Chapter Thirteen #2
Jem expected a suit or some egregious business casual fit, something their father would’ve worn. Instead Andrew wore jeans and a plain white V-neck, the only flourish on the outfit the fancy orthopedic sneakers. Though Jem figured his forearm crutches probably cost more.
He looked—older, but not as much older as Jem worried he might. No premature wrinkles or gray hair, but no more puppy fat either. He hadn’t shaved that morning. The last time Jem had seen him, Andrew couldn’t grow a beard on a Chia Pet.
Shit. Should Jem stand up? Should he get Andrew’s chair?
“You can relax,” Andrew said. He leaned his crutches against the table and took the seat across from Jem. “The cripple can seat himself.”
Jem hated that he’d been read so easily by someone he hadn’t seen in a decade. But he hated his instinctual reaction more. “Sorry,” he said. “You’re, uh, getting around better.”
Last time he saw Andrew, he had only been able to stand upright if someone helped him get there, and walking had been off the table.
“It’s amazing how motivating the desire to get away from Dad can really be.” The delivery was too dry to have been a joke, but Andrew didn’t dwell on it. He looked Jem over—as much as he could with the two of them seated at a table—and said, “California agrees with you.”
That’s because it’s on the other side of the country from South Carolina. Jem mustered a smile anyway. No point making this more awkward than it already was. “Thanks.”
A server arrived to deliver menus and glasses of water and take their drink orders. Andrew asked for a light beer, but Jem didn’t need any more alcohol this week, so he opted for Coke.
And then the server left, and whatever Twilight Zone easiness had been lubricating their conversation evaporated.
What did they even have to talk about? Other than their childhood and their father, they had nothing in common.
Andrew lived the good life in South Carolina, doing whatever he did now, and Jem was here, wiping kindergarteners’ snotty noses and praying they made it to the bathroom in time.
His shoulders hunched, even if he knew the thought was unfair to both himself and the kids.
Come on, Jem. Fake it till you make it. “So.” He forced himself to sit up straighter. “You’re getting married.”
For a moment Jem caught a glimpse of his boyhood friend—Andrew’s face cracked into an easy, happy smile. “I am. God, you’d love her. Not as much as I do, but—yeah. Dana’s great. Can’t believe she puts up with me.”
Jem tried to smile back. It was hard, though; his mind kept trying to tell him how far behind he was.
He’d earned his car on his back. Which if you thought about it, was a twist on how his mother had earned the money for Jem to have golf lessons, or go to private school.
Jem sold his body; his mother sold her silence about what his father did with hers.
He pushed the thoughts away. He had nothing to be ashamed of. His mother had hurt him by withholding the truth, but he wouldn’t blame her for the affair.
Maybe he stayed quiet for too long, or maybe some of his thoughts showed on his face, because Andrew cleared his throat. “But uh… I didn’t come here to talk about the wedding, actually. I mean, I did, but that’s tangential.”
For a moment Jem could only blink. The Andrew he’d known had barely scraped together the marks to pass every grade. “Tangential?” he echoed, aware his eyebrows were getting away from him.
Andrew huffed a rueful laugh and pressed a hand to the back of his neck. “You get a lot of studying done when all you can do is sit around all day.”
Jem flinched, hoped it wasn’t visible. “So why did you come?”
“Honestly?” He flexed his fingers. “I missed you. Miss you, present tense. And I don’t want… I don’t know. It sounds dumb to say it. I don’t want to start the next chapter of my life without trying to tie things up in this one. I came to apologize.”
Jem didn’t have to answer right away, as the server mercifully chose that moment to drop off their drinks and take their lunch orders.
He wasn’t particularly hungry—wouldn’t have been even if he hadn’t had a heavy breakfast—so he ordered a fancy-looking sandwich, figuring he could take half of it home and feed it to River later.
He still hadn’t decided what to say when the server left.
“Jem? Are you going to say anything?”
Was he?
Jem took a sip of his Coke. His mouth had gone dry. “Do you even know what you’re apologizing for?”
That was more confrontational than he’d intended. His mother would’ve scolded him. Jem had forgotten how to talk like a Southerner—how to say something that sounded polite but cut beneath the surface. Plausible deniability.
For the first two months of their acquaintance, Tori thought Southern speak was hilarious.
And then around Thanksgiving she’d said, “Jem, I love you, but for the love of God, will you say what you mean? I promise my feelings are not that delicate,” and Jem said, “If you don’t ask out that girl in your Spanish class, I’m going to tell her you’re saving yourself for marriage. ”
Tori’s combined yowl of outrage and honk of laughter had cemented their friendship forever.
Now, though, Jem worried his plain speaking might have cost him a chance at reconciling with his brother.
But he and Andrew had always been direct with each other too. “Uh, I have a list, actually.”
Jem gaped. In his surprise, he regressed mentally about ten years. “Shut up, you do not.”
Andrew held up his hand in a parody of a Boy Scout. “Hand to God. I even wrote it down. Dana helped with it.”
That didn’t sound much like the kid Jem knew—but then Andrew pulled a wadded piece of paper from his pocket and set it on the table, started smoothing out the edges. “I didn’t want to forget anything.”
“Who are you?” Jem blurted.
Andrew looked up, caught his eye, and flushed. Looked back down again. Then he shrugged, smiled, and held out his hand across the table. “Andrew Wentworth. Nice to meet you.”
Belatedly, Jem realized he was leaving him hanging. He wiped his palm on his jeans and shook, cautious but hopeful. “Jem,” he said. Then, feeling awkward, “Why don’t you just give me the highlights.”
River spent half an hour in the pool after Jem left, more because it made him feel less like the Tin Man, left out in a field to rust for a couple years, than out of any desire for exercise.
After another cup of coffee and some water—Jem kept putting little chopped-up cucumbers in the pitcher in the fridge, and it was delicious and also fucking adorable and River had it bad—he felt like himself again.
And then Amanda texted to let him know they’d posted his first video, and sent him the link.
River stared at it for a few seconds, still dripping pool water on his kitchen floor.
Once he clicked on it, it would become real: he was taking his first small steps out of the safety of the Flat Tires and into whoever he would be next.
And once he saw the stats on the video, he’d know what people thought about it—whether they liked it enough to share it.
If they clicked the little heart button. If they left a comment.
He’d never been great at impulse control. He clicked the link.
Briar had done a great job. The audio was mixed perfectly, and it never seemed contrived that the video didn’t show River’s face or Lara’s.
The clip was only forty seconds. Amanda had some market research that said they should release pieces of it over time to build interest. River had happily handed over control of everything that wasn’t related to the music itself.
It was good. And for something that had been created carefully to obscure his identity, it was shockingly vulnerable. All the best music had to be—you had to be genuine with listeners if you wanted them to connect with your songs—but it hit different when he was singing his own lyrics.
River watched the video four times before he closed the app. His chest felt tight, and his heart was beating too fast. He wanted to run a marathon. He wanted to crawl into bed and pull the covers over his head and not come out until TikTok had decided his fate.
He wanted to send the video to Jem and say, This is what you do to me. This is how you make me feel. This is for you.
He never wanted Jem to see it.
That was too many things to want all at one time. Instead of wallowing in them, he copied the link and sent it to Lara—thanks for the assist—and then Eric and Ward.
My wife says you’re a simp, said Eric.
So are you gonna tell Jem about your feelings or just wait until he hears you sing this on the radio? asked Ward.
Why was River upset that the band was breaking up, again?
Lara sent a series of flame emojis and hell yeah, let me know if you wanna do it again.
And then, just when he was feeling smug about having a friend who didn’t suck, Tell Jem I said hi.
Speaking of Jem, River wondered what he was doing now. Surely lunch was long over. In fact, it was getting to be near dinnertime. Was he going to leave River to fend for himself, now that River’s stomach had gotten used to Jem feeding it on a regular basis? That seemed rude.
He was debating what to do—whether it was too needy to text Jem and find out his plan, or if he should order dinner for one, or if he had a frozen pizza kicking around somewhere—when the Subaru pulled into the driveway, and he relaxed.
He didn’t want to stay in the kitchen like he was waiting for Jem to feed him, or hover around the front door like a paranoid spouse, but unfortunately the third option was just “stand around like an NPC in a video game until Jem arrives to interact with me.”
Brutal.
Maybe more perplexing, though, was that when Jem came inside, he didn’t really notice.
He’d looked good when he left the house this morning, River was sure. Not that he didn’t look good now, just… River hadn’t noticed the bags under his eyes before. Everything about him radiated exhaustion, but he was smiling in a soft, quiet way River rarely saw.