Situationship: The Complete Collection

Chapter 1 Jessie

Jessie

From the street it looks like the kind of house a happy family lives in.

When you stand on the sidewalk and look in, you can almost hear the spritz of a sprinkler, a frisbee flying through the air, and an “atta boy,” coming from the back yard.

It’s a Storybook home with a steeply sloping roof.

The walls look like they’ve been washed in ochre that’s faded over the years.

A hedge of lavender and two magnolia trees frame the facade.

The grass is immaculate, thick and lush with edges that have been trimmed so neatly one could be forgiven for thinking it was done with a pair of hairdressing scissors.

A quick look at the lawn is all one needs to be convinced that someone’s dad has had significant involvement with it.

A dad no doubt clad in New Balance trainers, shorts with too many pockets and a slightly-too-snug polo shirt.

The type of dad who says things like “many hands make light work,” when he pulls the car into the garage after hitting Costco and wants help with the unpacking.

The type of dad who isn’t happy unless he barbeques on Saturdays.

The type of dad who calls his kid Sport.

My dad, in other words.

I glance to my right and feel a familiar tug of contempt.

My dad stands beside me wearing the aforementioned dad uniform.

He looks pleased and so proud, bursting seems like a real possibility.

I can’t imagine why. It’s been years since we’ve been happy.

Truth be told, I’m not even sure you’d call us a family anymore.

My parents split up when I was fourteen.

My mom instigated the split, I think, but I’m not sure she really meant it.

They always fought a lot and I think all she wanted was to prove something or teach my dad a lesson.

Whatever the lesson was, he sure as shit didn’t learn it.

I spent the next year being toted back and forth from his house to hers, with every drop-off more fraught than the last. It was open warfare between them.

I fucking hated it. Hated hearing her crying in her room at night.

Hated hearing him telling me everything would be okay when it was becoming more and more clear by the day that it wouldn’t be.

Hated not knowing who was going to pick me up from school.

Hated being at his place and not having the book I was reading with me or being at her place and realizing I’d left the jeans I wanted to wear at his house.

I hated it so much that when my mom decided to move to Australia, where she was born and lived until she was twelve, I decided to go with her.

I couldn’t very well let her go on her own.

It caused a huge fucking ruckus, but I was close to sixteen by then and I told my dad if he fought it, I’d emancipate and go after my birthday regardless.

The plan was that my dad would fly out to Australia twice a year and I’d spend the winter and summer holidays in the States with him, so we’d see each other roughly every three months.

It didn’t sound too bad, in fact at that point that was a lot more than I wanted to see him anyway.

It worked out pretty well for a few months and then Rachel happened.

Rachel and Luke, I guess you could say. Before I had time to get the words “what the fuck?” out of my mouth, my dad had moved from LA to Carmel-by-the-Sea to live with them.

When he came out to Sydney in September that year, we had the worst visit ever.

He dragged me on an idyllic road trip up the coast to Byron Bay and ruined it by spending the entire fucking time talking about Rachel.

The entire time. I swear to God, at one point he looked me dead in the eye and said, “I’ve never met anyone like her. ”

He meant it, too. He wasn’t being ironic or anything.

That’s the kind of shit I’ve been dealing with.

I couldn’t fucking stand it. I was so furious I refused to board the plane when I was due to fly out for Christmas. A few months later, surprise, surprise…he proposed. It was the happiest day of his life.

He actually said that.

Out loud.

To me.

That summer I found myself in Carmel, my mom in tow, presumably because it was the only way they could be sure I’d board the flight.

We only stayed for two weeks as she had to get back to Aus for work.

We rented a place nearby and I spent most of my time trying to escape being sucked into the mind fuck that was my dad and his new family in wedding planning mode.

I avoided them for all I was worth. The most time I spent with them the entire time was at the wedding itself, and that was only because I didn’t have a choice in the matter.

My mom was there, too. She was wearing a shimmery lilac dress and she kept sniffing during the ceremony though I could tell she was trying not to.

It made me feel sick. She spent the whole time looking lost and like she didn’t know who to talk to.

My dad looked like he was about to split in half and shit a great big golden egg of pure joy out of his ass.

It was easily one of the worst days of my life.

Thank fuck for the ability to get black-out drunk, I guess.

After that, COVID happened, and our borders were shut down for two full years.

I couldn’t leave the country, and my dad couldn’t get in as he isn’t a citizen.

Truth be told, it was kind of a relief. When things opened up again in March 2022, he was one of the first people through the gates.

He came out to see me a few months later and then again just after Christmas.

I said I didn’t want to travel given all the uncertainty still surrounding the virus, and he didn’t push it.

Each visit was short, and he spent most of his time making a huge deal out of how happy he was to see me and trying to act like we still knew shit about each other, while pretending he wasn’t living for the second he could get back to his perfect new family.

Anyway, a bunch of things changed during my second year at university and so now I find myself here, on the front steps of a picture-perfect family home, with a backpack, hand luggage, and a huge, beaten-up bag containing most of my clothes.

“Come on,” says my dad, giving me a gentle nudge on the shoulder, “Rach and Luke will be champing at the bit to see you.”

Champing at the fucking bit?

God help me.

The front door opens, and I’m met by an expanse of serene, sunny space.

Rachel and Luke are standing at the entrance, both vibrating with excitement.

Two sets of big blue eyes are flashing and stretched as wide as it’s possible for eyes to open.

Their smiles occupy a worryingly high wattage.

Rachel is standing stiffly, clamping her teeth together, as if she’s using all her power not to squeal.

She’s holding a cake stand with a triple layer carrot cake balancing precariously on it in her hands.

She looks exactly the same as she did at the wedding, minus the white dress.

The same can’t be said for Luke. He’s grown at least a foot, if not more, and has gained around fifty pounds of pure muscle.

His skin has cleared up and his hair has darkened from ash to honey blond.

Both of them are standing beneath a crooked, hand-written banner that says, “Welcome home, Jessie!”

I feel strange when the letters land and form words in my mind.

Almost dizzy, as the first inkling of the magnitude of what I’ve done hits me.

Luke must sense my weakness, as he chooses that moment to pounce.

He comes bounding over and crashes into me, knocking my hand luggage over.

He winds his arms around my waist and envelops me in a mammoth hug, lifting me off my feet and squeezing an unpleasant sound out of me.

“Jessie! So good to see you!”

He sets me down and steps back, leaving me to recover my balance.

I struggle to regain my composure. Aside from the fact I don’t do big displays of affection in general, I barely know this guy.

Met him a few times when our parents got married.

He made me uncomfortable then and it looks like he’s doing his best to continue that trend.

I don’t know jack about him and sure as shit don’t need him manhandling me.

Before I have time to recover, Rachel sets the cake down and comes careering in for a hug of her own.

Her embrace is softer, but still completely lacking in the caution most people exercise when they approach me.

I don’t move as I try to calculate how long I have to tolerate this hell for before I can reasonably extricate myself.

While I’m deliberating, my dad drops my bag to the floor and gets in on the action.

He wraps one arm around my neck and the other around Rachel.

Not to be outdone, Luke throws himself at me again, dragging a hand across my lower back and fisting a piece of my T-shirt as he closes the circle of people around me.

Luke and Rachel immediately start jumping up and down.

“Family hug!” yells my dad, joining in with gusto, recognizing the cue to bounce so fast it leads me to believe this is far from their first family hug.

The joy in his voice is so pure and unadulterated it makes me feel like I’m going to be sick.

I narrowly survive an early dinner and a huge slice of cake.

I’m peppered with questions about my flight to the point my head spins.

My jet lag is kicking in with full force.

I hardly slept on the plane and my dad tried his best to keep a conversation going for the entire drive from the airport.

What with all the jubilance, the hugging, the carbs, the questions, and the copious amount of sugar I’ve consumed, I’m feeling buzzed and not in a good way.

“I’m feeling pretty beat,” I say for the second time.

My dad’s smile slackens in disappointment, but Rachel is quick to rescue the situation.

“You must be exhausted. It’s such a long flight.

Why don’t you get an early night?” I’m on my feet like a shot.

“We thought it would be best to put you in the guest house with Luke. Thought it might be nice for you guys to have your own space.”

“Thanks,” I mumble.

My dad spoke to me at length about the living arrangements before I arrived. At the time, I had so much going on, I didn’t pay the matter the attention it deserved. Something about the dynamic I’ve been exposed to in my first couple of hours here makes me question the wisdom of that decision.

“We’ve set your room up out there, but if you’d prefer to be in the main house, we can move you, no sweat,” says Rachel.

“Come on, I’ll show you around,” says Luke.

My dad swings an arm around my shoulder and pulls me into an awkward hug. I’m not kidding about being tired, I really am. My ability to play happy families is at an all-time low, so I keep my arms down at my sides and try to squirm out of his grip.

When he releases me, Rachel says, “Why don’t we let you boys get settled in? Luke can show you around and we’ll see you in the morning.”

Luke gets a kiss on the cheek from his mom and is given a hearty shoulder bump and hair ruffle by my dad. Far from hating it, or even simply tolerating, he revels in it. Instead of squirming out of it, he wriggles into it.

Oh fuck.

I’ve made a mistake coming here, haven’t I?

We head out through the French doors that lead to the back yard and walk along a paved path past the pool to the guest house.

The guest house is an obvious addition to the property.

It looks notably more modern than the rest of the house.

It’s white weatherboard with a slate roof and jasmine climbing the pergola at the front door.

It looks like a picture-perfect cottage for a romantic mini-break at the sea.

Luke opens the door, using a little more strength than is needed.

It sends the door flying into the wall with a loud bang.

It makes me jump but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“This is it.” He couldn’t look happier.

We’ve walked straight into a small living room.

There’s a navy sofa and a decent sized TV with a small kitchenette to one side.

As I enter the hallway, I’m met by three doors.

The first leads to a bathroom. It’s clean and compact.

It doesn’t look like a guy has been using it.

Doesn’t smell like it either. I bet his mom came in this morning and cleaned it up for him.

She probably comes in and straightens the place up every couple of days.

He probably doesn’t even realize that’s pathetic.

The room is tiled floor-to-ceiling in white subway tiles and there are a whole lot of large glass jars on the vanity filled with things like bath salts and cotton wool.

It has a decent sized shower but no bath.

“I cleared some space for you,” he says motioning to the shelving over the vanity.

Not to sound like a brat, but no-one mentioned that I’d be sharing a bathroom with this guy.

“This is your room.” He drags my big bag into the room and hoists it up onto the bed.

The room has been painted a deep, inky blue.

There’s a queen-sized bed pushed against one wall and a desk beside it, with a study lamp on it.

There’s a vintage Van Halen poster above the bed.

The muted colors of the poster tone in with the walls to perfection.

There’s a wardrobe and a bookcase on the opposite wall that’s filled with books; all sci-fi and fantasy series I was into three or four years ago.

They’re tastefully arranged, interspersed with attractive, yet meaningful accessories; a 3D wooden Grand Prix car my dad and I built together when I was ten, a snow globe I got in New York on a vacation my dad and I went on after my parents split, a few family photographs, and the first cartoon I ever drew, framed in a light timber frame.

It’s clear no amount of effort has been spared putting the room together. Hours of thoughtful consideration have been given to every object that meets the eye. It strikes me as the type of thing you’d expect to see on the set of a popular daytime TV show.

Stage 5: Bedroom of Jessie Lewis – Beloved Stepson/Troubled Misfit.

I hate every single thing about it.