by Rae Kennedy
He’s surprised when he opens the door. “Rosenbaum?”
“Gallagher. I need a place to hide out for a while. Can I stay here?”
“Uh. Sure. Come in,” he says as I walk past him.
I plop down on the couch and kick off my sandals so I can tuck my feet up under me.
Eric sits on the other side of the sofa with an amused smirk, resting his arm across the back. “What are we hiding out from?”
“Not a what—a who. Though that might be debatable. My mother. She and I got into an argument and I just needed to be anywhere but that house.” I turn to him, feeling suddenly tired. “Turns out I don’t have many places to go.”
He looks at me for a moment, his sharp eyes softening. “You’re always welcome here.”
“Thanks.”
Rain patters lightly on the roof.
“What was the argument about, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“My grandpa. I went to his house this morning for our daily visit. Knocked, rang the bell, nothing. I walked around the back of the house but the back door was locked too. I looked in the windows, thinking I was going to see some sort of crime scene inside. I called my mom, hysterical that something horrible had happened and she decided that was the appropriate time to tell me she decided to move him into a home.”
“Wow. That’s...a choice. And you visit him every day?”
“Yeah. I make sure he stays clean-shaven and up to date on all the town gossip. He loves it. And I give him a haircut every Saturday. This was the first haircut I’ve missed in a year.”
“You give him a haircut every week?”
“Yep. There are three things Pops was always very particular about. The length of his hair, the direction and frequency his lawn was mowed, and the perfect ratio of meat to bread in a pastrami sandwich.” I pick at the nail polish that’s chipping on my ring finger. “I still can’t believe she didn’t even tell me. You’re so lucky.”
“How do you mean?” He leans his cheek against his knuckles.
“I mean your family. They’re not fucked up. You all might as well be the subject of a fucking Norman Rockwell painting. I envied Gracie and your family growing up.”
“Really? Us?”
“Yeah, all of you. Your house is...full. You have both parents who are always around, always involved. You have big family dinners, and you celebrate Christmas. And there are five of you! You always had someone to play with. You were never alone. I always wanted a sibling. You have no idea how it feels growing up lonely. Little extrovert-me had so many one-sided conversations with my stuffed bunny Frou-Frou.”
“You think I was never lonely growing up?” His eyebrows are raised and his smirk is crooked. “I’m the middle child of five. Jack and Charlie were always together—it’s like they had a secret club no one else could join. And then there are my sisters. When Gracie came, she was like Court’s little doll. They always went off to have tea parties and dress up and stuff. I was the odd one out.”
“You were lonely?”
“All the time. Court and I are pretty close, but growing up, we didn’t have the same friend group or interests. It was worse at school. I was always teased for my red hair and freckles, and for being small.”
“But you had a ton of friends growing up. I remember you being the center of attention when you were in high school. You constantly had people around you.”
“Yeah, well, I discovered that if I made fun of myself before others could make the joke, I wasn’t the victim anymore. And when I made people laugh, they actually liked me. So I became the funny guy. But you know what? It’s really lonely when you realize everyone likes the persona—the funny guy—and no one actually knows the real you. I had a bunch of friends that never really knew me because I didn’t want to show them the unfunny version of myself for fear they wouldn’t like me anymore.”
His hand is resting on the cushion between us and I put mine lightly over it.
“I’ll be your real friend. If it helps, I never thought you were that funny in the first place.”
He laughs out loud. A bright, clear laughter that lights up his face and makes his neck muscles tighten.
“I might like the real you better,” I say with a smile.
He’s not laughing anymore, just looking at me with his deep brown eyes. They are warm and happy, and actually really pretty with flecks of amber. His fingers have curled around my hand and somehow we are much closer to each other then we were moments ago. My knee rubs against his thigh and for some reason I’m staring at that little freckle on his upper lip again.
My phone rings.
I blink, straightening. Holy shit. That was weird.
What just happened?
I’m in such a confused state that I reach for my phone and hit accept without even checking the caller ID.
“Kyla? It’s Wes.”
My eyes widen. “Wes?”
I turn to Eric and mouth, “It’s Wes,” as if he didn’t just hear me. He gives me a small smile and a thumbs up.
“Eric gave me your number. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Oh, uh, no. I don’t mind that at all.” Omigod omigod omigod.
“So yeah, anyway. I was talking to Eric yesterday and he was telling me how he has a date next week but he doesn’t know her very well.”
“Yeah...” This is a weird conversation so far.
“And he thinks that it’d be more comfortable if it was more of a group date situation and he asked if I wanted to double-date.”
“Mm-hmm.” Me, trying not to make it too obvious that I am totally freaking out.
“I guess what I’m saying is, would you like to come with me on Saturday, as my date?”
I have to hold my breath to keep from screaming.
“Um...sure. That sounds like fun, I’d love to go with you. As your date.”
Shut up, Kyla.
“Great. Pick you up at seven?”
“That sounds perfect!”
I hang up and smile big at Eric trying to contain my excitement but I can’t. I am literally bouncing up and down on his couch.
“Wes asked me out! On. A. Date. Omigod this is amazing!” I throw my arms around Eric’s neck and squeeze him hard. “You’re the best.”
Eric’s smile is tight this time. “I aim to please.”
CHAPTER 9
The first time my phone rings, I let it go. The energy it would take to sit up and reach all the way over to where it’s laying on the floor, plugged into the wall? Way too much.
This morning was terrible. As soon as I got home after my emotional hour and a half drive from my Grandpa’s new residence, I got back in bed. And this is where I’m staying.
My phone rings again.
Cue melodramatic groan as I flop myself over and feel around the carpet until I find the stupid buzzing thing. The name Dr. Gallagher lights up my screen—he chose the name. He said I had to keep it and I agreed, then put my name in his phone as Kyla ‘dat ass’ Rosenbaum.
“Gallagher,” I answer flatly.
“Hey. I just had a question for you. Lucy suggested we go to the diner to eat on our date Saturday. Is that okay with you?”
“Sure.”
“Great, thanks. I know you probably eat there all the time—”
“Not really.”
“All right... Is everything okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Uh-oh. I may not know that much about women, but I do know that I’m fine is code for definitely not fine. So what’s up?”
“It’s nothing, really.”
“Were you not allowed to see your grandpa again today?”
“I saw him.” My voice cracks on the last word. I hold my breath to keep any other unwanted noises to come out and hope he didn’t notice.
“Are you crying?”
“Nope.” Definitely not.
“Are you home? I’m going to come over.”
“No. You really don’t need to do that.”
“Too lat
e. Already getting up. Putting pants on.”
“You were talking to me without pants on?”
“It’s Sunday. A day for relaxation.”
“And relaxation equals no pants?” No, wait—that sort of checks out.
He laughs through the phone.
“Seriously, though. You don’t need to come over. I’m fine and I'm sure you have better things to do. Actually, if you were just sitting around your house pants-less, I guess you really don’t.”
“The only thing I have going on today is my Sunday family dinner. Hey—how about you come over here and join us for supper?”
“Oh, that’s okay. It’s your family’s dinner, I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“Ky, you’ve come to so many family dinners.”
“I know, but those were different. I was invited by Gracie.”
“And now I’m inviting you.”
* * *
“Thank you again for having me over. Dinner was delicious.”
“Of course, honey. You’re welcome for supper anytime.” Bev gives me a hug. She’s warm and soft all over and smells like bread. It’s the kind of hug I would expect to receive from the little Pillsbury Dough Boy dude, but, like, if he was human-sized.
There’s a tug at my shirt and I look down at Gracie’s nephew, Forrest, who shoves something in my hand with a giggle then runs off. I open my hand to find a yellow dandelion. It’s mostly crushed and oddly warm, like it’s been in a pocket or fist for a long time, and a little bit of white liquid is beaded where the stem was torn. My hand is already wet and sticky from it. I look to Bev, who just smiles before being pulled away by the sound of a thud from the living room.
“It means he likes you,” comes a voice from behind.
I turn, dangling the weed in front of Eric.
“So if a boy likes me, he's going to give me something limp and sticky?”
He smirks and opens his mouth to say something.
“Nope. I heard it. Whatever sarcastic response you came up with, you can just keep it to yourself.”
After I discard the dandelion and wash my hands, Eric insists on walking me out to my car. It’s early evening, so the sun is still up, and the air is warm, but the cloud cover casts large shadows on the ground, and it smells like freshly cut grass.
Eric walks next to me, the sound of his boots against the ground an echo to my footsteps. He shoves his hands in his pockets.
“We never got the chance to talk about what was bothering you earlier.”
I roll my eyes at him. “We don’t need to talk about it.”
“But I really want to know.”
I stop and put my hands on my hips. Eric just stands there expectantly.
“I went to visit my grandpa this morning.”
He tilts his head. “And?”
“And I hated it. Everything about it was awful.”
Eric crosses his arms, a little crease forming between his thick eyebrows. “How so?”
I sigh. “His room is tiny. And everything about it is sterile, and gray, and sad. There are no pictures on the walls. He hardly has any of his things there with him. Not even the little framed picture of Grandma he always kept next to his bed. He didn’t have his nice shave kit, either. They let me shave him with one of those plastic razors but they wouldn’t let me give him a haircut.”
I pause, realizing my voice is getting shaky.
“He only has one little window. And the view outside it has no grass, no trees, no birds. It’s a parking lot. But the worst part was him. He never made eye contact. He didn’t try to say anything, or move, or acknowledge me or the nurses. It’s like he’s totally given up.”
Eric steps to me and pulls me into a hug. His arms are strong and they wrap around me so tight all I can do is sink into them and let my head rest on his shoulder as I tuck my fists under my chin and against his chest.
And then the tears start again. Slow and silent.
“Hey,” Eric says, rubbing my arms as I pull away. “Come on.”
I follow him past the barn to his house, where he sits me down on the couch while he goes to the kitchen.
“I’ll get you something to drink.”
“I’ll take a beer, thanks.”
He gasps. “Alcohol? Ma’am. You are underage. What kind of establishment do you think I'm running here?”
“Ma’am? You can’t call me that while also insinuating I’m too young. You can call me miss or young lady or—no, I don’t like any of those either. Anyway, don’t act all shocked. Like you didn’t drink when you were a teenager.”
“I was always a model citizen.” He takes out two bottles of beer and pops off the caps.
“You think I don’t remember that one time when you were seventeen and you stumbled into Gracie’s room by accident during our sleepover and told us not to say anything to your parents, right before you threw up in her trash can?”
“Actually, yeah, I was hoping you wouldn’t remember that.” He sits down next to me and hands me one of the bottles with that deviant look in his eyes.
We each take a sip and I let the cool, bubbly liquid slide down my throat while savoring its yeasty tang. It reminds me of days drinking out by the lake, or standing near the bonfire to stay warm on a cold October night while drinking from a red Solo cup. Except this beer doesn’t taste like watered-down pee.
I smile to myself.
“Pops is actually the person who gave me my first drink.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yep. I was fifteen. He let me have a taste of his whiskey. Macallan single malt whiskey, to be specific. I hated it. Thought it was the most disgusting thing I had ever tasted. But that was his drink. He would have it after dinner, sipping while he reread the newspaper from that morning. I especially remember him walking around with a tumbler glass of it around the holidays. I still don’t like whiskey, but I like the smell. It reminds me of him.”
I look down at my bottle, willing the tears to stay away this time.
“Hey. When’s the next time you’re going to go see him?”
“Saturday morning.”
“How about I come with you? If nothing else, you don’t have to drive there and back alone.”
“Really? It’ll probably be pretty boring for you.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been bored when you were around.”
Damn. That was actually kind of sweet.
“Annoyed around you—yes. Bored—no,” he adds, immediately making me regret thinking he could be sweet.
“No. You were never annoyed by me—I was always annoyed by you and your stupid jokes.”
“How about that time you and Gracie covered my backpack in glitter?”
“That was funny.”
He gives me a wry stare.
“To us,” I add.
“I had to go to school with that thing. And the time you two snuck into my room and ate my entire stash of Oreos.”
“That was only because you wouldn’t share. You had that one coming.”
“I paid for them with my hard-earned lawn-mowing money. And I don’t like to share food in general, but definitely not my Oreos. Those are my god-tier treats.”
“Fine. We annoyed you. But in an endearing way.” I tip my bottle back and finish the last couple swigs. “I better get going.”
He takes my empty beer bottle and heads to the kitchen. “You drank that pretty fast. Are you sure you’re good to drive?”
“It was one beer. I’m fine.”
“All right. But I would feel more comfortable if you hung around a little longer. Do you want to watch a movie or something?”
“I suppose I have nothing better to do than go home and be disappointed by Chris Evans again, so, sure.”
Eric squints, cocking his head to the right. “Okay...so no Marvel movies then?”
“That’s exactly what I meant. Obviously.”
I’m not really in the mood for popcorn but he pops some, splits the bag equally between two bowls, and bring
s them to the couch.
“Wow, you don’t even want to share a bowl of popcorn?”
“It just makes more sense that we each get our own.” He plops down on the sofa next to me. “You like horror movies, right?”
“Yes. It’s Gracie who can’t stomach them.”
“That’s what I thought.”
He puts on Cabin Fever. I haven’t seen it before. A group of college kids go to a remote cabin in the woods—of course. One of the guys has a secret crush on one of the girls and then we get to the scene where he finally makes his move. She’s fevered but it somehow makes it hotter. When he trails his fingers over her body and between her thighs, I glance toward Eric. His eyes are on the screen, not me. But there’s something strange about watching a scene like this, while he’s sitting so close. So close I can hear his breaths and feel his body heat.
Then the guy pulls his hand away, his fingers covered in blood and the girl starts sluffing of chunks of skin. The movie gets gorier and more gruesome from there. Eric whispers random details to me throughout the movie—like how the director was twenty-two when he wrote the movie and he points out his short cameo, which ends in a bloody death. Eric’s really into it. It’s kind of cute. Even if the movie is gross.
When the movie is over, I can’t stop yawning, even though it’s not that late.
“I should go home.”
“Yeah.” He nods but doesn’t make eye contact as he switches the TV over.
“What are you watching now?”
“Cartoons. I can’t go to sleep right after watching a scary movie. I need a palate cleanser.”
“Huh.” The idea of walking out to my car in the dark right now does sound like the worst thing ever. “I’ll stay and watch a few with you.” I yawn again.
“Do you want to lie down?”
“I’m okay.”
He shrugs and then stretches out a big yawn of his own. “Shit, now you have me doing it too.”
Eric scoots his butt toward me so he can lay his head back against the cushions but now I’m squished against the armrest and why is this couch so small? Then he tries to put his feet up—he has to bend at the knees but there is literally no room and now his feet are pressed up against me. Ew.
