Chapter 5 #5
There he is, standing in the doorway of his own kitchen.
Shower-damp, shoulder-length hair, wearing a plum cotton shirt and lounge trousers.
And he’s tall, far taller than Bren. Not smiling, exactly, but his eyes are warm, chocolatey-dark.
Attractive, Bren supposes, in an artsy, asymmetrical sort of way, with his brown-black hair and soft-looking stubble and an air of ease that Bren himself has to force but here, on this guy, seems effortless.
Because he’s a touch older, maybe. Not by much, but enough to make Bren feel … less than, somehow.
But less than what?
This is not a competition; there is no prize.
They’re just having dinner and hanging out and, as Bren had assured Freya, not digging up their past, which is overgrown now, anyway, with new grass.
A ring on Nora’s finger. Tattoos – an actual shark bite, for crying out loud – layers of sunburn and old bruises come and gone across Bren’s own skin.
What have I missed? Robin asks, as he buttons his shirt. Casual, like they’ve all been friends for years. Nora has turned back to the hob, is cutting strips of raw chicken, pearly pink, into the wok.
Not much, she says. We were waiting for you.
Robin glances at Bren with a gentle smile, and Bren swallows – whatever it is that needs swallowing – and stands.
So great to meet you, Robin says, as he clasps his hand with both his own, and Bren notes that his use of the word great, here, seems genuine. His handshake firm, but not threatening. Not threatened.
You too, Bren says. I’ve heard a lot about you.
Which isn’t strictly true, but it’s what you say, isn’t it; he feels awkward about it for the first time as he sits back down; aware, finally, of how he never bothered to ask after him. Never asked how things were going, between them. What he’s like, even. Who he is.
So are you over the jet lag yet? Robin asks, and other questions come, too, flowing like water, is he adjusting to the cold British weather? Sunrise, so late in the day, here. Walking? Walking where? Just around, you know. Getting his bearings.
Nice to see your mum? Robin says, as he uncorks some red wine – not the bottle that Bren brought, but something French, expensive-looking. Nora said that Josie’s –
Will you make the guacamole, please, Nora asks, and this was his job when his dad hosted burrito night, so Bren rises from his chair just as Robin says sure – because of course, she was talking to him.
The guy in the plum shirt with the suave stubble and shared bank account, the one who proposed, who is on a first-name basis, it seems, with his own mother.
Bren pretends he was simply leaning over for more crisps.
Sits back down as Robin takes a knife to an avocado, twists the two halves apart.
I wanted to thank you for all the fridge magnets, Robin says, as Bren feels something strange settling in his stomach.
They weren’t for you, he wants to say, that settled-something now churning.
Oh, he says, instead. Sure. I knew Nora was bound to have a big fridge, so.
Weird thing to say. Meant to express he knows how much she loves to cook, comes off as implying she’s fat, or something, which she isn’t.
Not skinny, either, not that it matters.
He’s never looked at her like that. Sized her up, thought about her in a way that ranks her somewhere, in terms of attractiveness.
Maybe once, at a party when they were sixteen, when he saw her in this particular red dress, memories he’d buried because there is new grass, remember, new grass, and a beer, thank god, that needs drinking.
So tell me! Robin says, as Nora moves her spatula around the wok, and Bren takes a long glug to hide his face. Where’s the best place you’ve been?
Um, Bren says, lowering his bottle.
Hard to choose?
Like choosing a favourite child, Bren says.
My parents would definitely choose my brother, Robin says.
So would mine, Bren says, if I had one.
Unsure laughter, then, from Robin. Nora passes him the coriander; Robin shreds it with his hands; Bren watches them work alongside each other, wordless and practised, in their kitchen.
Lemon juiced. Hob turned off. Food scooped into pre-warmed dishes before being brought to the table, Robin offering another drink, Bren?
and then they’re all seated and Nora is handing Bren a serving spoon, citrus and spices on the air.
Guests first, she says.
Which is an odd word for him, he thinks, out of Nora’s mouth.
There’s a formality about it, he muses, as he takes the spoon from her.
Not one he’d have used, if the tables were turned.
A guest is invited into one’s home. Temporarily.
Tips easily into intruder, if they outstay their welcome.
This, from the girl who used to fall asleep in his games room.
Feet in his lap. Drool down her chin. Held him, in the driveway, when his dad –
You’re very skinny, Nora observes, as Robin hands him a tortilla.
Am I?
Sinewy, Nora says, and Robin blasts Nora! Leave the poor guy alone! I gained ten pounds when I moved in with her, he says to Bren, in what is seemingly a conspiring tone. She’s nothing if not a feeder.
Always has been, Bren says. Flashes, then, of shared popcorn in that same games room; Creme Eggs in her pockets; three ice cream scoops, instead of two, if you’re going to do it, Bren, do it right.
It’s not clear whether Robin heard him over the scraping of the spoons, or the faux sound of offence that Nora makes in response.
It helps that you’re a sensational cook, Robin adds, leaning to one side as though squeezing her knee under the table.
A fizzing starts up, inside of Bren, at that. Like a can of drink that’s been shaken.
Well, it all looks great, Bren manages. Thanks.
And Nora nods, her cheeks still that permanent pink, says of course. It’s so nice to have him here.
Lovely. Great. Nice.
Tortillas, lifted to their mouths.
Do they actually eat fajitas, in Mexico? Robin asks, after a generous bite. Or is it like chicken tikka masala – a Britishism you wouldn’t actually find in India?
I never saw one, Bren says. But I’m sure they’re about, for the tourists. In Cancún, or whatever.
Ah. You weren’t in Cancún? Robin says, with a tilt of his head, which Bren takes to mean: you weren’t a tourist?
He’s heard it before, from plenty of people.
Eye rolls. Good for yous. And what will you do, after this?
He’s wasted enough breath trying to prove the way he moves through the world is more than a holiday, more than partying by night and catching rays every day.
More than an extended gap year. More than an existence that’ll lead him, presumably, nowhere.
But so what if it wasn’t? So what if flicking between outdoor centres and continents and rental contracts feels dubious to most people, prompts a raised eyebrow and unimpressed oh, so what if they don’t get why that’s as good a life as anything back here, with these dishwasher-safe plates and home insurance and ladders being climbed in an office or an art café or a – wherever it is Robin works?
All of that, and for what? An annual respite in a warm country near the ocean, for two weeks, if you’re lucky.
When Bren’s whole life is a respite from all that, he thinks, as he takes another bite of his wrap.
A rejection, even, of what’s expected of everyone in a broken system, where you grow up, pay bills, care for your kids and then your parents, pay off the mortgage you almost didn’t get approved in the first place, pay for your own funeral, too, if you’re a good sport, then die after never having felt alive, never having seen or done anything, no thanks, not for him.
Robin and Nora are waiting for him to respond, and when he doesn’t, must assume he didn’t hear the question.
How’s the work, out in Mexico, Robin tries, instead. Not that you’re there, these days, I know. The adventure scene is a tad easier to picture in New Zealand.
Bren spoons more guacamole onto his plate.
I led biking tours for a company in Oaxaca, he says. For a while.
Like mountain biking?
Any kind of biking, Bren says. Mexico had opportunities all over. City tours. Overnight bike-packing. Whatever I was paid to do.
So you do have to think about money, Robin says, and Bren takes another large mouthful so he’s spared answering, for a moment.
He’s known this guy all of five minutes and already he’s being grilled about his mother, his finances, his job.
What do you do, he wants to ask, but no need, he can tell just from looking at him with his burgundy shirt, his tapered trousers, he’s a designer, probably, or an architect.
He knows that Nora met him at art school.
I get paid for the legitimate work I do, yes, Bren says, and Nora stops chewing, her own mouth full.
He didn’t mean – she tries, just as Robin says I didn’t – and they break off, wait for the other to speak; fragmented pause; Robin, turning back to Bren.
I was just curious, he says. Crease of concern between his eyebrows, because he’s offended him; and Bren feels bad then. Just slightly.
It’s enough money to live on, he says. Not enough to buy a house, or save up for any big purchases, or whatever. I won’t be driving a Volvo any time soon.
Robin nods, but Nora frowns. Keeps looking at Bren while she swallows.
Not that there’s anything wrong with Volvos, Bren says.
No? Nora says. There’s a high, questioning note to her voice as she lays her wrap on her plate. He hears it, that pointed pitch; Robin must too.
Am I missing something? Robin says.
Yes, thinks Bren. No, says Nora: his mum drives a Volvo, that’s all.
Although drives is a generous term, Bren says. Pretty sure it just sits in the driveway, these days.