Things I Should Have Known

by Claire Lazebnik

  “No, you should.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Well, neither do I.” I get up to clear my plate. “And I already had to tell David, so this one’s on you.”

  “Why can’t David just tell him, then?”

  “He doesn’t want to either.”

  “But—”

  “It’s your job to tell him. You’re the one who’s gay.”

  “See? You always make it sound like a bad thing.”

  Great. Now I feel even cruddier.

  When I open the door to Ethan at three, he’s alone. I ask him where his brother is, and he points to their car and says, “He didn’t want to come in. He said we’re not going to see a movie today because Ivy wants to have a talk instead. I like movies better than talks, though.” He’s wearing a button-down shirt and a belt. His hair is combed. He looks like someone who is trying to look extra nice because he’s going on a date with a girl he likes, and it wrecks me.

  I lead him to the kitchen, where Ivy is sitting with her iPad.

  “Hi,” she says. “Do you want some popcorn?”

  “No, thank you,” Ethan says. “But you should have some if you want to.”

  Ethan and I sit and watch as Ivy gets the bag of popcorn out of the pantry and comes back to the table with it. She sits down, opens the bag, and starts eating popcorn.

  “I wanted to see a movie,” Ethan tells her. “But David said you wanted to talk.”

  “Chloe wanted to talk, not me.”

  “I just thought you two should talk,” I say. “Ivy, tell Ethan what’s going on—​what you realized yesterday.”

  “Okay.” There are bits of popcorn shell on her lips. I catch her eye and make a wiping gesture toward my own lips. She stares at me blankly before turning back to Ethan. “Chloe wants me to tell you that I’m gay.”

  Ethan blinks several times rapidly. “What do you mean?”

  Ivy waves her hand; grains of salt fly from her fingers. “Being gay means you like your own type of people, so girls like girls, and boys like boys.”

  “I know what gay means,” he says impatiently. “I’m not stupid. But you’re not gay.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  He shakes his head. “No, because you’re going out with me, and I’m a guy.”

  “I don’t want to go out with you.”

  There’s blunt . . . and then there’s cruel. I quickly cut in. “She likes you a lot as a friend—​she’s just saying that she doesn’t think you guys should date.”

  “I want to go out with Diana and not with you,” Ivy adds.

  “Diana from school?” Ethan hugs himself and starts rocking back and forth in the chair. “You like her more than me?”

  Ivy just nods, so I say, “Not more, just in a different way.”

  Ethan turns to me, his eyes confused and anxious. “Are Ivy and I still going out?”

  “Maybe not romantically? But you can still do stuff as friends.”

  “Like Chloe and David,” Ivy says. “Chloe has a boyfriend, but she still talks to David. Except she doesn’t have a boyfriend anymore. They broke up.”

  “Why?” Ethan asks.

  “Sometimes things don’t work out,” I say. “Even when two people like each other.” I’m trying to make a point here.

  “I’m not Ivy’s boyfriend anymore?” he says, his voice high and strained.

  “Just my friend,” Ivy says.

  Ethan starts rocking faster. “Diana’s not very nice. She always tells me I talk too much.”

  “You do,” Ivy says.

  “No, he doesn’t!” I say. “You’re great company, Ethan.”

  “I wish you didn’t like Diana more than me,” he says to Ivy.

  “It’s probably because I’m gay.”

  “You guys can totally stay friends,” I say. “That’s even better—​I mean, boyfriends and girlfriends break up all the time, but friends can stay friends forever, right?” I can feel sweat tickling under my armpits and beading at my temples. I’m so stressed right now.

  “Are you and James going to stay friends?” Ivy asks me.

  “Definitely.”

  “Then I guess we can too,” she tells Ethan.

  “Can I go to the bathroom?” he asks.

  It’s kind of a relief when he leaves the room.

  “You could have been nicer to him,” I hiss at Ivy as soon as he’s out of earshot.

  “Why wasn’t I nice?”

  “You kept talking about how much more you like Diana. That probably hurt his feelings.”

  “Really? But it’s just true.” She crunches some more popcorn and turns on her iPad.

  I look at my phone. Sarah just texted me.

  did you and James really break up??

  yeah—​after you told him I was acting weird

  i didn’t say that

  He said you did, more or less

  Are you seriously blaming me for your break up?

  Am I blaming her? I stop to think about it. She was a little too quick to agree with James that I was being a bad girlfriend, a little too eager to commiserate with him—​at least according to what he told me. She could have stuck up for me more. But would that really have changed anything? We were doomed anyway.

  So I write: sorry just upset and taking it out on you

  that’s ok. i get it.

  and just so you know, I totally defended you

  Ivy says, “Are you mad at me?”

  I look up. “What? Why?”

  “You just looked a little annoyed about something.”

  “It’s not because of you. I got a text.”

  “Who from?”

  “Sarah.”

  “Are you mad at her?”

  “Not really.”

  It’s way too much work to try to untangle the different emotions I’m feeling right now so I can describe them all to Ivy. Like . . . I’m pretty sure Sarah didn’t really defend me to James, but I’ll never know for sure, and maybe it doesn’t matter, anyway. So I feel mildly betrayed but not actually upset—​and that’s not really something I can decipher for Ivy. Right and wrong, she can get. Good guy, bad guy, truth, lies—​those I can explain to her. But this is all too complicated, too messy, too unclear. She’ll want to know if she should be mad at Sarah or not. And it’s just not that simple.

  My phone vibrates. I look at it. Sarah again.

  now that you’re free . . . anyone else interesting to you?

  it’s been like five minutes!

  i just thought

  I wait and then finally text what?

  nothing

  The word just lies there. She doesn’t write any more, and I don’t want to ask her again.

  I check my Instagram feed and then decide I need a snack. I’m tense and bored—​prime grazing conditions.

  I search through the refrigerator and pantry and, as usual since Ron moved in, don’t find anything satisfactory in the junk food department (even the popcorn Ivy’s been eating is some super health food low-fat, low-salt kind that’s not worth wasting my time on). I’m about to wander back to the table empty-handed when the doorbell rings, so I head into the hallway instead.

  It’s David. He doesn’t greet me, just says, “Ethan didn’t answer my last couple of texts. I wanted to make sure he’s okay.”

  “He’s fine.” I gesture inside. “Come in.”

  He hesitates a moment, glancing down the walkway at his car like he just wants to go back there, but then he steps inside the foyer. “How’d he take the news?”

  “Fine.” I lead him down the hall. “I mean, he wasn’t thrilled, but I think he’s okay.”

  We walk into the kitchen. David says, “Hey, Ivy. Where’s Ethan?”

  Ivy looks up from her iPad. “He went to the bathroom. It takes him a long time.”

  “Not always.”

  There’s a pause. David’s got his hands jammed into his pockets, and he’s not meeting my eyes.

  “Do you want something to eat or
drink?” I ask.

  “I’m okay.” He checks his watch, then leans back against the counter.

  “I’m gay,” Ivy tells him.

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Her mouth curves down at the corners. “Are you mad at me?”

  “No, of course not,” he says impatiently. “Why would I be mad at you?”

  “Then are you mad at Chloe?”

  A slight pause. “No.”

  “You seem mad,” she says. “For some reason, people always seem mad when I say I’m gay and then they say they’re not mad.”

  “I promise I’m not mad at you, Ivy.”

  “Ivy’s right,” I say. “You do seem mad.”

  “Well, I’m not.”

  “Maybe if you said that less angrily?” I suggest.

  He shoots me a look, then checks his watch again. “I’m going to see what’s taking Ethan so long. Where’s the bathroom?”

  “This way.” I lead him out of the kitchen and down the hallway. “Are you going to admit you’re acting strange?”

  He doesn’t answer right away. Then he says slowly, “I’m just a little bummed, I guess.”

  “For Ethan?”

  “Yeah. For me too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s been nice. Hanging out with you and Ivy. It’s pathetic, but it’s probably the most social I’ve been in years.”

  “We’ll still hang out.”

  “Will we? You sure you won’t feel like there are better ways to spend your time?”

  “I’m not sure there are.”

  “Wow,” he says. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

  “I believe that. You don’t exactly bring out people’s softer side.”

  “I know.”

  “Still—” I say, and stop.

  “What?”

  I don’t know how to put it in words. I only know that I like being alone with David in this hallway and that something about this moment seems filled with possibility and hope. “If you want to hang out, I’m totally up for it,” I say finally.

  He waits a moment, but when I don’t say anything else, he says, “Sounds good,” and his light, almost indifferent tone makes everything normal again. Which is both a relief and a loss.

  “That’s the bathroom,” I say, gesturing at the door.

  He knocks. “Ethan? You okay in there?”

  There’s no response.

  David bangs on the door more loudly. “Ethan? Hello?”

  Nothing.

  He turns the doorknob. “It’s not locked.” He raises his voice. “Ethan? I’m coming in. Say something if you don’t want me to.” There’s no response, so he opens the door slowly and peers around it. Then he shoves it completely open. “He’s not in here.”

  “Oops—​sorry! It’s the closest one, but he must have gone upstairs.” We retreat and go up to the second floor. Ethan’s not in the hallway bathroom. “He must be in my mom’s.”

  “This way?” David races ahead toward the master bedroom. As soon as we enter, we can see that their bathroom is empty. “Shit,” he says.

  “He’s got to be around here somewhere.”

  We run around the house, calling Ethan’s name, but there’s no answer. When I’m in the kitchen, Ivy asks what’s going on, and I tell her. She just shrugs, unconcerned.

  “Is there a back way out of the house?” David asks me when we meet up in the hallway.

  “Yeah, but it only goes to the yard—”

  “Show me.”

  The back door is unlocked. We go outside and call some more. That’s when we both notice:

  The side gate is wide open.

  Twenty-Nine

  WE GO BACK INSIDE and into the kitchen.

  “How long ago did he say he was going to the bathroom?” David asks.

  “It’s been a while.”

  “Twenty-seven minutes,” says Ivy.

  “Jesus Christ!” David says to me. “Twenty-seven minutes? Why didn’t you check on him sooner? No one goes to the bathroom for that long.”

  “Sometimes people do,” Ivy says.

  “I didn’t really think about it,” I say. “I’m sorry. I should have checked.” The truth was, I’d been relieved to have Ethan out of the room because I was feeling so guilty about everything. I was in no rush for him to return.

  “I should have come in with him. I just—” David stops and shakes his head. “I was an idiot.” He moves toward the doorway. “I’m going to drive around and look for him. If he texts either of you or shows up, let me know immediately, and don’t let him out of your sight again.” He disappears into the hallway and the front door slams a second later.

  “David was upset,” Ivy says.

  “Yeah. He’s worried about Ethan.”

  “It’ll be okay,” she says, and I’m just about to snap at her that that’s a ridiculous thing to say and she doesn’t know that at all, and then I remember that it’s what she hears from us all the time when she’s worried—​“it will be okay; everything will be okay”—​so why wouldn’t she parrot it back at me when I’m more worried than she is?

  I try Ethan’s phone number again and again, every ten minutes for the next couple of hours. No response. And no news from David.

  When Mom and Ron come home, Mom takes one look at me and says, “What’s wrong?”

  Ivy says, “Ethan came over and went to the bathroom and didn’t come back, and his brother couldn’t find him.”

  Not surprisingly, Mom’s confused. “He couldn’t find him in the bathroom?”

  “He wasn’t in the bathroom,” I say. “He snuck out of the house. He runs away when he gets upset.”

  “Where does he go?”

  “If they knew that, it wouldn’t be running away, would it?” I know it’s not fair to get snarky with her, but I need an outlet for all my pent-up anxiety. It’s awful waiting and not being able to do anything about the situation.

  “So they haven’t found him yet?”

  “Not as far as we know.” I instinctively check my cell phone for the millionth time, even though I have it on vibrate and the volume is way up high, so there’s no way I’d miss a text.

  “Do you want us to help look for him?” Ron asks.

  I’m surprised—​I’d have expected Ron to be all not our problem about this. “Let me ask David.” I send a text: should we drive around too?

  He writes back: Can’t hurt. Maybe by ocean—​he likes it there like, Pali Park

  Mom and I head out, leaving Ron and Ivy to wait in the house just in case Ethan comes back or is hiding somewhere on our property. Ron says he’ll have dinner waiting for us when we return.

  Mom drives while I peer out my open window, scanning the sidewalks and grass. Ethan was wearing a white shirt and jeans, so every time I see that combination on a skinny young man—​or a couple of times on a girl with short hair—​my hope rises, only to be crushed when I get a closer look.

  I feel sick inside, scared for Ethan, sad for David, angry at myself for letting this happen.

  I can’t stop thinking about how vulnerable Ethan is—​how childlike in so many ways. But other people won’t look at him and think that. They’ll see a young man—​and an odd one, at that—​so no one’s going to go up to him and offer to help, the way they would if a little kid was lost. Anything could happen to him. Anything.

  The world is such a mean and big and judgmental place. And Ethan, like Ivy, has no guile, no social awareness, no ability to see beyond what people say to what they may be thinking or scheming. Which makes him an easy target.

  And Ivy too. She’s safe at home right now. But that can’t always be true. There are going to be times when she has to be out on her own. She can’t just hide at home for the rest of her life, because that’s not a life. But being out in the world is dangerous for someone like her, because . . . people.

  I want to protect Ivy and Ethan, and I also want them to be independent, and right now it feels lik
e those two things can’t coexist, and I feel hopeless.

  The sun is setting, and it’s getting harder and harder to see clearly.

  “Not him?” Mom says when I curse after about the fifteenth disappointment.

  “Yeah, it was, but I didn’t want to bother you by mentioning it.”

  “Sorry,” she says humbly. “That was a stupid question.”

  I feel bad. “No, that was mean of me. Sorry. I’m just so worried.”

  “They’ll find him eventually. And he’s not a toddler—​he can take care of himself.”

  “Up to a point.”

  “Up to a point.”

  I say slowly, “How do you think Ivy would do if she were out there on her own?”

  “I was thinking about that too. I’m grateful she isn’t the running-away type.”

  “Yeah. She never even wants to go out without us. But that could change, right? What if she starts wanting to do stuff by herself? She told Diana she’s going to learn to drive—”

  “I don’t see that happening,” Mom says. “I mean, that’s terrifying.”

  “But she said it. So she likes the idea of it. She needs to get better at doing stuff, Mom—​like buying things and finding her way around and dealing with strangers. If she doesn’t . . .”

  “Don’t. Please, Chloe. I can’t think about that right now. I’m stressed enough already.”

  I spot another pair of jeans with a white shirt on the sidewalk. Another Not-Ethan.

  We’re both silent for a moment.

  Mom brakes at a red light. “Should I turn on Pico or stay by the ocean?”

  “Let’s just head home—​I can’t see anything anymore anyway.” I check my phone. I’d kill for a simple Found him. But there’s nothing.

  I finally get a text from David around eight, an hour after I excused myself from a dinner of microwaved vegetable lasagna that I couldn’t even pretend to eat.

  Dad and M found out, just called the police

  you okay?

  No response.

  I throw my phone down on my bed with a loud curse.

  “What’s wrong?” Ivy asks.

  “I’m worried about Ethan.”

  “He’ll be fine. He’s eighteen. That’s old enough to vote.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Yes, I do!”

  “You don’t even understand what you don’t understand.”