Chapter Four #2
Chloe props her feet on top of the cooler and fans herself. “I just wish we could eat hot dogs and watch the fireworks without all the ’Murica, you know?”
I lean forward to get a better look at her and her “Stop Pretending Your Racism Is Patriotism” shirt.
“So you what, want to have a barbecue, watch fireworks, and listen to Taylor Swift?”
She peers at me over top of her overly large sunglasses, which is amusing because the sun set like a half hour ago, and grins. “Exactly. Start waving flags of our favorite albums instead of the Stars and Stripes.”
“What flag would you be flying, then?” Jules asks, perking right the hell up at the mention of Taylor Swift.
“1989, obviously.”
“I’d fly Reputation,” I supply and lean back in my chair to watch a young mom chase her toddler down the street.
Chloe snorts. “Of course you would. Jules?”
“Lover.”
Chloe nods. “That tracks.”
Curiously, I look at Jules casually taking a bite of her ice pop.
I wonder when Lover became her favorite?
Back in middle school, she used to play Fearless on repeat.
The entire album, not just the song. It got to the point where if I heard “Hey Stephen” one more time, I was going to lose my mind.
Going from Fearless to Lover is just another example of how much she’s changed.
“Not that anyone asked,” Mason pipes up, “but I’ll just be over here in my Folklore era.”
Chloe raises her fist into the air as if she’s standing with him in solidarity. “Let your Folklore flag fly, baby cakes.”
Mason seems pleased with the response and goes back to playing on his phone.
I lean in closer to Jules. “Lover, huh? Any specific reason?”
Jules sucks out the last little bit of juice from her ice pop and shoves the wrapper into one of the cup holders of her foldout chair. “Maybe. By the way”—she shifts so she’s facing me—“you may think you’re Reputation, but you’re definitely more The Tortured Poets Department.”
“Oh really?”
She nods, and her phone buzzes, and a text steals her attention before she can explain.
She takes her necklace between her fingers and idly rubs the silver bow and arrow.
“Tyler?” I ask knowingly.
She doesn’t look at me when she answers. “He’s with his family at their beach house. He’s trying to focus on family time before school.”
I stick the orange Popsicle in my mouth and take in the tiny micro shifts of Jules’s expression. A twitch of her brow. A slight frown on her lips. A touch of sadness in her eyes. “Are you two…okay?”
This seems to get her attention. She puts on the fakest smile I have ever seen and drops her hand from the pendant. “Why wouldn’t we be?”
I suck on my Popsicle, my gaze never leaving hers, and slowly shrug. “I don’t know, you tell me.”
“There’s just a lot to do before school, you know?” She’s lying. I know she is. But before I can press, she puts her hand on my arm and twists so she’s giving me her full attention. “Hey, the Nats are playing the Reds in a couple weeks. Do you still want to go?”
We’ve been going to see the Nats and Reds play for years. It’s one of my favorite parts about summer. “Hell yeah, we are.”
A burst of laughter catches our attention and we all watch as Mrs. Barndhart encourages her husband to keep telling whatever story he’s acting out in front of their friends in their front lawn across the way.
She holds up her cup, and some of her cheap wine sloshes out while she continues to laugh like a hyena.
“Think Mom will let me fire a bottle rocket at the neighbors this year?” Mason asks.
“Probably not,” I tell him, though I’d love to see it.
Chloe stares at the Barndharts and their drunk friends with curiosity. “Why would you fire a bottle rocket at your neighbors?”
“Different political beliefs,” Jules answers simply. As if the large political flags hanging from their house and the boat sitting in the driveway didn’t answer that question.
“Ew.” Chloe gasps with a sudden idea. “I can distract them for you.”
Mr. Barndhart finishes his story and pulls out his phone and turns his red slogan cap backward. He cues a song and motions for his group to follow him.
Mason sinks in his seat. “Oh, Jesus, here they come.”
With a beer in one hand and his phone held high in the other, he and his group make their way over, blaring “God Bless the USA” as loud as the little speaker will allow.
Chloe looks positively horrified. “Do they do this every year?”
“Yup,” I say, drawing out the word and popping the “p.” “Fuck the patriarchy!” I yell when they pass.
“Alex,” my mom scolds, whipping her head around and pinning me with a disapproving glare.
Richard holds up his beer. “End male supremacy!”
She smacks Richard on the arm, but that doesn’t stop him from turning to give me a wink. Chloe and Mason cheer, and though it does nothing to deter the patriotic brigade, it makes me feel a little better.
The neighborhood firework show ends up being rather spectacular. It never fails to amuse me that the neighborhood cop is the one who crosses into Pennsylvania for all the good shit. You know, the kind that are illegal here in the Old Dominion.
A rather impressive display of colors explode into the air, causing all sorts of oohs and ahs, followed by Jules gasping out a loud “Oh my God.”
“Yeah,” I agree, staring at the constant barrage of the multicolored pyrotechnics.
“No, not that.” Julia grabs my arm and points to Richard on one knee in front of my mom, right there in the middle of the damn cul-de-sac. “That!”
I look from the small box in his hand to my mom. Her hand covers her mouth, and even from here, I can tell she’s crying. She drops to her knees in front of Richard, her head nodding furiously.
“All right, Mom,” Mason calls out, and everyone in the area starts to clap and cheer.
The fireworks are no longer the main focus.
Instead, it’s my mom with both hands on Richard’s cheeks, peppering his face with smile-shaped kisses.
I’ve never seen my mother glow this much.
And when she pulls away to check out her new bling, Mason and I rush toward her, sandwiching her into a tight embrace and pulling Richard in, too.
“That was so romantic,” Jules says as we sit on her swings once the fireworks end and the street’s been cleaned.
Chloe went home not that long ago, and even though there are still pops of color exploding into the sky some distance away, it seems as though the celebration is coming to an end. “Your mom looked so happy.”
“Yeah, she really did.” For the rest of the night, Mom couldn’t stop smiling or clinging to Richard. She deserves it. To have this kind of happiness that Richard seems to effortlessly pull out of her.
“If someone proposed to you,” Jules starts, “how would you want them to do it?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.” When I think about my future, I see exotic places. A modest-sized house. Maybe a dog. But a wife? I’m not sure that’s in the cards for me. “What about you?”
“It depends on the person, I think.” She tightens her grip on the chains and slowly lets herself sway with a faraway look.
“Something intimate and meaningful. I don’t think I’d want to be asked in front of people, though.
I’d rather it be a quiet moment between us.
Maybe doing something casual so it’s unexpected, but not… ”
“No grand gesture? No million rose petals sprinkled everywhere, illuminated by candlelight or a fancy dinner at an expensive restaurant?”
“If it’s the right person, I wouldn’t need all that.” Her eyes widen, and she looks at me as though she just realized what she said. “Not that your mom’s proposal wasn’t spectacular. I think it was perfect for her. But for me…”
“Something quiet and intimate. Unexpected but not,” I repeat.
She smiles and sighs dreamily. “Yeah.”
I watch her gain momentum and kick her feet until she gets some height on the swing, another firework bursting in the distance. She’s never looked prettier. It makes my heart clench in a weird sort of sadness.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Quiet and intimate.”