Love in the Time of Cynicism (19 page)

Jokingly, he straightens up, turns on the light, and grabs the pen and notebook where Sullivan’s essay is written and poises himself to write, cross-legged on the floor across from me. “Go for it. I’ll jot down every word as if it’s the gospel truth.”

Though I can tell he’s not serious, I maneuver onto my knees and straddle his legs to get a better view of his eyes. Speaking quickly, I run off, “Long hugs. Making babies smile. Carving pumpkins. Going to the zoo. Getting real letters in the mail. Laughing so hard you cry. Being awake when everyone else is sleeping.” He laughs here, and doesn’t stop until I finish. “First kisses. Poetry. Dandelions. Teachers who try too hard. Holiday lights put up a few days after Halloween. Socks on linoleum floors. Hearing your favorite song in public. Hot air balloons. Beluga whales. For god’s sake, Tressler, it’s easy.” I giggle at his eye roll. “You try it. Just one thing that makes every other shitty thing worth dealing with.”

His golden eyes meet mine in the dim light, catching fire as I watch. He shuts his eyes while remembering something private before a slow smile creeps across his lips. “The color of your hair when the spotlight hit it. That night at the poetry reading.”

I give him a light shove on the chest and lean in closer. “You can do better than that.”

“It’s proving to be exceedingly difficult to concentrate when your lips are so scandalously close to mine, Cordelia Kane,” he whispers, as if speaking too loud could break this moment. I blush and then he goes on with a small smile, mumbling softly, “Picking up the phone. The color of willow tree sunlight. The sound of your god-awful singing in my ear. Dr. Sullivan and his stupid clothes. Kissing you. How pale your skin is next to mine. Whatever
this
is,” he gestures to the ever-shrinking space between us, “it’s worth living for. Good enough for you?”

In lieu of an answer, I close the gap between us and let the feel of his lips on mine, soft and warm and sweet, be something to live for.

Chapter Eleven – A Time of Convergence

Days slur by, an unending muddle of school and work and Rhett.

October twentieth is a special Saturday poetry reading, the first day when I don’t have work and Rhett doesn’t have to wheedle his way into my schedule during late nights and after school gaps. Our first day completely to ourselves and we choose to spend it at Ebony’s because, frankly, where else can we go? His house is precariously overrun by other people and my parents would die (or something equivalent) if they found him there.

Saturday night, Amanda drives me to the coffeehouse; she didn’t have plans tonight and didn’t want to be completely alone, so she settles in by herself on a chair in the far corner. It’s nice to see her happy by herself for once, no hopeless boy hanging off her shoulder and no wannabe girls trailing. Sky’s here, too, with a new boy whose name I haven’t yet learned; hopefully it’s better than
Chaz
. He looks nice enough, better than most of the guys she’s dated over the past few years.

I watch the crowd contentedly, working studiously on my newest paper for Dr. Sullivan until Rhett enters, smile broad for everyone so admire. He’s still wearing his navy blazer in public despite being comfortable enough around me recently to wear (very well, I might add) short sleeves whenever we’re alone. Being granted access to a part of him nobody else sees has been an insane privilege, one I’m proud of holding. Catching my eyes, Rhett hurries over and takes my hands in his, spins me around excitedly, and gives me a quick hug to calm my pounding nerves. He gives me a confident smile. “You ready to do this? Not that it matters, but.” He shakes his head. “Sorry. You’re going to crush it.”

I’ve agreed, after much bribing and coercion by tickling, to read one of my poems tonight. The idea is mildly terrifying bordering on altogether overwhelming, but Rhett’s promised to keep eye contact the entire time and Amanda and Sky have come for moral support, which gives me some small amount of faith in myself. The past few days, Amanda and Sky have been trying to teach me how to flirt, so I try out a new technique. “The words are nice, but you know what would really help?”

He leans in, pretends to be confused as amusement flashes in his eyes. “What would that be?”

“I could certainly use a second opinion on this new lip gloss.” I stand on my toes and link my hands behind his neck. “I think it tastes fantastic. Want a try?”

“I’d be willing to make that sacrifice in order to boost your confidence. Anything for you.”

“You brave soldier,” I joke as he kisses me for a moment, then pulls away.

“I’m more than excited to hear this, by the way,” he tells me as we locate on the only remaining free space, a single leather chair, our butts crammed next to one another in dangerous proximity. He teasingly tugs on the black beanie I’ve worn (in order to be extremely poetic) to get my attention again as my eyes wander over the substantial crowd. “Considering the fact that I read about poem about you two weeks ago, I’m expecting a super mushy proclamation of your undying love and attraction.”

“I’m sorry to inform you that you will be sorely disappointed,” I warn sarcastically with a quick glance at the stage. Ebony’s taken her position, tonight dressed in a mesmerizing array of feathers and satin, and she begins to speak into the mic. “There will be no mush tonight. Very serious poetry.”

Of course, I’ve spent the past week writing and rewriting poems in varying amounts of mush, debating a hundred thousand times how hardcore to go with it. For one thing, I don’t write poetry. Prose and nonfiction are my areas of interest. Also, my relationship with Rhett is confusing simply in that it’s the first relationship I’ve been invested in and desiring every second to keep going; I want to have every stupid romantic comedy milestone with him I never wanted with Eric. Dancing in the street and kissing in the rain with Ryan Gosling, John Cusack outside my window with a boom box, a Patrick Swayze kiss after a heated dance number, the whole nine yards. It’s stupid, I know, but it’s the teenage girl in me making a rare sighting.

What I ended up with, poetry wise, after a week of throwing out drafts and late nights trying to think, is kind of dark and a kind of hopeful. It’s utter crap, if I’m being honest with myself, and everything Rhett’s aren’t. Sullivan, with his PHD in verse and creative writing with a Master’s in anthropology, helped me with most of the lines, so it’s far beyond my normal level of creativity; I even managed to subversively get Rhett’s help by masking my poem in an anthropology paper. It’s altogether too literary and pretentious for my taste, but I’m only doing this for Rhett, so I will get up and read this damn poem if it’s the last thing I ever accomplish.

The first speaker leaves the stage and Ebony returns, scans her order list, then flashes me a bright smile. “Our next reader is one of our very own baristas on weekday afternoons and, if you’re lucky, Saturday mornings. At our last reading, her devastatingly handsome boyfriend read for her; let’s see if she returns the favor. Please give a warm welcome to Cordelia Kane.” As some applause rustles through the air, she gestures broadly to me and I stand up shakily. While I’m walking to the stage, Sky slaps my ass and tells me to knock ‘em dead. Very Sky. I laugh, more or less unshaken, and head up the four steps as calmly as possible. The microphone is still set for the previous girl, who’s about eight inches shorter than me. I wrench it upwards and nearly smack myself in the face. Graceful as usual.

Now that the audience is smiling at my uncoordinated nature, I look out over them and am relieved to find that, with the bleaching spotlight on my eyes, I can’t make out anybody, much less Rhett, which would make me too embarrassed to go on. I blink a few times and speak. “This short disgrace of a poem is for Rhett who is, as previously stated by my boss, devastatingly handsome, and it’s called
Eye Contact
.” My heart smashes against my ribs over and over and over until the rhythmic is constant and wild while the words of my poem descend from my lips.

those amber eyes of his

I swear

he’s got the kind of eyes you get lost in

and I guess I’m already lost

because in them the universe reflected on my mind

an ocean of unspoken promises, swallowed anger

the constellations of his every wish and fantasy

longing to brush against the horizons of my own.

to climb into the moments of his untainted thoughts

to feel the lingering dream in a sunrise

staring back at me

well, that would be the moment

I would allow myself

to lose myself

I trip over my feet leaving the stage, unable to hear applause or any words over the sound of my heartbeat clogging everything else. Then my eyes fall over Rhett, still in our seat and grinning wildly at me while others eye us. When I sit down next to him, no longer awkward at our legs touching or my words being wrong, he holds my shoulders and says seriously, “Oh my god, Cordelia Kane, you are quite possibly the most flawless human being left on this planet.” I mock-bow (or at least as close as one can get to it while sitting) and he goes on like he’s making the most crucial point in human history, “But I do have one very important question.”

“What would that be?” I ask, trying to match his seriousness while high from the adrenaline of reading that stupid poem.

He pushes a lock of escaped bluish hair under my beanie and asks, “Are my eyes really that striking?”

I pull back punch him (harder than expected) on his (muscular) chest (he doesn’t react) and, mock-exasperated, say, “I write you a brilliantly pompous poem and that’s the first question you have? God, Rhett Tressler, you make me
so angry!
”

He rests his hands on my hips, comes in closer, and asks, “How angry?”

“Angry enough to punch you in the mouth,” I respond with a laugh. “Softly. With my mouth.”

“I should make a point of aggravating you more often, then.” He grins and raises his eyebrows before pulling my body close against his and wrapping me in a kiss. Like every kiss with him, it’s warm and right and adoring. The kind of kiss that makes me want a thousand more. And when his fingers twine themselves in my hair, something in me releases and I kiss him harder, with more enthusiasm. My entire life, the first rule of relationships was PDA control. But now everything’s changed and I want more of Rhett no matter where we are.

Until a few words shatter our moment together. “Del, it was a great poem.”

This voice belongs to Michael.

And I am in a metric shit ton of trouble.

The ride home is one more uncomfortable than ever, and that’s coming from someone with two years experience riding in cars with step family. Amanda’s next to me in the back seat, wedged between me and my mother. Michael’s driving with some baby stuff boxes in the passenger seat. Everyone’s silent and I am itching to say something but not sure what. As far as I can tell, there won’t be a blow-out angry fight with screaming and yelling; at this point, I’ve no idea what to expect.

When we pull into the garage, I jump out of the car before we’ve even parked and follow Michael, his jaw clenched and fists balled up at his sides, to the living. He points at the couch, apparently unable even to speak at the horrible injustice of catching your step-daughter kissing a boy you hate. I can imagine but don’t sympathize.

“Del-” He starts, stops. Then, he takes a heavy breath like the weight of the world is suddenly on his shoulders. My mom sits on the chair matching the white couch I sit on now. The couch where Rhett and I sat last night, listing reasons to live. Now Michael’s voice is tight and controlled with anger. “Del, I thought you promised your mother and me not to see him again after your mom’s party. And now-” he swallows and sighs again. “-I catch you making out with him like some hormone-driven teenager? Like
your brother
? For god’s sake Del, have you seen that boy? He’s a mess!”

Pissed at one more of his one-sided, bigoted assumptions, I practically scream at him. “Why? Because he’s not as
white
as you, because his family doesn’t make it to the top tax bracket, because he wears a stupid leather jacket all the time? Or is it because you can’t even fathom the idea of someone normal falling for me?”

“May I remind you that the first time this boy spoke to me, it was to punch me in the face.”

“You deserved it!” This comes out harsh, but there’s no going back.

“Fine,” he concedes, “seem like you two are a perfect match. Good to know I was
completely
wrong about my own step-daughter. I honestly thought you were better than this.”

Face flaming red with indignation, I reply fiercely, “Like you have the right to pretend to know anything about me!”

He stares at me like I’ve punched him in the stomach but I don’t regret it. I’m suddenly so mad I can’t hold it in as he demands, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You think whatever you say is law around here, and it’s
bullshit!
” My voice is louder than I thought and soon I’m standing up and staring him straight on like I’ve wanted to for years. “You act like everything is cool between us all the time, like we’re the fucking Brady Bunch living in a Barbie dream house; that’s not how it is. I don’t want
any
of the things you want for me and we both know your problem is over more than just Rhett.”

“Oh?” His eyebrows are knitted together in anger as he sneers, “You know, at seventeen, exactly what you want from life? You know what’s best?”

I back up and consider this. “I know what’s best
for me
. And right now, I’m doing everything I want.”

My mom stands up, puts a hand to Michael’s back, and whispers in his ear a moment in secret parental conference. It’s as if Michael accepts her words immediately, the shift in his face is so unexpected. Calm. Serene, even, and completely lacking in animosity. When he speaks, I’m even more shocked by what comes out. “Tell us about him. Rhett, I mean. Like an adult, for once, and maybe we can work something out.”

Surprised but pleased, I begin to think about Rhett. The two of us together and how wonderful it all feels. And the words start coming out. “He’s a really good guy. Everybody things he must be tough or something because of the leather and heredity, but he’s the kindest, most caring person I’ve ever met and he always knows what to say. Something about him makes me feel…whole, I guess, like I’m finally doing something right. It’s easy for me to be with him. Complicated in a way but easy in others, if that makes any sense. He’s got a lot of things he doesn’t talk about with anyone but me and I have secrets I’ve never shared with anyone but him. His family is so kind and funny and they truly love one another. Whenever I’m with them, I wish-”

Mom cuts me off, “When did you meet his family?”

I blush even darker; until now, I hadn’t realized the sheer amount of secrets I’ve been keeping from mom and Michael. Every afternoon, I’ve been telling them I was with Sky or shopping with Amanda and they believed me. Telling them now, after nearly a month of being with Rhett, seems wrong and invasive and embarrassing. There’s no turning back now, unfortunately, so I move forward. “I’ve had dinner and breakfast at his house a few times.” It’s obvious how much this irks Michael; unlike my mother, Trent, and I, he’s lived in this one small town with it’s entirely white, conservative population his entire life. His parents and their parents have been teaching some modernized version of white supremacy as long as he can remember, I’m told, and the conflicting image of his step-daughter dating someone with a diverse background must be challenging. How strange to live in such an individualized and diversified time as this and to remain close-minded. I can’t imagine it; wouldn’t want to, for that matter. “They’re fun and loud and there’s five kids including Rhett and they’ve got such different personalities and looks it’s hard for me to believe they’re related half the time.”

Mom’s beaming by the time I finish my spiel. I know without a doubt where this is going. My greatest fears are confirmed when she says, “Why don’t you invite them over for dinner? I’ve been wanting to try out a big recipe recently and it could be a good opportunity for us to get to know one another if you and this boy are going to be together a while. Ask if this Friday night works and give out my phone number.”

“Okay?” This behavior is highly abnormal, I must admit. I’d gone in expecting mom to be more furious than Michael, at the very least irritated at the thought of me sneaking around with some boy. Maybe my cooperation with her efforts to buy me clothes and take me baby shopping and being nice with Amanda have allowed me to finagle myself officially into her good graces. Maybe it’s pregnancy hormones. I don’t pretend to know how these things work.

That’s how, after a month of secrecy, my family and Rhett’s entire family ended up around my formal dining room table.

I’m in my room when they arrive, knee deep in a new paper for Sullivan, and my heart stops. The past six hours, mom’s been whipping around the kitchen prepping like it’s Thanksgiving (which we’ve never celebrated here) and the President’s coming to town. When I asked if she needed any help, she told me that the best thing I could do was to stay out of her way. I’ve been happily obliging until now.

They’re early and mom wanted me to dress up; I hop out of my desk chair and rifle quickly through my closet to find something to serve the purpose of satisfying my mother and Michael, giving the right impression to Rhett’s family, and impressing Rhett himself. It’s a difficult task, but I quickly settle on a non-threatening navy blue lace dress with a white belt. Though my mother would recommend nude heels and sparkling silver jewelry, I decide to remain unadorned and bare-foot. There’s nothing in this world that sickens me more than wearing shoes – especially heels – in my own house.

There’s a knock at my door and I take one last look at myself before opening it. There’s Rhett in his navy blue blazer; tonight it’s actually buttoned over a white dress shirt and gray tie rather than a tee shirt. He wears jeans, which I’m sure my mother will mention to me in private, but still. He’s trying to impress my parents, that much is certain. When I’d first told him, he was apprehensive, to say the least. Terrified is more like it. Didn’t want my parents to hate him even after I assured him a thousand times they wouldn’t, even if Michael would be a bit callous.

He gives me a nervous smile and a quick hug while saying, “We match.” I look down at my dress and realize it’s the same color as his blazer. A smile flirts with the corners of his lips. “On some subconscious level, you’re definitely trying to put forward the idea that we’re a couple to your parents.”

I lead him half-way down the stairs and reply, “Your logic heavily implies that I gave you any thought while dressing. My mom asked me to wear a dress, so I did.”

He stops me from continuing and explains, “I meant to say you look fantastic and I’m more than thrilled to have dinner with both of our families.”

“Really? If I recall correctly, you were practically quivering in fear of my step dad yesterday at the homecoming game just thinking about it.” (Long story short, Sky wanted me to go the football game to support her in running for queen even though our school doesn’t even have a dance after some punch-related incidents a few years back. I invited Rhett partially because I didn’t want to be alone in the stands but mostly because we could share an absolute hatred of school spirit and make snarky comments about homecoming as a whole. It was a grand time. Sky fulfilled her life goal of becoming homecoming queen in a shocking turn of events).

“Have you seen him? The man’s a house,” Rhett argues quietly, standing less than two feet away from me on the steps. “And your brother is equally as scary. When I came in, he told me if I hurt you, he’d beat me into a pulp.”

“Funny,” I reply, “that’s exactly what your thirteen year old sister told me. And she’s a much bigger threat than Trent, I promise. If you haven’t noticed, my brother spends more time around video games and pot than he does at the gym and would probably lose in a fight against a puppy.”

Rhett laughs, “Good to know.”

“Do try to be on your best behavior, though,” I warn. “Michael is kind of a hard-ass to begin with so don’t, like, say anything you wouldn’t say to the Pope.”

Though he chuckles at this, there’s clear hurt in his voice as he asks, “Are you embarrassed of me?”

“Not you,” I assure and give him a kiss on the cheek. “It’s him. He doesn’t understand people who aren’t like him and isn’t afraid to speak his mind. I love everything about you and don’t want him to make you think you’re any less amazing than you are.”

“I give you my word,” he replies teasingly, “nothing could ever make me forget how awesome I am.”

I take his scarred wrist in my hand and say seriously, “Something must have.”

“Not when I’m with you,” he answers, the smile returning to his face. He squeezes my hand for a moment before letting go and saying, “Let’s do this.”

When we reach the kitchen, everyone looks at us expectantly. Mom and Susie sit across from Michael and Mr. Tressler and the kids are lined up around the table, with two seats left open next to Tannis, who beams at me. The table, with every leaf in it, takes up nearly the entire dining room and it’s absolutely covered in food. Mom wasn’t kidding when she said
big recipe
; I don’t think an entire country could eat food in such mass, much less the twelve of us. At least this means I can eat a home-cooked meal every night for the rest of my life. Rhett and I sit down (Tannis demands that I sit next to her) and mom explains what everything is before starting to pass around platters.

All in all, the dinner goes relatively well. Mom and Susie discuss post-forty prenatal care since, as mom puts it, Susie’s a genius in the raising kids field. The twins entertain themselves by babbling in a language nobody understands while Sawyer monitors the situation in dour seriousness. Tannis, as anticipated, talks my ear off about the boy she’s now dating with my help and asks about the pros and cons of push up bras and makeup and when and how to kiss him and pretty much anything that could make me uncomfortable in front of Rhett and my family. Rhett, by the way, spends the evening talking with Michael civilly. Michael takes this paternal business very solemnly, asking about Rhett’s intentions for me and his life and how his grades are, etc. For the most part, I think Rhett’s honest up until life plans, because he bullshits my step-dad into thinking he’s going into law school which, of course, Rhett would hate; law school is notorious in the department of soul-sucking. I’m more in-tune to their conversation than to the one-sided one going on between me and Tannis.