17. In Which Aiden’s Heart Does Inconvenient Things #2
“Of course not,” my mom says quickly, and her shocked expression relaxes a bit. “Of course. Well,” she goes on, looking curiously at me. “Is she cute?”
“Mom,” Caroline says. She’s still chopping that lettuce with vigor. “ Kittens are cute. Babies are cute.”
“Women can be cute,” I say, my voice absent as I remember Juniper decked out in her Halloween outfit—the inside-out sweatshirt and the ghost leggings and the pumpkin headband. “But Juniper mostly isn’t.”
“So she’s not pretty,” my mother says, sounding relieved. A second later, the sound of her knife starts up again; she seems to have found reassurance where none was meant.
“She’s definitely pretty,” Caroline says. “A little unconventional, but still very pretty. You can be pretty and not cute, Mom. You could be hot and not pretty or cute. They’re all different.”
“Well, then, what is she?” my mom says, throwing her hands up in the air.
“Mom, knife! ” Caroline and I say at the same time.
The knife clatters to the cutting board as my mom drops it. She once again wipes her hands on her apron and turns to face me. “Tell me, then. Do you like her? ”
“She’s a good roommate,” I say, my answer reluctant, my fingers drumming impatiently on the countertop. “But she drives me crazy.”
Now Caroline stops chopping too, turning around and giving me her full attention. She looks so much like Mom, the two of them standing there next to each other, that I have to fight my smile.
“In a good way or a bad way?” she says, her head tilting curiously.
Ah. That’s the question, isn’t it?
And though I’m not going to admit it to the nosy women in my family, I think it’s safe to say both . Juniper drives me crazy in the bad way and in the good way.
She’s obnoxious; pushy and invasive and snarky. But there have also been a couple times when arguing with her was the highlight of my day, filling me with an almost euphoric amusement—or when I’ve found myself wondering if kissing her would get her to shut up.
We bicker like cats and dogs, in other words, but there’s also a strong undercurrent of mutual attraction.
“It’s complicated,” I say finally. Then I sigh. I really don’t feel like answering all these questions. “Tell you what, Mom,” I add. “If I start a relationship with someone, you’ll be the first to know. Okay?”
“Aiden doesn’t like women because they’re pretty,” Caroline says—as if she hasn’t contributed to this mess enough already. “He isn’t really attracted to them physically until he’s attracted to them mentally—ow!” She breaks off, rubbing the back of her head.
“I barely touched you,” I mutter as I squeeze past her, heading out of the kitchen. “But mind your own business.” How does she even know that about me? Sisters aren’t supposed to know that kind of thing.
I dart out of the way, smirking as I avoid Caroline’s retaliatory swat by mere inches. Then I book it to the family room, where there’s more noise but fewer questions. My dad and Jeff are planted firmly on the sofa, their eyes glued to my parents’ television, where some football game is playing.
“Girls,” I say to the twins, who are now chasing each other around the dining room table and shrieking with laughter. “Do you need to wash your hands before dinner?”
“Yes,” Jeff calls without tearing his eyes from the screen. “Hadley, Myra,? * wash your hands, girls.”
They divert course almost seamlessly, two little four-year-old rockets shooting toward the bathroom, hands and faces sticky from sneaking candy. I smile slightly as they zoom past.
They’re loud, but they’re cute. If I ever have kids someday, I hope they’re as cute as the twins.
To give myself something useful to do, I set the table.
My parents aren’t overly formal, but they aren’t like Juniper and I, either, who use plastic plates from Target.
The plates I set out are glazed ceramic, the cups glass.
A few minutes later my mom and Caroline emerge from the kitchen, carrying what looks like roast beef, mashed potatoes, and a large bowl of salad.
The smell of food is what seems to pry my dad and Jeff away from the TV; they mute it, and within thirty seconds everyone is seated.
I scowl at the mashed potatoes, remembering the food fight in the cafeteria.
At least my mom’s food is better than any school lunch.
As my eyes trail over the table, though, an uncomfortable twinge of…
something plucks at my heart. I eye the mashed potatoes, covered in gravy; the roast beef, surrounded by carrots and onions; the salad, tossed with cheese, tomatoes, and croutons.
I take the table in, and then I realize: it has always looked this way.
When I was a kid, and even still today, I have always been able to sit at a table that’s loaded with food.
We could afford it, yes, but I was also raised by parents who took the time to cook for us.
Hunger, especially as a child, has many different sources, but two of them are the lack of money to buy food and the lack of an adult figure to prepare that food.
I grew up with both.
I’m rounding the table before I even realize my feet are moving. And when I reach my mother, enveloping her in a huge hug, my arms are folding her into my embrace before I even give them consent to do so.
“Thank you,” I say into her fluffy hair. She smells like dish soap and lavender potpourri.
“Oh, my,” she says, sounding flustered. She seems surprised enough by this sudden display of affection that she doesn’t know how to respond, but a moment later her arms wrap around me, returning my hug. “For what?”
How do I even begin to explain? How do I tell her that I’ve been feeling irritable about my high school students throwing food around, and yet I didn’t even think to thank the woman who made sure I was always fed and clothed and happy?
How do I tell her I’m slowly learning that it’s okay to feel grateful rather than guilty that I grew up with so much?
“Just—the meal,” I say, my voice halting. “It looks good.”
She chuckles, the sound muffled by my shoulder. “You’re welcome, sweetheart. Now sit down, let’s eat. The food is getting cold.”
I get a few strange looks as I sit back down—mostly from my dad and Caroline—but no one says anything, and I’m grateful.
Then, for a few minutes, dinner goes the way dinners always do: the women talk and the men eat.
My dad, Jeff, and I are all more on the quiet side, probably because we’ve got Caroline and my mom to contend with.
They chatter back and forth while the three of us stuff our faces, acting like we’ve never eaten anything good in our lives before this meal.
What can I say, though? My mom’s cooking is fantastic.
I’m just standing up to refill my water glass when the doorbell rings. I look at my parents, who in turn are looking at each other.
“Is someone else coming?” my dad says with a frown.
“No,” my mom says, and she’s frowning too.
“Yes,” Caroline says.
We all turn to her.
“It’s Juniper,” she says in answer to our unspoken question. Then she smiles at me. “She needs to borrow some of the clothes I keep in my old bedroom closet.”
“What the heck kind of name is Juniper —” Jeff begins, but Caroline silences him with a glare.
“She’s Aiden’s new roommate, and she’s very nice,” my sister says, “so you will all behave yourselves and refrain from asking any invasive questions.” When no one answers, she looks pointedly at our mom. “Mother,” she says, the warning clear in her tone.
“Of course I’ll behave myself,” my mom says, blustering a bit. She smooths her hands over her frizzy, brownish-gray hair. “I only was wondering why she wanted to room with a man?—”
“Nope,” I say. “You definitely are not asking her that.” Then I turn to Caroline. “Why did you invite her here?”
“Because,” Caroline says, exasperated, “I told her she could borrow an outfit, and it’s one of the ones I keep in my old bedroom because it doesn’t fit me anymore.”
“Yeah, but with everyone here,” I say, running my hand through my hair. This has the potential to be a trainwreck.
Jeff clears his throat. “Is anyone gonna answer the door, or…?”
“Yes, I’m going,” Caroline says, hurrying away from the table.
“Why would she think I’m going to be invasive?” my mom says to my dad, looking hurt. “I’m not invasive. Am I invasive?”
“What does invasive mean?” Hadley says.
“It means Grandma asks questions that are none of her business,” I say hastily, pushing my chair in. I take my plate to the kitchen and leave it in the sink; I’ll do it later. Right now I need to act as Juniper’s bodyguard, just to make sure she doesn’t get sucked into the Milano vortex.
She’s just stepped inside by the time I get to the front door. She smiles at me before noticing the rest of the family seated at the dining room table.
“Hi,” she says, giving them a little wave. Then she turns to Caroline. “Thanks for letting me stop by.”
“Of course,” Caroline says, waving the thanks away. “This is where I keep some of my old clothes that don’t fit anymore. It was my room growing up. Come on back!”
I follow Juniper and Caroline into Caroline’s old bedroom, watching in bemusement as they chatter like the oldest of friends. When did they get so close? How did that happen?
It makes me a little nervous. Does Caroline know any deep, dark secrets of mine? Do I have any of those? Things I don’t want Juniper to know?
My stomach tightens as I realize I do, in fact, have a secret like that. Crap. I don’t think Caroline knows, though.
I breathe a sigh of relief. We should be good.
Caroline’s childhood bedroom is an ode to the night sky—a deep purplish-blue comforter with faded silver stars, light purple walls, some sort of funky plastic night light in the shape of a crescent moon.
She did to her bedroom what I never bothered doing to mine: gave it personality.
Only as I got older did I appreciate my room as a space I could cultivate rather than something merely functional.