Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
ROB
“Pass the potatoes, you thug,” my stepmother says in her best ice queen voice. She’s sitting at one end of the table, her stark blond hair combed back from her face, dressed all in black, no doubt mourning my presence. My father sits at the other end. He looks tired. He always looks tired at family dinners, and yet he’s the one who insists on them.
My brother sits directly across from me, his eyes still surrounded by the remnants of yellow bruises covered with concealer. Maybe his mother did it for him—or one of his many girlfriends. I’m reasonably sure it wasn’t Sophie.
It’s Friday, exactly two weeks since the nose-punching incident.
Two weeks since I texted a photo of my chamomile leaves to Dottie Hendrickson, for reasons I can’t put into words.
She texted back within five minutes:
Ooh, how interesting.
When she failed to follow up on that, I realized it was my turn to comment or question, and decided I’d rather not. Having a long, extended conversation with a woman who’d spouted mysticism and given me a phallic rock was beyond my current capacity.
Still. I would sooner die than admit this to anyone, but I’ve been carrying around the rock, moving it from the pocket of one pair of pants to the next so I always have it with me. It would feel like bad luck not to, especially since my home visit is coming up this week.
I dropped by the store where Emil works last night, and he didn’t look good. He had circles under his eyes, and he admitted he was suffering from not being able to play. I can’t sleep, man.
A lot of people don’t understand that playing music isn’t a hobby for a musician. It’s a need. Especially for a kid who needs an outlet that won’t hurt him or draw him into dangerous situations.
I’ve figured out a work-around—I bring a couple of guitars to the park on Saturday and Sunday mornings, when he’s supposed to walk his foster parents’ dog. But it’s not enough. His needs aren’t being met.
I shouldn’t have told him what I was up to, but that look on his face broke me. I told him I was trying to get him out of that place for good. The kid practically teared up, and now I have a new sense of purpose: I can’t do anything that might result in my application being denied.
My stepmother wanted to have me arrested for hitting Jonah. Thankfully, my father talked her out of calling the cops. She didn’t back down out of any goodwill toward me, mind you, but because he pointed out it would create more family drama than anyone feels like dealing with. Jonah actually backed him up.
So here I am, gritting my teeth and playing nice.
“The potatoes,” my stepmother prompts coldly, enunciating it carefully as if I’m too stupid to understand.
“I’d be delighted to be of service, Patricia,” I say, passing her the dish of scalloped potatoes made by their poorly compensated cook.
She takes the dish but doesn’t serve herself any potatoes before setting it down.
“Are you proud of what you did to your brother?” she asks, her dark eyes boring into me.
“Not particularly,” I say. “But I’m not un-proud of it.”
“Do you know he’s had to go to meetings like this?” she asks shrilly, pointing at his face. The bruises are barely distinguishable at this point, but you’d think she’s holding a smoking gun from the way she’s talking.
“And I had to cancel one of my band’s performances. We’ve all made sacrifices for Jonah’s dick.”
Jonah swears under his breath. “I swear to Christ, Rob. It’s none of your business what goes on between me and my fiancée.”
“Last I heard she was your ex -fiancée,” I counter. “And you made it my business when you asked me to get your phone from her.”
“It was a misunderstanding,” my stepmother says primly. “It’s unfortunate that we had to postpone the wedding, but I’m confident they’ll clear everything up in time. It’s not Jonah’s fault that he has other young women interested in him. You might have more luck finding a steady girlfriend if you got a real job.”
“How’s your job treating you, Patricia?”
My father clears his throat, and I decide it’s time for me to end this farce. I fold my napkin and place it beside my nearly untouched plate of food.
“Thanks for dinner,” I say, pushing back my chair. “It was?—”
“I have a plan for getting Sophie back,” Jonah insists in a tight voice, saving me from spouting a platitude I certainly wouldn’t have meant.
“Why not just leave her alone?”
As far as I know, he hasn’t seen Sophie since their showdown at Silver Star. The last time I saw her was the Sunday following the phone incident. I’d stopped by her aunt’s house to give her a CD I’d burned for her. Yeah, a CD. Which was obviously a mistake, because she admitted she only has a CD player in her car. I had no business bringing Jonah’s ex-fiancée gifts anyway, except I can’t stop watching that video of her tossing the ring at him. I’ve memorized all of the details, including the look of disbelief on my brother’s face. But my favorite part is the way Sophie changes on camera, transforming from a woman who always says yes to one who doesn’t take shit from anyone.
That’s what I was thinking of when I chose the songs for her CD. They were angry, mostly, meant to pump her up and keep her feeling strong. The worst thing that could happen is for her to go back to him.
I’m certain he’s texted and called her, but if he’d made any headway, he would have said so.
Truth is, I’m glad to have gotten Sophie wrong, and not only because it’s driving Jonah crazy that he’s not getting what he wants. That’s probably the real reason why he’s hatched some half-assed scheme to charm her.
“She’s my fiancée,” he says tightly. “I’m not going to let a misunderstanding get in the way. I should never have texted those women and given them the wrong idea. That was my mistake. But they’ve obviously filled her head with lies.”
I know he’s full of it, he knows he’s full of it, and my father undoubtedly knows the score too. But Jonah’s mother would take his word for it if he said the Earth was as flat as a pancake. Hell, she’d tell him what a good boy he was as he drove them toward the nonexistent drop-off.
“What are you going to do?” I ask.
I half expect him to say wouldn’t you like to know? But he actually answers.
“I’m going to make a grand gesture,” he says. “At Buchanan Brewery.”
I bristle at the thought. The Sophie on that video would have told him to go screw himself, but I have no idea what’s happened to her since. What if she’s been crying into her soup? What if she’s close enough to cracking that Jonah showing up with an armful of red flowers and a mouthful of lies would convince her to accept the ring she threw at him?
I can’t stand the thought. It would be impossible to look her in the eye ever again, because I’d know…
There’s a fire inside of her, and she’d be smothering it to become my brother’s compliant little wife.
Unease makes the back of my neck itch.
“Sounds romantic,” my stepmother says, and it takes me a second to realize she’s talking about Jonah’s terrible grand gesture idea.
“Really?” I say. “I think it sounds a lot like stalking.”
“Robert,” my stepmother says in a harsh tone.
“ Patricia . I thought you’d like some advice on how to keep your darling son out of the slammer.”
She gives me a withering look, her lips squeezed into such a tight line there are little cracks running through them. “We certainly don’t need advice from a delinquent like you .”
I got charged with public intoxication once, when I was in my early twenties, but it was dropped. She acts like I tried to bulldoze a group of nuns.
“Actually,” Jonah says, apparently oblivious to every single thing that’s been said since he last spoke, “I was hoping you’d help me, Rob.”
A strangled laugh spills out of me. “Are you fucking serious?”
“Rob,” my father warns.
“Sorry,” I reply, my gaze still on my brother. My knee has started jiggling under the table. “ Are you serious? The last time you asked for my help, you lied about what I’d be helping you with.”
“So…this time you’d know everything. I was hoping you’d, you know, serenade her. I want to do something really romantic.”
The injustice of this makes my ears burn, but I set my jaw and fist my hands, waiting for the worst of the anger to pass.
“No,” I say flatly. “Travis and Bixby won’t do it either, so don’t ask them.”
“I told you it was all a big misunderstanding. It was inappropriate for me to be texting other women, sure, but I wasn’t cheating,” he insists. “You punched me in the face for something I didn’t do. The least you could do is help me fix this.”
“No.”
“I’ll pay you.”
“No amount of money could compel me.”
Patricia apparently finds my last comment amusing, but I don’t look away from Jonah. If I can’t hit him again, I can at least tell him silently what I think of him.
My father clears his throat, and I’m embarrassed that I turn toward him with the rest of them, all of us recognizing who’s in charge. “That’s enough of that. Jonah, I expect you to make this right. Rob, you’re not a teenager. Stop acting like one.”
I’ve never wanted to throw a bread roll more in my life. But I’d prefer to leave than stay and argue. My father did me a favor; in return, I put in an appearance. Done and done. The sooner he realizes Jonah, Patricia, and I are never going to be friends, the better.
“You’re right,” I say tightly. “But I do have to leave.” I force myself to glance at Patricia. “Thank you for dinner. It’s been pleasant, as always.”
She nods primly, her eyes full of her victory, and I’ve never been happier to leave a place.
I spent most of my childhood in this big, echoey house with its pillars and sculpted gardens—when I wasn’t bouncing from one apartment to another with my mother—but it never felt like mine. The moment Patricia moved in, already pregnant, I became the visitor.
I’m in the car, on the way to my apartment, when I find myself driving to another house in the Montford neighborhood—old and blue, with windows that are likely older than my deceased grandparents.
I park on the street outside, feeling like a hypocrite. I just got done calling Jonah a stalker for planning to show up at Buchanan Brewery, but here I am outside her home. Isn’t that ten times worse?
I don’t have her phone number, though, and it would be wrong to let her find out about my little brother’s grand gesture when he shows up at her place of work with a string orchestra. Because I doubt he’s going to let my refusal stop him. He’ll probably hire an opera singer to deliver an aria while he throws roses at Sophie or jumps out of a cake, and the scene will end up on a dozen tourists’ camera phones.
Maybe it’ll be enough to pressure her into giving him a second chance.
The thought is brutal enough to propel me out of the car, even though I still don’t know what I’m going to say. I find myself reaching into my pocket for the stone. My fingers wrap around it and squeeze.
When I get to the door, I knock twice on the worn wood. It swings open, revealing none other than Dottie Hendrickson. She’s wearing a fancier dress today—silver with sequins—and a flower tucked into her hair.
“Oh good,” she says, beaming at my stupefied face. “You’re just in time, dear. We’re about to get started.”
I glance inside, taking in the sight of Otis on the couch, dressed in a T-shirt with a tuxedo design and a pair of khakis. Hannah is with him, in a green dress, and they’re drinking from flutes of what looks like champagne.
Otis grins and lifts his free hand. “Hey, man.”
I suddenly, and absurdly, feel underdressed.
The floor is covered with a red satin cloth, and flower arrangements are strategically stationed around the living room, along with paper lanterns filled with lit tea lights.
“Uh…”
Sophie emerges into the living area wearing a fitted off-white dress with a flowing skirt.
My first thought is wow . Her hair is loose over her shoulders in soft brown waves, and she’s wearing a shade of red lipstick that highlights the shape of her lips and brings out the deep blue of her eyes. The dress hugs her chest and hips, compelling attention to every dip and curve of her body.
She’s a knockout. A perfect ten. An impossible twenty. No one would look at her and think Pollyanna, because they’d be too busy gaping.
My second thought is what the hell?
Because it’s a wedding dress. Presumably the one she bought to marry my brother.
“Shall we begin?” Dottie asks with bright eyes.