is a wooden chair pushed back from the desk. It’s got a dark stain on it and carved spindle legs, the back and elegantly curved frame with more carved spindles. The seat looks like it’s been sanded so it perfectly fits your butt. I have to go over and test it out. And yup, not only is it pretty, it’s comfortable, too. It seems like it should be an antique, one of those fancy pieces of furniture you’re supposed to look at, but not sit in. But what I love about this chair is that it’s clearly well used and well loved. As I run my hands over the arms, I feel ridges and dings, and see places where the stain has been rubbed away.

  I lean back into the wood and put my feet up on the edge of his desk, careful not to disturb the mountain of papers. “I like this chair,” I say.

  “Thanks. I made it.” It’s the first time he’s volunteered information, and I don’t miss the note of pride in his voice.

  “You made this?” I sit up and glance back at the workmanship, the curved back and delicately tapered spindles.

  “My dad and I took a class at the community center over in Dakota Hills. This guy came in and taught us how to bend and shape the wood. It was cool.”

  “That’s awesome. Have you made anything else?”

  He pauses, like he’s considering saying no, but then he heads for the door and cocks his head for me to follow. He leads me back through the house, through a delightfully vintage and preserved kitchen with gold linoleum and avocado green appliances I know my mom would love, and to a door that leads into the backyard. There’s a square of patio and more expertly trimmed grass, which Bandit is currently rolling in like it’s the greatest day of his life, his long legs and enormous paws flying in crazy directions, looking like they’re in danger of getting tangled. At the back corner of the yard is a detached garage, also brick, with a garage door painted the same shiny black as the front door. Tristan walks over and bends down to grab the handle and slings it open with a practiced motion; the smell of sawdust comes rushing out. It’s dark inside, but he steps in and reaches for a string, tugging to illuminate the space.

  I can’t tell if the space is small or if it just seems that way because it’s crammed with stuff. But it’s not filled with junk like our garage is (my mom keeps promising to go through the Rubbermaid bins of my childhood memorabilia, but usually ends up in tears after opening the first one and the whole project just goes to hell). There are workbenches around the perimeter of the room, with one enormous table in the middle atop which sits a saw that looks like it could fully cut a human in half. There are several other monstrous-looking power tools strewn about, and I’m honestly afraid to step inside for fear I’ll lose a limb.

  “Everything’s turned off,” he says as he takes in my transfixed gaze on the sharp blades that seem to be everywhere. “You’re safe, I promise.”

  So I step inside and inhale the woody smell and start to look around. Suspended between two metal things is what looks like a table leg in the process of being shaped. And there’s an intricately carved picture frame held together with vise grips. On the back table is a small collection of wooden boxes, similar to the one he made for Julianne to give to her mom. The walls are plastered with blueprints drawn in pencil and showing tables and chairs and bookshelves.

  “This is all yours?” I ask.

  “I share it with my dad, but he doesn’t really do furniture. That’s all me.”

  “This is so cool.”

  “It’s all right,” he says. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He leans back against one of the worktables, crossing his arms over his chest as he gazes around. “There’s a lot of stuff I don’t have, but luckily Coach Driskill is really cool about letting me use the woodshop at school.”

  “We have a woodshop at school?”

  “Uh, yeah. There’s a whole class and everything.”

  “Oh. Wait, is that where you go during lunch? When you skip out the back door?” There I go again, letting my mouth operate independent of my brain.

  His eyebrows shoot up. “You keeping tabs on me?”

  I blush. “I thought maybe you went to smoke under the bleachers with the bad kids,” I say, trying to make a joke out of it.

  “Smoking kills,” he replies.

  “So does that,” I say, pointing at a metal table with an enormous, circular jagged blade rising out of the middle.

  “Only if you’re careless.”

  “And what happened to your hand?” I point to the white bandage wrapped around his palm.

  “I got a little care
less,” he says, raising his eyebrow.

  “Seriously?”

  “It wasn’t the table saw. I was actually doing some whittling and lost control of the knife. Just needed a few stitches.”

  “I’m sorry, Old Man River, did you say you were whittling?”

  He picks up a little piece of wood that’s halfway to being what looks like a chess piece. “I’m making a whole set,” he says.

  “You play chess?”

  “No, but I’ve never had a chess set before, so maybe that was my problem.”

  On a bulletin board over one of the workbenches, where it looks like mostly old, rumpled plans are tacked up, is a red pennant for State.

  “You a Panthers fan?” I ask him, nodding at the pennant with its blocky white letters. Dad’s got one in his garage, too. It’s where he and Mom met while they were undergrads.

  “Nah. Not really a big sports guy.”

  “Really? Mr. Little League?”

  “You a fan of every sport you stumbled into when you were a kid?”

  “No. But I played exactly one season of youth soccer when I was five, and it took me a full three games to understand why we had to share our ball with the other team,” I say. I run my finger through a pile of sawdust on one of the tables, drawing swirls and cursive letters. “Is that where you’re going next year? State?”

  “Nope,” he says.

  “Still waiting to hear back?”

  “Nope. Didn’t apply anywhere.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not going to college.”

  I pause, practically stumble. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say those words. Not going to college? Really?

  “Why not?” I practically sputter.

  “I’m going to do this after I graduate,” he says, pointing to what looks like the start of another chair on a workbench in the back of the garage.

  “Make chairs?”

  “Furniture. And other woodworking stuff. Picture frames, maybe some wall hangings. Art, but that sounds pretentious. I’ll work with my dad at first to supplement my income while I get started, but I don’t think it’ll take too long before I can focus all my attention on my own projects. I’m already working on a couple of commissions. If those go well, they could lead to more work with some good, high-paying clients.”