The Standout (3 page)

If Nick was capable of forcing steam out of his ears, he would do so right now. “That isn’t funny, Dad.”

“Of course it is,” Saul laughs. “It’s hilarious! Robin’s going to marry an aspiring high school music teacher with massive student loans.” He turns to me. “Have you looked in the mirror lately, sweetheart? Don’t you know you could do much better than becoming a Davies?” I know answering his hypothetical question will only incite him, besides, he redirects his attention back to Nick, jabbing his fork in his direction. “You need to be careful. It’s always the pretty ones who take you for everything you have. It’s the pretty ones who will steal your soul. I should know. Your mother stole my soul before she died.”

Nick’s mouth drops open, probably because he can’t decide who to defend first: me, or the memory of his mother.

I step in. “By ‘stealing your soul,’ don’t you mean that you just really loved her?”

Saul’s face is disarmed for a mere moment before I see his guard go back up. “Of course I loved her. Still do and always will. But if I had it to do over I’d be more practical.” He reaches over and pats me on the hand in a semi-fatherly gesture. “You’re a lovely girl and I’ll be lucky to have you as a daughter-in-law. But marriage is the most difficult thing in the world, so before you make the jump you both want. . .”he waves his hand in the air, grasping for labels, “to be successful at teaching, or at sewing, or whatever flaky things the two of you are calling your careers this week. Otherwise, I give you two years, tops.”

Nick becomes more and more like a coiled up spring with every word his father utters. He’s clenching both of his fists and his jaw, and I’m afraid that one more wrong word will send him bouncing around in a conniption.

Then, mercifully, the front door opens and Andrea calls out, “Hey, sorry I’m late.”

She comes in, her long braid swishing back and forth as she walks. “Is there any food left? I’m starving!” But she senses the tension in the room, and asks, “What’s going on?”

“We told Saul about our engagement,” I answer.

“I expressed a couple of concerns,” argues Saul, “and now I’m the bad guy.”

Andrea’s cheeks turn pink. “Well then let’s talk about something else, okay? Because I’m super-happy about Robin and Nick getting married, and I don’t want you to spoil it with negativity.”

If she’s “super happy” that we’re getting married, it’s the first I’ve heard of it. “Begrudgingly accepting” is a better term and Nick is right; ever since we told her, she’s been quiet and rarely home.

Saul slaps the table. “How am I negative? Negative and practical are two separate things! You’d be wise to learn that, young lady!”

“O.M.G!” Andrea cries. “I can’t take this tension!” But she sits down, shoves a bite of zucchini and walnuts into her mouth, and speaks while she chews. “Dad, tell us about the latest ploy by the government to bring down the working man. Please! Anything to change the subject.”

Saul wrinkles his forehead and purses his lips. “I don’t like your sarcasm. However, you should all know that Obama’s parents were both actually Communists and he plans to turn the U.S. into a Communist regime.”

“Dad, that’s ridiculous,” Andrea answers. “I just came from my AP US History study session, and we were talking about communism.” She explains, they argue, and Nick leans over and whispers in my ear. “If you can’t marry into this family, I totally understand.”

I lean away, look at him with wide eyes, and Nick shrugs. “I mean,” he mumbles. “I’ll be heartbroken, but I will understand.”

As soon as Saul leaves Nick pulls me into the bedroom and pounces, smothering me with kisses and pressing himself against me. I don’t exactly push him away but I do hold back a little. “Andrea will hear us.”

“I don’t care.” He plants rough kisses along my neck and gropes me in a way that would feel inexpert if Nick didn’t hold an advanced degree in my body. The pleasure is distracting. “I have to make love to you, now,” he says, “or else I’ll explode.”

“Umm. . . isn’t exploding the goal?” I laugh.

But Nick doesn’t crack a smile. His lips are bright red and parted, and lust pools in his eyes as he tugs my clothes off. “God, I hope so,” he says. He undresses me completely and I comply, happy to be what he needs. As we come together on our squeaky-springed bed, I’m able to forget about that horrible dinner; I forget about everything except the glorious feel of him.

Afterwards we’re lying side by side and I’m breathing in the musky scent of his skin, when he murmurs something.

“What’d you say?” I raise myself up so I can see his face.

“I said I was sorry.”

“For what?”

He scratches at his thick eyebrow, squints and breaks my gaze. “Where do I begin? I’m sorry for my dad and everything he said, I’m sorry that all I have to give you are my student loans. . .”

“Oh come on, Nick. I thought we were past all this.”

“We’re not. We’ll never be past it.” I search his face for a sign that he’s joking but there’s neither a twitch of his lip nor a gleam in his eye. “I wish I had more to give you and I’m incredibly flawed. You should know what you’re signing up for.”

“Okay. . . I’m pretty sure I do. Do you know what you’re signing up for with me?”

He reaches over and turns on a reading lamp. The hard light does little to soften the growing darkness. “I think so. Unless there’s stuff you’re not telling me.”

I pause for a second. There was a time when I didn’t talk much about my past. Yes, early on Nick and I compared stories about losing our mothers and it was Nick’s warmth and resilience that made me fall in love. But I kept my tragic college romance locked away, and I certainly didn’t tell him about the string of guys that came later, ones I specifically chose because they didn’t value me. I still feel the urge to shower when I think about my low standards and poor judgment but I’m even more horrified that several months ago, my tight-lipped stubbornness almost made me lose Nick. Since then I have resolved to expose my heart to him, every chance I get.

“I might have heard from Clara today.”

Nick turns his body sideways, toward me, and props his head up on his elbow. “What do you mean?”

“I got this weird email.” Nick raises his eyebrows, urging me to continue, so I do. “It was anonymous and it seemed like it could be from her. But it could have been from someone else too, like some crazy person who hated me on
The Holdout
. Whatever; I don’t think it’s a big deal. I mean, I changed all my passwords and everything so I’m really not worried, but it’s a reminder of all the terrible choices I’ve made.”

He kisses my forehead. “You’re human, Rocky, and most of your choices have been good ones. After all, you’re with me, aren’t you?” He smiles so devilishly that I reward him with a grin and a kiss. Then he gently rubs my temple, like his love could alleviate all our fears and negative thoughts.

And maybe it can.

But that doesn’t stop me from wishing I’m a better person; that no gap of integrity stretches between Nick and me, that our thoughts, actions and temperaments hold less of a discrepancy. And as I drift off to sleep, I’m struck with a realization. Whether or not Clara is responsible for that email, I should find her and apologize. I may be years too late and volumes too lame, but it’s what a good person would do.

No. A good person wouldn’t have anything to apologize for. But apologizing is what a decent person would do, and I can at least try to be decent.

I google Clara for a current home or work address, but I can’t find anything. I don’t even know if she and Robert are still married. So I drive to her parents’ home, and now I’m sitting in my car, which is parked along the curb, trying to work up the nerve to get out and ring the doorbell.

What will I say if her mother answers?
Sorry about that mishap several years ago, when I had sex with your son-in-law and ripped your daughter’s heart out. Could you put me in touch with her so I can offer a real apology and appease my guilt?

I lean my head against the seat-back and realize that’s pretty much exactly what I’ll say, leaving out the sex part. No need to go into specifics.
Be brave
, I tell myself, and I release my seat belt and open the car door.

My heart is beating so hard there’s an echo in my ears, but I carry myself up to their front step and demand that my finger press their doorbell. For a moment it’s just silence, and I think,
Oh well, I tried
, but then I hear footsteps and the door opens.

The face that greets me is older than I’d expected. I’m pretty sure it’s Clara’s mom, but it’s like she’s aged decades in the last few years. “Mrs. Thompson?” I ask.

She nods her head, which is sparsely covered with gray, thin hair. Years ago her hair was thick, wavy, and chestnut brown, like Clara’s. “Hi,” I stutter. “I don’t know if you remember me. I was a friend of Clara’s -”

“I remember you.” Her firm voice doesn’t match her diminished appearance and my head snaps back in shock. “You’re Robin. You came for that awful Easter, years ago.”

“Yeah. . .” I shift my weight, aware that she’s not going to ask me in. “Sorry about that. Actually, that’s why I’m here. You see, I’m engaged now, and I’ve been thinking about marriage and the sanctity of it and, well, I would love an opportunity to really apologize to Clara. I tried before, but I think it was too fresh, so, um. . .”

Mrs. Thompson rolls her eyes. She seems like I woke her from a nap and she just wants to crawl back into bed. “You’re too late.” She grips the doorknob, pulling the door close as if in protection. “Clara passed away a few months ago.”

“Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry! What happened?”

“
I’m
sorry. I’m not feeling well today, so forgive me if I don’t give you the details of my daughter’s death.” Then Mrs. Thompson yanks the door and slams it in my face.

I fill Nick in as we get dinner ready. “I can’t believe she’s dead,” I tell him. “God, she was so young and talented. It’s just awful, you know? And I wonder how she died. I mean, was it an accident, like with my mom? Or was it cancer, like with your mom? Or, what if. . .” I swallow back my words because they’re too terrible to utter.

Nick is standing at the stove and he looks away from the food he’s preparing, toward me. “What if, what?”

I stare at the apples I’m slicing. Little bits of core and seeds are splayed across the cutting board, victims of my knife. “What if I caused it, somehow? Like, she never recovered from her husband’s betrayal, and that led to her death?”

“No,” Nick states flatly. “Don’t think that way. Even if that’s what happened, it would be her husband’s fault, not yours.” Nick flips the grilled cheese sandwiches over with one hand and stirs chicken soup with the other.

I grip the edge of my kitchen knife like I’m using it as a weapon. “Yeah, but I still played a part in the whole thing. And I’m pretty sure that I knew he was married, you know? Maybe I just chose to ignore it.”

“Even still, you didn’t know he was married to her.”

“Yeah, but -”

“But, nothing.” Nick turns off the stove and puts sandwiches on our plates. “I get why you feel bad, but Rocky, you have to let it go.”

I nod and separate out the sliced up bits of apple cores, which I then send down the disposal to their violent, pulpy end. “So who sent that email, if it wasn’t Clara?” I say this as I flip on the disposal switch, raising my voice to compete with the grinding.

“Some crazy
Holdout
fan, most likely.”

I turn off the disposal and the silence is like the end of a headache. “Yeah, I suppose.” But my gut tells me something different, something I can’t articulate. I decide not to try when I look at Nick, and notice that his hair is sticking up a little and he has a big crease between his eyes, a sure sign of his own bad day.

We carry our food into the living room and eat in front of the television. A new episode from the current season of
The Holdout
is on and Nick insists that we watch it. Most of it goes by in a blur because I’m still thinking about Clara’s mom. But I pay attention when the contestants mention me and my historic freak-out at Island Assembly.

“I’m never going to live that show down.” By now we’re sitting on the couch, dinner dishes cleared and our feet resting on our blue crate coffee table.

An advertisement for their twin fashion survival-themed show,
The Standout
, pops up.

“That’s the show you ought to go on,” Nick says, pointing at the screen. “You’d be great. You could design dresses made from skittles or shower tiles, or whatever weird thing they’d make you do.”

“Nope. I’m never going on another reality show again. It’s you and me, here in Des Moines.” I pat Nick on the knee to emphasize my resolve and use the remote to shut down the TV.

The front door slams and Andrea comes stomping in. She heads straight for her bedroom, but our house is small and the only route is through our cozy, cramped living room. “Why are you home so late?” Nick asks.

“What are you talking about? It’s not even nine!” Andrea keeps walking, but Nick gets up and follows her down the hall. Her bedroom is only a few feet away and our walls are thin, so I can hear their conversation clearly, no matter where they stand.

“It’s just after nine, but that’s not the point. You weren’t home for dinner and I have no idea where you’ve been.”

“I was studying at Callie’s house.” Andrea’s tone broadcasts her resentment; obviously Nick’s interrogation is
extremely
unjust. “Is that okay with you?”

I pick at a loose thread in our couch cushion, while in the other room Nick is forcing himself into deliberately patient, measured breathing. “It’s fine; I simply want you to let me know.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she answers, and as I tug the stubborn cushion thread free, I can picture Andrea’s eye roll. “I’m a big girl. Besides, you and Robin need your alone time.”

Nick’s voice is unyielding. “Come on, Andrea. We’re talking about returning a phone call or a text. That’s not too hard, is it?”

I yank out that thread, and now - oops - more threads come out and I just created a little hole in the fabric. Meanwhile there’s a pause. Andrea must be struggling to find some argument against Nick’s extremely reasonable request. After a moment she gives up the fight. “No, that’s not too hard. Sorry.”