CHAPTER SEVENTEEN #3
Carver shrugged and sipped his Red Bull.
Scott thought he looked hot again today, even though you could tell by looking at him that he’d recently cried very hard and gotten very little sleep.
It was starting to concern him that he never seemed to find Carver unattractive.
He’d found him unattractive sometimes in high school, he must have.
“No, I get why it would be hard to give anything up, and this seems like it’s a big part of your life,” Scott said. “I’ve gone back and forth about leaving bands that I was in for six months and hated every other member of.”
“I’m pretty set on leaving, is the thing. I can’t stay there if I’m leaving Lillian, and I can’t stay with her. It’s just that actually leaving feels impossible.”
Scott tried not to be heartened by his repeated vows to leave his wife. He knew nothing he said mattered until he actually left her. “Yeah, I’ve been there too.”
As they stepped back into the reception hall, the idea kindling in Scott’s mind expanded and refined itself, and he couldn’t fight the urge to write it down anymore.
“Sorry, one second,” he said, pulling a small notebook and pen from his jacket pocket and dropping into a squat so he could use his lap as a flat surface.
Carver stared down at him in confusion. “This can’t wait? I don’t want to get yelled at by that pain in the ass from before.”
“Just like ten seconds of silence, please.”
Carver paced while Scott wrote down words and some musical notation, then examined the page, crossing out laziness and improving upon it as he went.
“They don’t have an app to make this easier?” he said after a few moments had passed.
“Those apps all suck,” Scott muttered. “I’m almost done.”
“It’s been four minutes.”
“What? Bullshit.”
“I’ve been staring at my watch this whole time.” Carver didn’t sound annoyed, though, he just sounded amused. “This better be Grammy material.”
“Hey, maybe you should quit your job and become my manager, you already sound like one.”
“I think, actually, it’s now antisemitic for you to say that to me?”
Scott laughed, then finished the line he was on and stood up. “Alright. Let’s wrap this up.”
“Maybe sugar daddy more than manager,” Carver said, as if musing. “Or like, art patron. What if I just start throwing money at your projects, would you find that helpful?”
Scott went over to load the other amp onto the dolly, his stomach fluttering. “Carv, why don’t we put a pin in that?”
Carver gathered up the other mic stand and a few remaining cables. “Just saying. Just throwing it out there.”
“I’m flattered that would even occur to you.”
“Don’t be flattered, be opportunistic.”
Scott laughed.
They packed up the remaining stuff fast and hit the road again, waving goodbye to the officious BCC employee, who came out to the front steps to watch them go and waved back. Carver drove Scott back to Josie’s and backed into the driveway so they could easily transfer everything to the van.
“How’s your shoulder?” Scott said as they worked, remembering his football injury and the painful couple of months he’d spent in a sling afterward.
“It’s fine,” Carver said. “It’s fine for stuff like this. Just don’t ask me to lift anything over my head.”
“I gotcha.”
But Scott remained surprised by how game Carver was to help him despite his hangover and various minor injuries; he wasn’t sure what to make of this, nor his offer to throw his money around. He was afraid to draw any conclusions about Carver’s long-term interests.
When they were done, Carver shut his trunk and turned to Scott, placing his hands on his hips. “Alright,” he said, looking up at him.
“Alright,” Scott replied.
“I’ll, uh…” Carver reached up to scratch the back of his neck. “I’ll text you, and maybe we can…”
“Sure, whatever works.”
They looked at each other for an awkward beat of silence, then let out self-conscious exhales of laughter at the same time.
“Why is this so…” Carver shook his head.
“It’s okay, seriously,” Scott said. “It’s a weird weekend.”
“It’s the weirdest weekend of my life. And I — you know —” Carver gestured between them at chest level. “When we’re alone, it’s like… I don’t know, like I get it, like, everything feels very obvious, so obvious I feel stupid, but then…”
Scott was relieved to hear the sentiment, fragmented as it was. “It’s okay,” he said. Then, feeling like Carver needed a little additional encouragement, he said, “I trust you.”
Carver looked dismayed and confused. “Why? I wouldn’t trust me.”
Scott shrugged. “I don’t know, I just do.”
“Oh, God.”
“It’s not a bad thing.”
“Jesus,” Carver said, as if Scott had just laid down in a puddle to give him a surface to walk over.
“Look,” Scott said with patience, “I understand it’s gonna take you some time to, like, sift through your life and figure things out, or maybe you might even, uh…”
“Backpedal?”
“Not backpedal, just, maybe it won’t be possible to do everything at once, and I don’t want you to feel any pressure from me. I don’t want to be a dagger over your head, man.”
“Yeah,” Carver said with a dark expression, and laughed. “But what if I want a dagger over my head? You know, life is kind of short.”
“It is.”
“Apparently I’m already older than my father ever was.”
“I just don’t want to cause you additional stress right now.”
Carver leaned against his trunk and folded his arms. “It doesn’t need to be this loosey-goosey free love hippie shit, though,” he said.
“Quite honestly, I hate that. You’re not some passing shadow, I don’t want you to be.
Cause me stress, put some expectations on me, ask me for something. Put a dent in the furniture for once.”
Scott couldn’t help smiling at this. He made sure no one was around, then leaned in toward Carver, bowing his head to bump their foreheads together. “You don’t need to be intense about this.”
“Yes, I do,” Carver said, thrumming with energy under him like an idling engine. “I do, I do, who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”
“We waited a long time to figure this out. I can wait a little longer.”
“But I feel like I know. When we’re alone I feel like I know.”
“Me too.”
“So can’t we just be alone?”
Scott drew back and looked into his eyes. “Come on. I know you. You’re the guy who did all your homework on Friday afternoon ‘cause otherwise you couldn’t enjoy a single second of your weekend.”
Carver gave him a wan smile. “No, I’m a bad boy now, I punch holes in the wall and drive drunk and yell at my mom.”
Scott laughed and pressed a brief kiss to his mouth. Carver responded with instant eagerness, like he wanted more, but Scott pulled back and whispered, “Remember where we are.”
“I don’t give a shit,” Carver said wildly. “I’ll buy this whole neighborhood and knock it down.”
“You said you had a family meeting at eleven, right? What time is it?”
Carver checked his watch. “10:55. Shit.”
“Want me to walk you over?”
“No, you should stay here. My dad was weird about you earlier, I don’t need him to give him more reasons to psychologically associate you with this paternity stuff.”
“Alright, well, text me,” Scott said.
“Yeah, I’ll let you know how it goes. And how — you know. After I talk to Lillian.” He paused. “If I can find her.”
Scott squeezed his arm. “Good luck.”
Carver smiled at him, then got back in his car and pulled out of the driveway. Scott went to the edge of the sidewalk and watched him glide away until he disappeared around a curve.
When Carver knocked on the front door, he heard Conway shout, “It’s open!”
She and Chip were both waiting in the foyer; Chip was playing with his keys and dressed like he was ready to hit the road. Conway rushed over to Carver the moment he got in the door and pulled him into a hug, surprising him. He tentatively lifted his arms and patted her on the back.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hi,” Conway said into his shoulder. “I’m so glad you finally know.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Chip jerked his thumb at her. “She was getting all weepy this morning,” he said. “She was like —” (he imitated crying) “— what if Mom’s right, and he doesn’t feel like he’s as much our brother, and he runs away with the nice Jews?”
“Stop,” Conway exclaimed, still not letting go of Carver. “Don’t tell him I said that!”
“Connie, it’s fine,” Carver said, laughing.
Conway pulled back from him and cleared her throat. “You know how much we love you, right?”
He smiled at her. “I know how much you love me.”
She laughed. “Okay, good.”
In the background, Chip mimed jerking off. His black eyes looked better today — they were starting to fade to yellow at the edges.
“When did Mom tell you guys she was worried about that?” Carver said, glancing between them.
“She told me, five years ago,” Chip said. “It was one of the reasons I wasn’t supposed to say anything.”
“Okay, well, I don’t know why we’re assuming these Jews are so nice. They could tell me to go pound sand, we have no idea.”
“No, they’ll be thrilled to meet you,” Chip said. “Then later, once they realize what a giant pain in the ass you are, they’ll tell you to go pound sand. And you’ll come back crying to us, and we’ll be sympathetic, because we knew it would happen.”
“Stop it,” Conway commanded.
“It’s cool,” Carver said, patting her back. “I’d feel worse if he wasn’t doing that. By the way, did you guys see Lillian at breakfast? Where is she?”
“We did,” Conway said. “She went to get coffee in town afterwards. She asked us to tell you to text her when we’re done here, so you guys can meet up and talk.”
“Yeah?” Carver said, his stomach plummeting with anxiety. “How’d she seem?”
“Normal. Cheerful. Hungover.”
Doug came down the stairs, then, looking fresh in a long-sleeved black Ralph Lauren polo, his hair slightly damp. “Oh, good, you’re all here.”
“Yeah, but where’s our mother?” Chip said, with a little stank on ‘mother’.
“Ah, she’s at church,” Doug said.
The three siblings looked at each other.
“Does she know Easter was last month?” Conway said.