Chapter 5
5
Gabe
“How did Gretchen react to the news that you were leaving town?”
My dad has never been one to mince words. He has no patience for small talk unless he’s schmoozing clients or business associates.
“I didn’t tell her,” I confess.
“So you just disappeared? Doesn’t seem very mature, Gabe.” He furrows his bushy brows at me. Natural light shines through the windows overlooking the country club golf course, reflecting off his glasses and thankfully hiding what is surely a disapproving expression in his eyes. This restaurant is his home turf. Kentwood is his home turf. I’m feeling more and more like an enemy combatant in hostile territory, particularly after my run-in with Kayla.
“We’ve been broken up for ten months, Dad.” I think of the engagement ring that is still in an unopened envelope in my pocket. It’s the only communication I’ve had with her since I moved out of our shared apartment last spring.
“She made a mistake,” he argues. “Anyone can make a mistake. If you had been more attentive?—”
“It’s over , Dad,” I stress, struggling to control my temper. “I can’t change the past.” The frown lines around his mouth deepen, but instead of replying, he simply takes a sip of his scotch. I know he hopes Gretchen and I will get back together. He was simply delighted when we announced our engagement. Not only because Gretchen is pretty and charming, but because, like us, she belongs to one of the richest families in Kentwood. All of us are descendants of the town’s fifteen founders, and over the years our ancestors established the country club, library, hospital, and pretty much everything else Kentwood has to offer. The goal of the Kentwood fifteen has always been to preserve tradition and consolidate power through intermarriage. It’s like some kind of medieval feudal system, except it’s the 21st century.
A little less than a decade ago, my older brother Adam married Lucy Bender, the dermatologists’ daughter, who is now doing her own residency in dermatology and is set to take over her mother and father’s clinic when they retire. Gretchen’s family owns the Ford dealership. Mine runs the bank. Dad was pleased as punch that both his sons had chosen to “marry well”—until, of course, my engagement fell apart.
Before I (almost literally) ran into Kayla, part of me suspected that my ongoing interest (or, okay, mild obsession) was just a manifestation of my unhappiness with Gretchen. I figured that seeing Kayla again would cure me: I’d realize that our connection was just in my imagination, that there was never anything very special about her, and I’d be free. Things didn’t turn out that way at all.
To begin with, she looked incredible . Some of the softness of adolescence had disappeared from her face, revealing even more of her beautiful bone structure. Her figure was as perfect as ever. And though her reaction to me was deeply upsetting, it was obvious—probably to everyone—that the old current of electricity still runs strong between us. If anything, our spark seemed more charged, more dangerous, even, because we aren’t kids anymore. There are no parents or teachers to stop us from doing whatever we might want to do together.
Not that they wouldn’t try.
I decide, impulsively, to test the waters.
“I think Gretchen’s happy with the man she left me for. I should probably just move on.”
Dad shakes his head ruefully. “Gabe, do you know the strings I had to pull to get you even a paralegal position in the city attorney’s office? You should be a lawyer by now. You should at least be able to get yourself a decent job. I shouldn’t have to be calling in favors with one of my fishing buddies to get you a position that pays just over minimum wage. What sensible girl would want a man who couldn’t provide for her?”
“Well, not every girl expects diamonds for every special occasion. Outside the fifteen?—”
“Don’t be silly. There are no eligible women in this town outside the fifteen. And there are precious few of them your age who are still unattached. If you want to get married, your best bet is to pass the bar, leave Kentwood, and find a suitable woman elsewhere. It’s not what your mother and I want. But it’s the situation you’ve created.”
With that, the conversation is basically over. We eat our steak mostly in silence, exchanging a few awkward comments about other family members, sports, and weather. Why did I even bring up the possibility of dating outside the fifteen? Do I really think that Kayla will give me the time of day?
I ought to be angrier with her about our confrontation, but instead I’m buzzing with adrenaline. An overexcited bumblebee is ricocheting around my rib cage, humming anger is better than indifference . Anger is better than indifference . She clearly hasn’t forgotten me. She clearly has feelings for me, albeit negative ones. The bumblebee and I sense an opportunity.
I just wish she had ever told me what she’s angry about. I can understand why she would be annoyed because of the close call with the car, but clearly something else is going on. While I was on my post-graduation trip to Italy, she’d been pretty much all I could think about. As soon as I got back, I’d repeatedly tried to get in touch with her, with no success. Either she changed her phone number, or she was ignoring me.
And why is she working at the café? Surely, if she finished college (and I happen to know she finished college), she could find a better job than that . I feel a stab of worry that she might be experiencing the same kind of setback I am. Is she married? Divorced? Does she have a kid?
I’d never told my family about our friendship in high school, though both my parents seemed to think it odd that I didn’t date anyone my senior year. They’d tried to push eligible girls into my path—Madison Olson, whose mother is the queen of the Kentwood real estate market; Chloe Gernsheimer, whose parents operate the largest dairy farm in the county; and, of course, Gretchen Meier—but I’d resisted any attempts to set me up. Kayla didn’t have a boyfriend either, which I’d learned after a lot of not-so-subtle beating around the bush.
“No,” she’d replied, doodling concentric circles on the calculus worksheet she’d just finished. “I’m not very interested in dating. High school boys seem pretty worthless, honestly. Present company included.” And she’d flashed me her mischievous grin.
“Worthless?! I’m an Eagle Scout, I’ll have you know.”
“What on earth is that?”
“It’s the highest rank in Boy Scouts! I can build a fire. Prevent hypothermia. Make a flotation device out of my own pants! Do you know how to make a flotation device out of your pants?”
“Um… no? How… and why…?”
“Like instead of a life preserver. You tie the ends of the legs in knots, then kind of swing them over your head to catch air inside.”
“After you’ve taken them off, I presume.”
“Um, well, yeah.”
She’d eyed me skeptically, clearly trying not to laugh, whether from the supposed ridiculousness of the life-saving measure, which totally works , or from the image of me, floating pantsless next to an upturned canoe. I tried to save face.
“And in case you forgot, I’m also the guy who pulled you out of a ditch.”
“After you ran me off the road!” She was grinning broadly now.
“Not on purpose! Trust me, Johnson, in a Cormac McCarthy-style post-apocalyptic world, you’d definitely want me on your side.”
“Assuming you wouldn’t eat me,” she’d quipped, poking me with the eraser end of her pencil. “I’ve seen how you inhale your lunch.”
“You’re far too cute to eat,” I’d blurted out, recognizing immediately that I’ve given her both too much and too strange of a compliment. She’d laughed out loud while blushing furiously. Mrs. Bergman glared at us, and Kayla, still shaking with laughter, buried her burning face in her arms.
“That doesn’t seem like much of a survival strategy,” she said when she was finally able to talk. She raised her head from her desk, cheeks still flushed. “I’d better learn how to, like, build a primitive shelter or something.”
“I know how to do that too.”
“Out of your own pants, I’m sure.”
Dad returns to the office after lunch and I drive a few miles out of town to the house I grew up in. Not much has changed since I moved out. Following the long drive that curves gracefully from the main road, I notice that several of our old ash trees—victims, no doubt, of the ubiquitous emerald ash borer—have been replaced by sycamore and bald cypress saplings. In summer, the flower beds would probably be blooming with native coneflower and coreopsis, cosmos and poppies. But our gardener has cut back all our bushes and perennials for winter, which makes the brick facade look cold and unwelcoming. To make matters worse, my brother’s black Mercedes S500 is parked in the driveway, looming like a dark rain cloud. Shouldn’t he be at work?
I don’t dislike my brother, but he’s the most competitive person I know, and I’m sure that right now he feels like he’s winning. Adam is a vice president at the bank where Dad is managing director, and given that he also has a wealthy wife and adorable kids, his position as Wilson Family Golden Child is unquestionably secure. Secure , however, is not a word that anyone would ever apply to my brother.
“Little bro!” He opens the door just as I put my hand on the handle, like he’s been watching for me. Before I can cross the threshold, he pulls me into a bear hug, taking advantage of the fact that he’s momentarily taller while I’m still stuck on the stoop. “How was lunch with the old man?”
“Fine,” I lie.
“Like hell.” Adam grins at me. “You’re the only thing he’s able to talk about for weeks. He on your case about law school?”
I haven’t even taken off my coat yet. “Some,” I reply noncommittally.
“Gretchen?” he presses.
“Mm-hm.”
“Don’t let him get you down,” he says, smacking me a little too hard on the back. “He wants the best for you, deep down. I know he does. How about a drink?”
Drinking is the time-honored way my family relates to each other. I don’t really want anything, but talking to Adam without a safety buzz is not an attractive prospect right now.
I follow him into the kitchen, where our family’s cook has obviously been at work on quite a spread of hors d’oeuvres and snacks, which are arranged on half a dozen platters on the kitchen island’s broad marble counter.
“What’s all this for? Did Raul make them?”
“Oh, no. Someone from the café dropped them by. They’re catering samples for Hungry Hearts.” Hungry Hearts is the name of the annual Valentine’s Day dance at the country club that my family has always helped organize. It benefits the food pantry, but I’ve always thought “Hungry Hearts” was kind of an insensitive name. Which I guess is pretty on-brand for the Kentwood fifteen.
“We’re supposed to pick four or five of our favorites. Well, technically Lucy is supposed to, because she’s chairing the organizing committee, but since she’s at a conference this week, she had them sent here.” That must be why he’s not at the office. Just my luck.
“Want to help me choose?” he asks, passing me a beer.
I survey the trays of buffalo cauliflower, sweet potato fries and tomato soup shooters. I’d taken Kayla for a waitress, but maybe she’s a restaurateur? Someone sure has spruced up the old diner.
“What’s wrong, little bro?” Adam asks, before shoving a tiny blue-cheese-topped burger in his mouth. The expression in his eyes, above his working jaws, hovers somewhere between gloating and sympathetic.
I don’t know how to answer this, so I just shrug and take a swig of my drink.
He swallows, then claps his hands together.
“You know what you need? You need to let your big bro help get you back on your feet with the ladies. You don’t know how lucky you are to be single! Come to Mickey’s tonight with me and Jake and Ryan. You’ll probably see girls you know there. Last time, let’s see… there was Mandy Sanchez, Allison Ambrose, Kayla Johnson…”
He gives me a look before he tips back his beer, and I wonder what he remembers about my previous friendship with Kayla. I decide not to take the bait.
“No thanks,” I tell him, standing up from the counter. “I think I’ll stick around here tonight.”
“All right,” he says, eyeing his next sample, as if he’s already moved on to more important business. “Just thought I’d mention it! You’re still planning on coming by the bank for lunch on Monday, right? I think Dad’s going to order in.”
I nod.
“Yep. It’s on my calendar.”
“Great,” he says, dipping a piece of panko-fried carrot in sauce before lifting it to his mouth. “See you then!”
Grateful to be dismissed, I go back to the driveway to unload my car.