“Sexual tension?” He nodded knowingly.
“Gawd, you’re annoying. But yes, that. All I want to do is get Charlie naked, cover him in chocolate sauce and lick his body before I—”
“Okay, okay, stop.”
“But I didn’t even get to the whipped cream, and that’s the exciting bit.”
“Reese!”
“Okay, fine. I always imagined I’d end up with Charlie. There, I said it. It’s been an understood for as far back as I can remember.”
“But do you want that?”
“I think so. The thought of forever with Charlie exudes comfortable, like coming home. It feels known and happy and certain.”
“But?”
“But he’s never said one word. I did once, you know, a hundred moons ago. But he shut me down and we went right along being friends.”
“The real question is—can guys and girls ever be just friends?”
“Don’t get me started, Harry met Sally. I’ve seen him in diapers.”
“For that matter, you’ve taken baths with him. So you’re going to ask him out again?”
“I can’t. He is the one guy on the planet I won’t risk asking out because I can’t stand the thought of wrecking our friendship if he says no. Can you imagine me showing up to work the day after he’s turned me down? Uh, no thanks. Anyway, he doesn’t want to be with me. But it’s weird. Sometimes he looks at me in this way that makes the whole universe seem as if it’s coming unglued. But he won’t say anything.”
“Words aren’t really his thing.”
“Well, you’d think if he wanted me, he could figure something out. And you know he’s dated three other girls in the past five years. He obviously talked to them. None of them liked me, by the way.”
“So you’re counting.”
“Yes, I’m counting. So I need to move on, try something new, forget about the romantic ideal of best friends finding a happy ever after. Not everyone is Gilbert and Anne.”
“Is that Ann with an ‘e’? I can’t remember. But I do know there is a charming Irish dude who flew over an entire ocean to see you, and I think it wouldn’t hurt to give him a chance.”
“He flew halfway around the world to write a book; visiting me was an afterthought. Are you trying to get rid of me, Hamilton?”
“I’m only saying. I need to head out and actually make it to work on time today, but I’m happy knowing I’m leaving you in capable hands.” He squeezed my foot. “Would it be embarrassing for you if I put these last two donuts down in the kitchen to be shared by the other three people in the house?”
“Do whatever you want. You always do.” I pulled the comforter over my face with a groan.
Dad and Ben went out after work for one of Dad’s appointments and wings at the bar, which left Blake with us ladies. We’d convinced him to stay a few extra days in Omaha before catching his bus to Chicago, so he insisted on cooking us a nice meal.
“I can work wonders in the kitchen if I’m creating shepherd’s pie, chili, or a lemon meringue,” he’d bragged at breakfast, and it was settled. I opted for shepherd’s pie and sat with him for hours in the afternoon while he chopped away in the kitchen. When it was ready, Bernice brought out candles and a tablecloth.
“I must say, in your gray sweater and wreck of a bun, you shimmer by candlelight, Reese,” he murmured as he walked past. I blushed and tore my gaze away.
“It’s like an Irish casserole.” Bernice looked pleased at Blake’s meal.
“Yes, something like that. I’d like to imagine it’s a bit more refined than a standard casserole.”
“Are you saying my casseroles aren’t fancy?” Bernice’s hands flew to her hips. I made a face at Blake from behind my mother.
“Ahem. Bernice, I’d love to hear more about your, ah, your personal inspiration in the kitchen.”
“You and everyone else, son. I am a culinary prodigy. I have ten secrets, and I will tell you one. It’s all about the butter. When you think you’ve added enough, walk away, head to the nearest mirror, look yourself right in the eye and say, ‘Amateur.’ Then run straight back to your dish and double the butter. Double the butter, double the love, I say.”
“I’m hearing you say the butter is important?”
“Bless your heart, of course it’s important. So many people these days talk about fat and calories but they’re barely living, are wisping about as if they can thrive on tofu.” She gave a puff. “Eat the butter—live today and no regrets tomorrow, I say.”
Blake nodded. “Thanks for sharing your wisdom, Bernice.”
“I assure you there’s more where that came from.” She squinted at me. “I tried to give Reese some pointers last week but little good it did either of us.”
“Hey now. You know you trying to teach me anything was a bad idea in the first place.”
“You mean, it was a great idea but you had a bad attitude.” Bernice pressed her lips together.
“Yep, I definitely had a bad attitude.” I grinned.
“You should bring this chirpiness to the kitchen, missy.”
“No thanks. But I think Blake could do with some special time in the kitchen with you.”
“I’ve thought of that myself.” She peered pointedly at him.
“Aha, well, thanks, ladies, but as you know, Chicago is calling. I’ll certainly take a rain check though. And let me go grab the bottle of wine I left in the kitchen; I believe we all need it.” He scurried away, returning with the pinot noir.
“Are you sure you’re Irish?” Bernice squinted at him as he opened it, scattering the rich berry scents.
“Yes, I’m Irish.”
“Where’d your accent go? It’s pitiful. Did it wander off the edge of the flat earth?” She giggled, and I gave him an apologetic smile.
“Well, my mom was American, and we lived in the States until I was twelve.”
“Oh, so you’re American born and bred.” She nodded and piled her fork high. “Good.”
“My da is Irish. He went to Northwestern University.” Blake put his fork down, looking resigned to the fact his food would get cold. “He planned to go the four years, graduate, and head back to Ireland. But he met my mom there in Chicago, fell in love, and didn’t leave after all.”
“Well how in the Sam Hill did you end up in Ireland then? Did your parents get divorced, did your dad steal you away?”
“No, they didn’t get divorced.” Blake pushed back from the table. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to be rude, but I’m not exactly in the mood to talk about it. I never am.”
But Bernice didn’t stop, and Blake couldn’t keep avoiding her insistently direct questions. “Well, I don’t understand. You had a mother, so you have a mother. Mothers just don’t disappear into thin air.”
“Or do they?” I coughed into my napkin.
“My mom died,” he finally blurted, and the room fell silent and awkward. Blake cleared his throat and softened his voice. “She had Lou Gehrig’s disease, or ALS. I was twelve.”
In all the time and all the letters Blake and I had shared over the years, we had focused more on the present and the future than the past. He’d told me very little about his mother. When I imagined Blake telling me about his complex former life, the conveying was under a myriad of stars as I nestled my head into his chiseled chest.
I would hold his face, lined with the narrative of his tragedy, between my hands and his heart would melt under the pressure of my kindness. He would tell me all. I would mend his past with my touch and sympathy. My tender care would mitigate his every agony. The inky night would be velvety and star songs would reach from heaven down to earth as we sank in each other’s embrace and his heart would open to me alone.
I’d imagined this very scenario at least a dozen times, yet here we were. Bernice wiped the corners of her eyes with the bottom of her apron and shot Blake a lingering look of pity.
Blake tugged at his collar and muttered, “So yeah, after she died, Da and I moved back to Ireland
, reportedly to help Gramps with the farm, but mostly to get away.”
“You poor thing.” Bernice’s sigh filled the room.
“I miss Mom. After she died, I locked myself in her room for two whole days. I sat in the middle of her closet and hugged her smell. That’s where I found the baseball cap I’ve worn ever since.” Bernice had insisted Blake come to the dinner table sans hat, but now he pulled it off the seat next to him and shoved it down hard over his eyes.
“Well, then.” Bernice patted Blake’s hand and went back to eating as we swam through the uncomfortable quiet. She got up two minutes later and thrust his face into her bosom, ferociously patting the top of his head. I could see one of his eyes pleading with me for help, but I shook my head and daintily ate a bite of the shepherd’s pie. It really was delicious.
I shot him a smile I hoped was meek. I’d ask him more questions later, under the stars.
“That is not how you spell xenophile.” I heard a hint of childhood whine in Ben’s voice as I came down the steps the next morning.
“It’s how your recovering Dad spells it.” He instructed Bernice to write down eighty-three points as his score.
“Eighty-three?” Bernice checked the board. “Your sick days are officially over. You can stop pretending now.” Her voluminous curls didn’t move an inch as she wagged her head.
“Yes, dear.” He squeezed her hand. It was weird hearing Dad employ a playful tone. “Two double letter score plus a triple word score.” He did a victory fist pump into the air and everyone laughed.
I grabbed the chunky mug from the cupboard and poured myself a steaming cup of coffee. I inhaled the warmth and the black as I looked between the kitchen clock and Bernice, Dad, Ben, and Blake gathered around the table. The Scrabble board in the middle had several words across it already.
“Why are you up so early on a Thursday, and how come no one woke me up to play?” I folded my arms across my chest.
“Stop pouting, Reese. It’s very unattractive and you don’t want any young men in your life to see you like that.” Bernice’s head looked like it would snap clean off as she nodded in Blake’s direction.
Heat crept up my neck.
“Everyone said they didn’t want you to play because they didn’t want you to win.” Blake smiled. “But I’m not frightened of your extensive vocabulary.”
“Be afraid Blake, be very afraid.” Ben moved the board to face him. “She started beating my parents when she was seven.”
I laughed and picked up my camera. The morning light peeking through the French doors curled around the quorum concentrating on their tiles at the table. From behind my camera, I mocked Ben’s attempt to spell intransigent. “And why aren’t you at work?”
“Reese, for your information, I took off work this morning to hang out with the family. I head out next Tuesday or Wednesday, you know.”
“I think I’ll fly out then too.” I decided on the spot. Bernice and Dad both turned to look at me, but I couldn’t see myself staying here alone with them, and I avoided eye contact. “Until then, Blake, you do not want a piece of this.” I pulled my fuzzy robe around me and leaned into the cold counter.
When the timer went off, Bernice jumped from the table. Dad sat and watched everyone dance around the kitchen in a sort of caustic waltz as Ben grabbed the plates and Blake got the cups for orange juice. My stomach growled in time with the mayhem. I knew casseroles were the devil for my body, but Bernice made a breakfast fit for royalty, and in the presence of her buttery goodness, I lost any ounce of self-control I once possessed.
In all of the commotion Blake leaned close as he walked by and whispered loud enough for only me to hear, “Oh Reese, yes. I most certainly want a piece of this.”
In slow motion, he continued past me, touching the small of my back as he went.
Tingles.
Tingles.
Tingles.
I wasn’t sure I could ever move from this spot.
12
Reese
Blake had been in Omaha a handful of days, and Ben and I had dragged him around the perimeters of the city twice over. On his last day in town we’d spent the afternoon at the Henry Doorly Zoo, and Bernice was marching across the front porch when we arrived home.
“Have you seen your father?” She turned and continued pacing without waiting for our reply.
We looked at each other. “No?”
“Dadgummit. He raced away to the doctor’s this morning without me, and he’s been gone all day. You know he refuses to own a cell phone so I don’t know where he is. I called the doctor’s office and they won’t tell me a thing, just that he made it to his appointment. Now he’s probably lying dead in a ditch somewhere. Or he’s been kidnapped, we’ll get the ransom call any minute. I should go be by the phone.” She looked at us with wild eyes. “We’ll find the money to get him released. We will.”
“Mom, he’s an adult, he’s fine.” Ben plopped on the porch swing.
“You’re right, I’ll go call the police.” The door slammed as she entered the house.
I sat at the steps and leaned into the post as the afternoon sun played along my arms. Blake settled opposite me.
“So what about those Cubs?” Ben rocked in the swing.
“I could tell I was in the presence of a fellow Cubby. How did you decide they were the team for you?” Blake’s smile broadened.
“Okay, first of all, we don’t use the vernacular ‘Cubby’ here in the States, and I hope you never use it again in your lifetime.”
“Ben, stop being a snob and treat our guest with some respect. Besides it took your Cubbies over a hundred years to win the World Series. I’m not sure why you’re getting your panties in a wad.”
He kept his gaze on Blake. “And second of all, Dad and I used to watch them all the time. I guess I became a fan by default. What about you?”
“My mom grew up in Chicago and was a diehard baseball fan. She wore the cap every opening day.” Blake looked cute in his black T-shirt and shorts, and as he tipped his cap toward us, I tried to ignore the butterflies inside.
“We’ve been handed so much from our primogenitors.” Ben made a mock toast.
“Sometimes I think you use words out of context.” I threw a pebble at my brother.
“Are you jealous?”
“As jealous as Jacob was of Esau.” I rolled my eyes at him and ignored Blake’s face turning in my direction.
“Give the girl some sunshine and she gets sassy.” Blake shook his head at Ben.
“Right? Maybe we should change the subject. It’s sacrilegious to be discussing our, ahem, ‘Cubbies’ in front of someone who so obviously doesn’t understand their value.”
“Actually I have a good premonition about them this year.” I raised my eyebrow and dared them to disagree.
“To the Cubs.” We cheered with pretend beers. Blake held my gaze for a few extra seconds before I had to look away. This would be a good year indeed.
“We should cook the family dinner tonight, what do you say—you and me and that kitchen? I won’t try to give you any lessons, promise. It’s our last supper, after all.” My stomach hurt at the thought of leaving him at the bus station the following morning.
“Alright, da Vinci, I’ll create with you.” I blushed as I thought back to the previous night’s kiss, hoping we’d find time for another between the meal preparations.
“And I will be on beer duty. You’re welcome.” Ben saluted.
“I need all the beer I can get.”
“What’s up, sis?”
“It’s just that…” I didn’t make eye contact with either of them. “It’s sad we’re all leaving this week.”
“Um, sad and wonderful.”
“You know what I mean. Who knows when we’ll all be together again?”
“Ben, I hear her saying she likes us.”
“I hear it, and I like it.”
“I do like you, you dopes. But you need to go write your book, and Ben, you need to
get back to the most sane part of your life.”
“She is that. Maya’s a wonder.”
“Clearly. Maybe I need that beer now. Do we have any left?”
“Reese, has anyone told you you’re probably a locational alcoholic? I’ve seen you drink more in the last two months here in Omaha than in the rest of our adult lives combined.”
“I’m not denying it.”
“Let me go see what I can find. Blake, protect the lady whilst I’m gone.”
“More like she’ll protect me.”
We waited until Ben was inside before we turned and looked at each other.
“So you’re heading back to Atlanta?”
“Yeah.” I was scheduled to leave in less than a week and needed to message Charlie to sort out the details, but I was less than inspired to move even an inch in that direction. “Or maybe I can’t.”
“Why not, Reese?” When he said my name, sincerely and without accusation, something inside me broke.
“It happened again.” I wasn’t making eye contact with him anymore.
“It?”
“Never mind. It’s nothing.”
“Okay, Reese. But know you can tell me if you want.” He scooted closer.
“I failed. That’s it. That’s all.”
“I think maybe you should start at the beginning.”
“There was a shoot I did on my own, a week or so before I came here, and I handed everything over to Charlie right before I flew out. He finally told me the clients weren’t happy with it, and he had to re-shoot it last week. It was hugely inconvenient and expensive for him, not to mention embarrassing for our company.”
“Forgive my ignorance, but that happens, right? A barista makes a drink wrong and they re-do it. Voilà.”
“It’s hardly the same thing.”
“I’m sorry if I sound cavalier about this. I’m an artist too, so while I don’t understand everything, I know I always have to re-write stuff. It’s part of the job description.”
“Have you ever been in business with someone who shines so brightly you don’t need the sun? I’m not sure I told you, but I tried to go out on my own. Once, a long time ago, I called up all my contacts, let them know I was available for shoots. Ten minutes into our conversation, they’d ask about Charlie. ‘Oh, he’s doing his own thing too.’ Afterwards, they didn’t call me. They called Charlie.”
Remember Us Page 13
