25. Cori
Chapter twenty-five
Cori
T wo days after the dance, I was still going back and forth in my mind about talking to Deck, trying to game-plan my approach.
Oh, hey, Deck, I know you went to jail for nearly beating to death the guy who almost raped me, and my drug addict brother with newly-diagnosed HIV is a big factor in both our lives, and you feel guilty about everything from your sister’s burns to Eliazar dying, and I’m traumatized from my mom being a sex worker and wondering all the time if my brother and I were going to get taken away, and I turned my back on my entire childhood and created a double life for myself in the corporate world, and I need to save the one place I loved growing up from financial ruin, and a month ago, we were barely speaking while prowling around a nasty drug house stepping over vomit looking for Johnny, and you still probably feel you’re bad for me, BUT I think we should start holding hands and going out to dinner and watching baseball games and stuff because I might be a little in love with you, and probably have been for basically my whole life, and, oh yeah, I think you love me too.
Even picturing the conversation made me nauseous.
It was a terrible time to upset our status quo. But for the first time in my life, I didn’t care. I wanted to do the messy, fucked-up thing. But not necessarily right this minute.
I felt like I could go slow acclimating myself to the idea first. It was enough for now to enjoy my rediscovered friendship with Deck and not rush into the next step.
Maybe I’d have a better answer when Deck came over later. I’d invited him to Sunday brunch with my friends, hoping it would make my brother feel more comfortable to have him there as a buffer.
A few minutes before Britta and Marcus were set to arrive, Johnny was still fumbling with the buttons of his polo shirt.
“You don’t have to wear that,” I said. “We aren’t formal or anything.”
“I wanna make a good impression on your fancy friends.”
He was nervous. Since leaving rehab a week ago, he’d been holed up in my house.
He’d turned my guest bedroom into a hurricane of clothes, candy wrappers, and soda cans, plus his meds were in the hall bathroom cabinet, but other than that, it was like living with a ghost. I knew I needed to approach the subject of trying a different rehab, but Johnny barely seemed able to navigate the menu on my TV, let alone discuss options for his continued recovery.
At least he hadn’t relapsed, and it had been over a month since Deck and I pulled him out of the hell house. That was something.
Since I couldn’t coax Johnny outside, I’d decided to bring people who weren’t Deck and me to him. Britta and Marcus were a soft landing. I knew they’d be kind, and I wanted Johnny to see that he fit with the other pieces of my life.
“My friends aren’t fancy,” I insisted, pulling his hands from his collar. “They’re like me.”
Johnny’s forehead stretched. “Sorry, Sis. You fancy.”
“I am not!”
“Let’s examine the evidence, shall we?” He counted off on his fingers.
“When we order takeout, you put it on plates instead of eating out of the boxes. You have spare toothbrushes for guests. Your fridge has one of those thingies to get ice and water. And you have a switch on the wall to make the shades go down over the windows.”
“Only the high ones I can’t reach!” I flicked him on the arm, pleased to feel a little meat under my fingers. “You have a low bar for what’s fancy.”
“What can I say? I grew up in a trailer park.” He grinned. I’d missed that smile.
“Well, you’ll love Britta and Marcus. Fancy or not. And they’ll love you.”
“And they know about…everything?”
“They’re my best friends, Johnny,” I said gently. “I already told you they know. And they’re not judging you. Just be yourself. That’s all you need to do.”
He inhaled warily. “’Kay.”
Britta and Marcus showed up carrying a casserole dish and a reusable grocery bag with a bottle poking out of the top.
I intercepted them in the doorway and motioned to the bag. “We should probably skip the mimosas today.”
Britta winked. “It’s sparkling cider.”
I shook my head. “Sorry.”
“No worries. I know this is weird. We’re just excited to finally meet your brother.”
“I already met him once,” Marcus said. “When Cori and I were engaged. Although he might not remember.”
“I suppose that means I was high or passed out.” Johnny entered the main room with a self-deprecating chuckle.
Marcus’s cheeks paled. “Apologies, man. I didn’t mean to imply anything.” He held out his arm, and Johnny stared at it a fraction of a second before shaking his hand.
“No offense taken. I know it wasn’t a shot.”
“Definitely not,” Marcus stated firmly before pulling his hand back. “It’s very nice to see you again, Johnny. This is my wife, Britta.”
Britta pushed the casserole dish into Johnny’s chest. His arms raised instinctively to cradle it. “Lovely to meet you,” she said. “Can you help me take this stuff into the kitchen since my husband and best friend here apparently weren’t going to offer?”
“Uh…of course.”
He walked into the kitchen and deposited the dish on the countertop.
Britta followed, asking him, “Do you know where the plates and a spatula are so I can work on this quiche? I’m not certain where your sister hides those things.”
“Sure.”
After hundreds of brunches, Britta knew perfectly well where everything in my kitchen was.
She chatted amiably with Johnny as she kept finding more tasks for him.
Would you please unwrap the scones? Don’t you just love orange chocolate?
Or are you more of a blueberry man? Let’s get the sausages in the skillet now.
I got the links. Do you prefer those or the patties?
I sent up a prayer of thanks that Marcus had the good sense to break up with me and bring this amazing woman into our lives.
Within five minutes, Britta and Johnny were engrossed in a detailed discussion about a true crime documentary they’d both watched recently, shooing me and Marcus into the living room so they could debate the merits of underwater evidence collection.
“Johnny seems alright,” Marcus said once we were out of earshot. A statement and a question.
“He is,” I agreed. “But unless we can get him into some kind of rehab program, this all feels like a ticking clock, just biding time until his next relapse.” I raised a shoulder at Marcus’s answering frown.
“It would be nice to feel differently, but I’ve been down this road too many times not to be pessimistic. ”
“But this is the longest he’s been clean in a while, right?”
“He had a few months sober after our friend Eliazar died. But there’s also more at stake now, with his heart and the HIV.” We heard the rumbling sound of a truck pulling into the driveway. “That would be Deck,” I said.
“This is the guy who was Johnny’s friend when you all were kids? The one who’s been helping you at the Center?”
“Mm-hmm,” I replied absently.
Marcus’s gaze sharpened. I hurriedly opened the door.
This was the first time I’d seen Deck in anything other than the worn jeans and gray T-shirts he wore at the Center.
His ribbed navy sweater fit his broad chest and lean torso like a glove, gold chains peeking out from the neckline.
His dark jeans, a brown belt, and matching brown lace-up boots looked like they’d come straight off a store mannequin, and his haircut was fresh, glossy black curls falling roguishly across his forehead.
A subtle smile played across Marcus’s lips as he looked from Deck to me.
I’d been drawn to Marcus in college because he exuded such a safe balance between being attractive and being approachable.
He possessed a readable face that put people instantly at ease.
The stark contrast between his openness and Deck’s enigmatic expression struck me.
“Thank you for inviting me,” Deck said formally. Holding up a bag, he added, “I brought roasted potatoes.”
“Mamá Decker’s recipe? With the peppers?” I asked hopefully.
He relaxed, grinning. “Yeah.”
After introducing Deck to Britta, the five of us sat down to eat. Surprisingly, Johnny carried the brunt of the conversation, eager to continue engaging with Britta about their similar taste in movies and TV.
“Deck and Cori only want to watch dumb comedies,” he complained. “Like, ever since we were kids, I’d vote for Tarantino or some cool horror movie, and these two would be like, ‘Nah. Let’s watch Forgetting Sarah Marshall for the five millionth time.’”
I tsked. “You’ve never had any taste, Brother.”
“No, I’m with you, Johnny,” Marcus said. “When Cori and I were engaged, I’d suggest dramas or action movies, but she’d only ever agree to go see comedies.”
Deck’s fork clanked loudly as he dropped it on his plate. Four pairs of eyes turned to him.
“Sorry,” he stammered.
Britta observed him keenly before smiling. “Deck, has Cori not filled you in on our friend group’s sordid history?” she asked.
“Oh, stop.” I made a face at her.
She ignored me, turning to Deck. “Once upon a time, Marcus and Cori were a couple. And they got engaged. But then they broke up—”
“Marcus dumped me,” I interjected.
“Sort of,” Marcus corrected.
Britta grimaced, shutting us both up. “Anyhoo,” she continued, “they broke up but stayed good friends. Because that’s all they ever should have been.
Then Marcus met me, and we got married. Cori stood up for us at our wedding and gave a very bland and boring toast at the reception.
Now we’re all friends. Except Cori’s better friends with me than her ex-fiancé. ” She gave Marcus a triumphant smile.
“Well, that’s mostly true,” I said. “Except it was a fantastic toast.”
“You quoted Lana Del Rey,” Britta argued.
“Like I said, fantastic toast.”
Deck chortled with the rest of us, but seemed unsure.
“So Deck,” Britta began, giving me a shit-eating grin, “Cori told us you and Johnny were close growing up, but it sounds like maybe you were all friends?”