6. Paige
6
Paige
W e’re an hour into dinner, and I think Tucker has endured every question from his favorite wild animal to what he ate for breakfast that morning.
Dad asked him both.
I mean, of course he did.
I’m not sure I’ve taken a full breath all evening. Tucker doesn’t seem angry, but maybe a little annoyed if I had to guess. Saving him from the onslaught of their questions isn’t easy. I’ve barely gotten any words in. Our relationship is still so new, as fragile as a baby bird; it could be he doesn’t like the lemon meringue Mom made for dessert, or he’s thinking of asking her for the recipe.
We’ve been seeing each other for a couple of months. Normally, I’d consider this way too early to introduce someone to my parents, but we’re still together after all this time compared to more recent flames who have burnt out in less. Plus, my family was one step away from staging a totally accidental run-in with him in order to invite him to dinner.
So, here we are.
“Tucker, do you have any siblings?” Mom asks, her chin balanced on clasped hands .
He chose a delicately colored lime green blazer with a blue button-up and tiny flamingos. I don’t hate it, but I can’t say I’ve ever dated someone with this many blazers before. He even coordinates his socks to match. It’s Amber-level madness. But maybe that’s why I like him. Reminding me of my best friend isn’t a bad thing.
“None. My parents wanted one perfect child.”
“Mine did, too.” Constance glares at me.
I’m sending her hate notes through my mind.
Rhodes coughs, which I realize is the first sound he’s made in a while. He’s been unusually quiet tonight, too. Even when Dad asked how his most recent stop motion project was coming along, he said no more than four words: it’s going well, thanks .
He should have said his Lego family went to the grocery store last week and made spaghetti together. I don’t know how he does it, but I watch them every Sunday before he posts them and kick my feet over how good they are. Rhodes has always been humble about his work, but his clipped responses aren’t that.
Something is off with him tonight. The way he leaned in when we were downstairs earlier and smelled my shirt had me thinking he planned to do something else entirely. I thought he was going to lick my neck or kiss me. Both would be wildly out of character for him, like making a U-turn from the wrong lane. But this closed-off version of him might be just as bad. I need to find a way to subtly ask him about it.
I kick his shin under the table, and he jumps with a grunt of pain.
It was far less inconspicuous than I was going for, but it will have to do. My eyebrows are lifting and lowering, eyes widening. His brows mirror mine, but his lips are in a hard line, telling me he does not forgive me for kicking him.
He’ll get over it .
I try to mouth what’s wrong to him, but Dad interjects.
“Will you pass the meringue?” he asks me.
I grab the glass pie dish, serve myself another slice, and pass it along while holding firm eye contact with Rhodes the whole time.
“So, Tucker…” Constance’s voice pulls my attention. She’s looking directly at me while addressing my boyfriend. “What would you prefer: a zombie apocalypse or being trapped inside a mall?”
I inwardly cringe.
But zombies are the clear choice. Malls smell too new, which is really just the smell of chemicals. All of the clothes will eventually end up in a landfill or Upstairs Closet. The new-with-tags rack is a happening place for people who want something brand new without paying the sticker price for it. There really is no reason to ever step into a mall when thrift stores have everything you need at a quarter of the price. And if you’re Hilda, even less than that.
“Definitely the mall,” he says without waiting a beat. He rakes his fingers through his dirty blonde hair. “I like shopping. And I’m there a few times a week anyway.”
Constance rudely points at Tucker, still looking at me. “Something’s wrong with him.”
My brows dive together. “Because he likes the mall?”
I will now defend the mall until my last breath. Her judgment of my boyfriend isn’t cool.
“I like the mall,” Dad adds.
“Honey,” Mom starts, “No one likes the mall.”
“Except Tucker,” Constance adds with an evil grin.
The entire table goes silent as we look between each other.
Rhodes clears his throat. “What do you do for work…man?”
Man ? Really?
He’s being more awkward than Dad tonight.
“I’m working a little less so I can ball a lot more right now.”
I have no idea what this means.
Dad rubs his forehead, and I can tell he’s trying to mentally Google everything Tucker just said.
“Do you have any hobbies?” Mom tilts her head, propping her chin on clasped hands.
Tucker thinks about this. He looks at me, the ceiling, then back to Mom. “The mall is my hobby.”
Constance leans her elbows on the table. “Are you obsessed with mannequins or something? Do you want to marry one and take it home to your lair forever and ever?”
“Well, I—”
“Constance,” Mom warns.
“Oh!” Tucker raises a finger. “I like baseball.”
“Do ya now?” Dad nearly crests the corner of the table to lean closer to Tucker. “Are you a Seattle fan?”
Tucker takes a bite of the meringue then uses his napkin to spit it out. Not a lemon fan . Is this a red flag? “Yup. So baller they made it to the Super Bowl.”
Dad blinks several times. “The Super Bowl is for football.”
“They probably have a Super Bowl for baseball,” Mom adds in support of Tucker.
“Yeah. And it’s called the World Series—”
“Sh,” Mom cuts him off and addresses Tucker. “Have you ever been to the Super bowl?”
Dad stretches his fingers and balls them into a tight fist.
Tucker’s smile drops, and he grabs his water. “Honestly, I just like the kettle corn they sell outside the stadium. ”
Dad deflates, sitting back in his chair again.
“I did think about opening up my own stand, though, and offering more dope flavors like grape or sweet potato. They’re like the hot younger sisters to caramel.”
Did he just look at Constance when he said that?
Constance shudders and pretends to gag.
Dad does gag, and I know it’s because, to him, sweet potatoes taste like dirt.
Mom’s smile is too big for her face, and she has about three more seconds before it starts to crack.
Rhodes is still so damn quiet, I’m about to put a finger to his throat to check his pulse.
My eyes dart from one family member to the next, ready to filter their responses, ease the blow that is sure to come because no one in my family has ever been good at holding their tongues.
Especially Constance.
“You are the worst person I’ve ever met.”
Mom’s fork clatters to her plate. “Constance Wynona Turner!”
Normally, I would take great pleasure out of hearing Mom use Constance’s full name, but after what she just said, I’m too busy inwardly freaking out while trying to keep my outward appearance neutral. I can feel my neck and face getting hotter, my stomach is crawling up my throat, and if my eye isn’t twitching yet, it should be.
“Excuse me?” Tucker looks like he swallowed a feathered creature.
“You heard me.” Constance squares her shoulders.
Dad starts to stand, holding up two hands. “Alright, Constance. I’m sure Tucker was just joking about the kettle corn. No need to get up in arms about it. Everyone knows caramel is the superior flavor. ”
“I wasn’t kidding.” Tucker throws his napkin on his uneaten pie. “You know what…” He stands, the old wooden chair from my childhood scraping the hardwood floors that have seen everything from watercolor paint to applesauce over the years. “I can see when my entrepreneurial spirit isn’t welcomed. You people are crazy!”
Oh no he didn’t.
Mom and I stand at the same time. She beats me to the next words: “Now, everyone just calm down. I’m sure what Constance meant to say is you are the worst person in this whole world .”
“That, too.” Constance nods in agreement.
“Mom!” I yell. A good I like your jacket, but not the person wearing it would have sufficed.
Tucker is already stomping out of our dining room toward the kitchen. But it’s a circular floor plan, so he eventually ends up back in the dining room. “Where’s the front door?”
Rhodes is the first to point, but the rest of my family joins in with fully extended arms.
Tucker whips around and descends the stairs in a rush, green coat tails riding the wind behind him. I’m chasing after him yelling things like they didn’t mean it! Come back! Let’s talk about this! But then he whips around and his final words are like a punch to the kidney.
“I’m allergic to cats…and I loathe lemon meringue.”
I gasp. I’m not sure which is worse. Allergic ? So that’s why his eyes got all swollen when he came over. He told me he was allergic to air.
By the time he slams the door in my face, I’m ready to scream, too.
So, I take my anger out on the closed door. “I should have listened to Cleo about you! ”
My chest is heaving, fists clenched at my sides while I pivot on my heel and see four sets of eyes on me from the top of the stairs. Each person I love more than life is staring at me with pity, and I hate it.
I hate that I let Constance bully me into inviting Tucker over to meet the family. It was too soon. I despise how quiet Rhodes has been all evening and especially loathe how rude Tucker was to my family. How dare he. I hate that a perfectly good piece of lemon meringue is smothered by his dirty napkin and completely inedible. Possibly. I should at least look at it.
But most of all, I hate that another boyfriend is gone, and I’m alone. Again. It’s a hollow kind of feeling that is hard to fill. Candy, trashy TV shows, and a new DIY project can only do so much. I’m left with a worn heart and a box of their things even if it’s only a small one.
“I’m going to my room.” My footfall is heavy as I descend the stairs.
Constance clears her throat and peers over the railing. “You mean basement.”
I glare up at her, but I’m too beat up to say anything more.
IT'S LATE, AND I’ve exhausted all my fallbacks to get out of a funk tonight. I’ve watched my favorite shows, played with Cleocatra, made a small batch of soy candles, and screamed into the void of my pillow. Nothing has helped.
My parents have tried calling multiple times after I locked my door and refused to let them in, and Constance has sent me a bottomless supply of Tucker memes from pictures she must have slyly taken of him from our fateful dinner. One was when he spit the piece of pie into the napkin, and it said, a master of dis-pies .
I can’t with her.
“Well, Cleo,” I say from my back as she snores on my pillow. “It looks like we’re going to be alone forever. Just you and me.”
She keeps purring, and I realize this might be the best news she’s heard all day. We don’t even have the kind of feed-me-and-I-won’t-kill-you kind of relationship. She’s only a year old and still enjoys chasing feathers tied to a string around the living room, but that doesn’t mean she warms up to just anyone. Cleocatra is still firmly an introvert who doesn’t have time to bond with a male who will break up with me during family dinner.
I should probably take notes from her.
Bending an arm to stroke the fur at her neck, I shake my head side-to-side. “My heart should be totally broken, right? We only dated for a couple of months, but shouldn’t I be more disappointed in losing him? Instead, I dread saying I’m single more.”
I’m boyfriend-less again.
I hate this part.
Where the loneliness of now mingles with the potential loneliness of forever. I don’t want that. But clearly, something’s wrong with me if I can’t make a real relationship work after all this time. People from high school are married with children and a mini farm of goats and chickens by now. And I’m…floundering.
I want that, too.
Maybe not the goats, but everything else.
I just can’t seem to find it with anyone.
“What is wrong with me?”
Cleocatra doesn’t answer.
No one does.
Not even me because, if I’m honest, I know what’s wrong with me.
I’m too quirky, too much of a people pleaser, too loud when I shouldn’t be, too quiet when I need to speak up, too close to my family, too fun until I’m not, too forward, too unserious, too…much.
I’m too much.
That’s my problem.
But how do I tone down my muchness?
The tears well in my eyes at the impossibility of it all. Maybe I should be alone, maybe I deserve it. At twenty-nine, I should know how to be in the world, right? I should have a career, a serious relationship that doesn’t flame out in seconds, my own car, damn it!
Instead, it feels more like I’m eighteen again, starting my adult life all over.
I swipe falling tears, silently crying as my stomach quivers with the intensity that wracks my body. Even my crying is too much. But I can’t stop; I probably would if I knew how. The Itch is running wild in my body and brain like a siren, alerting me to danger and telling me to get the hell out !
I can’t, though.
I’m stuck.
And I’m so tired of trying to fit. I knew Tucker wasn’t the guy I would build a life with, but the possibility was there as long as we were together. Now it’s gone again, my dreams with it.
The remaining tissues in the box on my nightstand are barely enough to put myself back together again, but I manage. “Back to the dating apps.”
A shudder rolls through me then my phone vibrates from beside me on the bed. Cleo is curled around my head like a fur hat with claws and teeth. I do my best to move carefully, so she doesn’t startle and decide to scratch her way across my face.
Grasping it, I peek at the screen, expecting another meme from Constance calling Tucker a bad lemon . But it’s Rhodes.
My heart sinks.
He had to witness that spectacular breakup.
It’s not like he’s never seen me heartbroken. He’s been there with me to drown my sorrows in ice cream and candle-making a number of times, but this feels different. He saw it all happen from the front row. Having an audience at all made me want to sell all my things and go live in the woods somewhere.
But, typical Rhodes, his message makes me smile.
Rhodes
Can you make sure my candle is lavender-scented this time?
I swipe to unlock my phone and reply.
Paige
Too late. I went with lemon.
Rhodes
Too soon!
Paige
I plan on shipping all of them to his house with notes of despair on each instead of encouragement.
Rhodes
Let me guess, one of them says you’re a sour puss.
Paige
And you weren’t ready for a citrus relationship.
I don’t get a response right away, but I can picture Rhodes laughing so hard, he can’t see his phone screen through the tears. There was a time in recent history where I made him laugh hard enough, he sprayed smoothie from his nose. I should have known being embarrassed with him was wasted energy because this is who he is. He’s the guy who always knows how to put a smile back on my face when someone else removed it.
Rhodes
I think I might have just woken my neighbor with how hard I was laughing.
Paige
Not like it’s hard to do with the sheet you call a wall between you. Did you spit out your water, too?
Rhodes
If I were drinking any I would’ve.
My thumbs hover over the keypad, but Rhodes immediately sends another text.
Rhodes
But really…alfredo.
I study the word alfredo on the screen that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else but me and him, which is one hundred percent the point. It’s our safe word. The one we use when we want the raw, unfiltered thoughts and gritty truths.
I sigh and start typing.
Paige
I was embarrassed everyone had to witness that…embarrassed my family said all they did.
I skip over how my eyes are still puffy and likely red.
Paige
But now that I’ve made fifteen candles and decided to move out of the country, I’m really just…relieved.
Rhodes
Wait…you only made fifteen?
Paige
Shut up.
Rhodes
Never.
Rhodes
I’m glad you found out sooner that he was a douche.
Paige
Me too.
Rhodes
Why don’t I take you out for celebratory ice cream cones tomorrow after work?
Paige
I ’d like that. See you at 5?
Rhodes
Cassandra and I will be there.
Paige
Who’s Cassandra?
Rhodes
My car. Decided she finally needed a name after all of your prodding.
My heart swells in my chest, ready to burst through my skin.
Paige
She’s perfect.
I set my phone beside my bed and roll over, still smiling even with swollen eyes. Rhodes could cheer up anyone, including me when I’m in the luteal phase of my cycle and I’m spicier than usual.
It’s probably why Rhodes is now my favorite person to talk to after a break up.
I’ve completely forgotten about Tom.
I mean, Tucker.