The California Dashwoods

by Lisa Henry

  They parted with mumbled words and flushed skin, and Elliott headed back to the house. A soft pattering of rain, more like mist, shrouded the garden. It was cold on his skin, and he relished it. He entered the house through the kitchen door, and managed to avoid any of the Family as he crept upstairs. He ignored the STAY OUT!!!! sign on Greta’s door and slipped inside to find her and Marianne lying together on the bed, sharing a pair of earbuds as they listened to some song on Greta’s phone. They shuffled over when they saw Elliott, and he lay down beside Greta, his clothes damp.

  Greta patted his side. “Mom’s gone into town. She said if you want anything, text her.”

  “I don’t need anything.”

  “She’s getting boxes,” Greta said. “For the move.”

  She drew the word out like it was ominous.

  “We don’t know anything for sure yet,” Elliott said.

  Marianne wrinkled her nose, and the light caught on her nose ring. She tugged her earbud out. “We know we’re not staying here.”

  “California is a long way away,” Greta said, scowling at the ceiling.

  “I think it’ll be good,” Marianne said decisively. “It’ll be an adventure! We’ll meet new people, and do new things, and never have to deal with Dad’s asshole family again, and it’ll be amazing.”

  Sometimes Elliott envied Marianne’s optimism. Sometimes he secretly scorned her naivety. She was his best friend, but they were complete opposites. They balanced each other out, he supposed, contrary and complementary at the same time: yin and yang. Elliott had always been the realist, and Marianne the idealist. Which actually made Elliott the odd one out in their family.

  Henry and Abby had always encouraged their children to be free spirited, to be whatever they wanted to be, to relish the journey just as much as the destination, but it wasn’t that easy anymore. It had been so far because they’d had Norland Park and they’d had Henry’s monthly check from the Dashwoods, supplemented by what he made with his art. That income had covered living expenses and school fees and health insurance, but now it was gone . . . Elliott worried that his sisters had no real idea of what it might be like without any money. Their freedom was a very specific sort of freedom: it was white, and it was wealthy, and it was privileged in a way they’d never had to dissect. They’d never had to struggle.

  Abby said he worried too much, but someone had to.

  Greta squirmed. “Why are you wet?”

  “I was in the garden. I went to the greenhouse.”

  There must have been something in his tone, because Marianne raised herself onto an elbow and gave him a look like she knew he wasn’t telling the whole story.

  Elliott reached for the earbud Marianne had discarded and jabbed it into Greta’s free ear. She squealed and tried to bite him.

  “I kissed Ned,” he said, one hand splayed on Greta’s sternum to keep her more or less subdued.

  “Ned?” Marianne’s jaw dropped.

  “Ned?” Greta echoed. She tugged the earbuds free. “My music was off, doofus.”

  “Why?” Marianne asked, her forehead wrinkling. “I mean, that’s not the sort of thing you do, Elliott.”

  Elliott sighed. “I don’t know.”

  “He’s nice,” Greta said. “Like, I think Francesca bathes in the blood of virgins as part of her skincare routine or whatever, and Robert just kind of takes up space, doesn’t he? I don’t think he even has a personality. But Ned actually seems to be nice.”

  Marianne shrugged. “He kind of does.”

  “He was probably adopted,” Greta said in a stage whisper.

  Elliott snorted and elbowed her, and she thwapped him in the side of the head with her earbuds.

  “I think it’s wonderful.” Marianne smiled brightly, and Elliott knew she was plotting out some grand romance. He and his sisters had been raised on their parents’ love story: Love was a force of nature that nobody could withstand. It was a crashing storm that broke over two people, and all they could do was cling together and let the rushing water carry them away. Love was indomitable. It made the world.

  Marianne was waiting to dive breathlessly into her own epic love story—potential heartbreak be damned—and now her eyes shone with the idea that Elliott might want to do the same. “You should do something romantic! We could get some candles for the studio, and you could have a picnic dinner in there!”

  “Oh, Jesus! No!” Elliott almost laughed, the idea was so absurd. “I made out with a guy, Mar. I didn’t trip and fall into a fairy tale!”

  “Elliott!” Marianne looked aghast. “Maybe it could be something special!”

  “And maybe it’s just a thing,” Elliott shot back.

  In the sudden silence, Marianne narrowed her eyes at Elliott. Not accusative, but speculative, as though she thought there was something he wasn’t saying. If there was, it was a mystery to Elliott as well. He wasn’t holding anything back intentionally, but his skin prickled with a vague, unfamiliar sense of something when he thought of the kiss. He couldn’t put a name to it, and whatever it was, it was too vague and nebulous to go building fantasies on.

  Elliott closed his eyes briefly and sighed. “It was just a thing.”

  He replayed the sensation of Ned’s mouth on his, of his tongue sliding against Elliott’s, of his fingers tugging in Elliott’s hair. Of the shivers of heat and pleasure that ran through his body in a series of diminishing tremors like the aftershocks of some seismic event. Ned’s kiss had been incredible. It had awakened the parts of Elliott that stress and grief and tiredness had forced down. But it wasn’t love. It was attraction.

  Elliott didn’t even know Ned, and that was fine.

  Not everything was a Technicolor extravaganza, and that was fine too. It was all right to find small joys in small moments. It was all right to have small dreams. Those held a comfort that his mother and sisters would never understand. That his father never had. It was all right.

  He opened his eyes again and stared up at Greta’s bedroom ceiling.

  Greta clicked her tongue and turned her head toward Marianne. “Elliott was probably adopted too,” she said at last.

  It was dark.

  Elliott shuffled down the hallway, drawn by the clattering of pans, and leaned in the kitchen doorway. He was still mostly asleep, yawning and blinking and just alert enough to realize how very weird this was.

  Ned Ferrars, wearing a pair of soft-looking flannel pajama pants and a rumpled shirt, was cracking eggs into a bowl. His brow was furrowed in concentration, and he stopped every few moments to show his progress to Greta.

  Greta was also in her pajamas. Most of her hair was bundled up under a knitted cap, but a few tendrils escaped to hang down the back of her pink Hello Kitty shirt. Greta swore she wore it ironically, but Elliott wasn’t so sure. Greta was wielding a wooden spoon in one hand and a carton of milk in the other.

  A bag of flour sat on the counter, a tub of butter beside it, and there was a frying pan on the stovetop.

  “Like this?” Ned asked, showing Greta the bowl.

  “You’ve never actually beaten an egg in your life, have you?” she asked him. “It’s supposed to be all even and the same color. Not like whatever you’ve got going on there. That looks like a science experiment, not cooking.”

  Elliott laughed quietly.

  Ned turned around. His expensive haircut was mussed up. A flush rose on his face. “Elliott, hi.”

  “We’re making pancakes,” Greta said. “Wanna help?”

  Elliott shuffled into the kitchen. “What time is it?”

  “Two o’clock,” Greta said.

  “In the morning?”

  “No, in the afternoon, doofus.” Greta narrowed her eyes at him. “What do you think?”

  Elliott yawned again. “I think I want some pancakes.”

  Ned smiled at him, and Elliott wasn’t sure how much to read into that. It seemed like the sort of smile that spoke of kindness, of shyness, and of moments of time in the middle of the night w
hen the usual rules didn’t apply. Elliott fought the sleepy urge to close the distance between them. To tuck himself against Ned’s side and just be close and comfortable. In the middle of the night, in Elliott’s still-dreaming brain, it was allowed to be that simple.

  He liked Ned.

  He liked his not-quite-handsome features. He liked the way he looked a little awkward even now, as though he was never quite sure how to hold himself. He liked the way he knew that Ned was gentle and thoughtful underneath that. And even in his sleep-addled state, a warmth flooded through Elliott’s core as he thought of their kiss, and of the strange desperation that had seized him in that moment. To be close to someone. To be wanted. To be reckless and alive.

  Greta took the bowl from Ned and set it on the counter. “Now put in the flour and the milk and the butter,” she said.

  “How much?” Ned asked.

  “How have you never made pancakes?” Greta made a face, her nose wrinkling. “You just . . . You just tip them in until it looks right.”

  Ned shrugged. “I have no idea what looks right.”

  “Here.” Elliott peeled himself off the doorjamb and stepped inside the kitchen. He brushed against Ned as he moved up to the counter. Their shoulders knocked together. He reached for the flour. “You’re not allowed to call it a family tradition until you can make it without a recipe.”

  “Is that so?” Ned watched as he opened the flour.

  “Dad could make gingerbread without looking at a recipe,” Greta said. “Even though there’s only like a two-week period in December when it’s appropriate to make gingerbread.”

  “Luckily, we don’t stand much on ‘appropriate’ in this family,” Elliott murmured, tipping some flour into the eggs.

  “So you’re a family that makes pancakes in the middle of the night.” Ned nodded. “I can get behind that.”

  “Says the guy who can’t even beat an egg,” Greta pointed out.

  “Excuse you, I’m on a learning curve.”

  Greta snorted and lifted the bowl. She held it in the crook of her arm and began to stir the ingredients with the wooden spoon.

  “Aren’t you supposed to use a mixer?” Ned asked her.

  Greta leveled a stare at him. “This spoon is a mixer. See how I’m using it to mix these things?”

  Ned tilted his head. “You are incredibly sarcastic, aren’t you?”

  Greta grinned. “Thank you!”

  Elliott yawned again, and Ned knocked him gently with his shoulder. The gesture was so small, so affectionate, that Elliott’s heart skipped a beat. He wanted to reach up and card his fingers through Ned’s messy hair. He wanted to grip it, and angle Ned’s face toward his for a kiss.

  Instead he moved away. He checked the progress of the pancake batter as Greta stirred it furiously with the wooden spoon, and then moved to the stove. He turned one of the burners on.

  It didn’t take long for Greta to get the batter ready, and Elliott found himself in charge of cooking the pancakes. It was mostly a mess. The batter was too thin, so the pancakes came out more like crepes, but Greta declared them a success anyway. The thin layer of butter she spread over the first one melted immediately, and she sprinkled sugar on it before rolling it up.

  “This doesn’t look like a pancake,” Ned challenged when she offered him one.

  “Shut up and try it. It’s nice.”

  Ned took a bite of the pancake. A drop of melted sugar and butter slid down his chin.

  “Shit,” he said, holding the dripping pancake in one hand and wiping at his chin with the thumb of his other hand. “This is really good.”

  A splat of sugary butter hit the floor.

  “Shit,” Ned said again, and moved to stand over the sink.

  “Amateur.” Greta curved the end of her pancake up so it didn’t drip as she ate it.

  Elliott ate the third pancake hot from the pan, and gave the next one to Ned. Greta was yawning by the time she finished her second. By her third she could barely keep her eyes open anymore.

  “I’m going to bed,” she mumbled, and shuffled out of the kitchen.

  There was still enough batter in the bowl for one last pancake, so Elliott tipped it into the pan, and then put the bowl in the sink to rinse it.

  “Want the last one?” he asked Ned.

  “We can share it.”

  “Okay.” Elliott returned to the stovetop. “What were you guys doing up at this hour anyway?”

  “I was in the library looking for something to read, and Greta came in and asked me if I’d ever seen Assassination Classroom.” Ned shook his head. “And before I know it we’re four episodes in, and it’s 2 a.m. Have you seen it? It’s very weird.”

  “That’s the one with the big yellow octopus thing, right? Who blew up the moon?”

  “Only seventy percent of the moon,” Ned said, and then snorted. “Great. Now that’s a thing I apparently know.”

  “Greta likes to force people to watch that show.”

  “Why?” Ned asked, raising his eyebrows.

  Elliott shrugged. “It’s Greta.”

  He didn’t tell Ned that Greta had clearly been testing him, and the fact that she’d made him pancakes meant he’d passed the test. Assassination Classroom and pancakes were her seal of approval. She sure as shit hadn’t invited Great Uncle Montgomery to watch her weird show with her.

  Elliott rolled the last pancake up, then tore it in two. Sugar and butter ran down his fingers. He passed half the pancake to Ned, and Ned took it, his gaze fixed on Elliott’s sticky fingers. Elliott, his heart beating faster, raised those fingers to his mouth and licked them clean.

  “I, um . . .” And suddenly Ned was crowding him against the counter, and they were kissing.

  It wasn’t like their first kiss. It wasn’t sweet and gentle. This kiss was all about heat. About chasing the taste of sugar. Elliott dropped his pancake on the floor—because fuck it—and gripped Ned’s hips. He tugged him closer, opening his mouth and pressing his tongue against Ned’s.

  And then Ned was pulling away, eyes wide. “Wait.” He put his hands on Elliott’s chest. “Wait.”

  Elliott held his gaze, breathing heavily.

  “Wait.” Ned’s tone was softer now. He lifted his hand and pressed it gently against the side of Elliott’s face. “You’re not in a good place right now. And I’m . . .” He shook his head as though to clear it. “I don’t think this is something we should be doing. Not like this.”

  Heat rose in Elliott’s face. “Oh.”

  “I like you,” Ned said. “I like you, but you just buried your father, Elliott.”

  Elliott suddenly envied the Victorians and their regimented mourning periods. The slow shedding of black clothing for dull shades of gray and lavender. The precision of the entire process. The certainty of it. When was the appropriate time to fold away the black mourning clothes and make out with a guy in the kitchen in the middle of the night?

  Elliott snorted out a laugh at the idea of the Victorians ever approving of anything like this, and Ned looked startled.

  Okay, so yes, he wasn’t thinking clearly right now.

  Ned had a point.

  “Yeah,” he said, letting his eyes close.

  Ned rubbed his thumb gently along Elliott’s cheekbone. The soft touch brought Elliott out in goose bumps, and made him wonder again just exactly what he wanted from Ned Ferrars: solace, or sex? Maybe he wanted both, and that was stupid. He didn’t even know Ned.

  He opened his eyes and searched Ned’s gaze. He didn’t know what it was he was looking for. He didn’t know what it was he found, but he thought he saw the same uncertainty reflected in Ned’s eyes.

  “Yeah,” he said again, softly. He smiled, and edged out from between Ned and the counter. His cheek felt warm where Ned had been touching it. “I’m going to clean up and go back to bed. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight,” Ned murmured.

  When Elliott looked up again, Ned was gone.

  ***

  �
�I knew,” Henry Dashwood had always said. “I took one look at your mother and I knew.”

  Elliott took a lot of looks at Ned Ferrars. Quick glances across the dining table. Slower ones when nobody else was watching. Small looks, and small smiles, accompanied each time by a burst of warmth, by a frisson of anticipation, but Elliott didn’t know. He was as far away from knowing as was humanly possible, but he liked sharing those hidden smiles with Ned. It felt a little like having a secret ally in an enemy camp, and Elliott could really use that right now.

  The Family was terrible, and Abby wasn’t helping. She was still upset that Francesca had removed the Naked Blue Lady, and she was demanding that it be put back. Specifically, that Elliott find a way to get Francesca to put it back.

  “This is still my house!” she fumed to Elliott, pacing back and forth in her bedroom.

  Elliott sat on the end of the bed and watched her, unable to shake the feeling that his dad might walk back into the room at any minute. His paint-stained clothes still hung in the closet. His watch lay on the bedside table, on top of a book that still had a bookmark in it.

  “Mom,” Elliott said. “The painting’s fine. It’s in the library.”

  “If she does anything to it . . .” Abby squared her shoulders.

  “She’s not going to do anything to it, Mom,” Elliott said, keeping his tone gentle.

  Abby stopped pacing and glared at him, hands on her hips. “And how do you know that, Elliott?”

  “Mom,” Elliott said with a sigh. “Come on.”

  “Elliott, they’re pushing us out of our home!” Her voice cracked and her eyes filled with tears.

  Elliott stood and moved to embrace her.

  This was what their grief was. This was the place it brought them back to every time. To tears and the feeling of the ground crumbling beneath their feet. Elliott was tired of it, and guilty for feeling that way, and his dad’s watch was still on the bedside table, and how was any of this even real?