Four
I sink deeper into the couch and pull the fleece blanket over my head. Today? Today calls for burrito mode. I deserve this. I’ve earned it.
I want to tunnel into fabric like the Nile crocodile. Not really the poster child for animals that like to dig or hide from the world, but their dens can be up to forty feet deep. Forty feet of dirt between you and the world, and a cold-blooded crocodile heart that doesn’t care that it’s Friday night and you have no plans.
I used to have plans. Friday night was always date night, and date night was nonnegotiable. A concept I’d struggled with a few times, when things had come up with friends or family, but Josh was clear. If we didn’t prioritize our relationship, who would?
Now, after all the prioritizing my brain and heart were capable of, I’m sitting here, smothered in fleece and feeling my lack of plans like a wound.
It’s been weeks since he verified in the chemistry lab that this was more than a temporary break. Four entire Friday nights when I’ve had no idea what he’s replaced me with.
I pull out my phone, the screen casting a dim light in my little cave, and I go right to the message thread. The same texts I’ve pulled up several times a day since he cut me loose like deadweight. To convince myself we were real. That I didn’t imagine it. That I wasn’t alone in it.
Rise and shine, beautiful girl. Let me know your plans for the day.
Lying here in bed, wish I had my girl here with me.
I scroll, almost frantic.
I love you, Lo.
Are you really going to make your boyfriend go to this party by himself?
The fight from that one had been memorable. I ended up canceling on Odette and Poppy to keep the peace, but the soft slide of his hand in my hair later that night—the gentle kisses until I melted like spring snow—had almost made it feel like I made the right choice.
I scroll back down and start to type out Not our usual Friday night, huh? I’m trying for glib, but I know I’ve fallen far from the mark.
We’re not exes who’ve reached a cautious peace, or a comfortable indifference. I’m actively bleeding, and it’s messy and unpleasant to witness.
I carefully push the backspace key until it’s gone. He’s not the one to commiserate with. He’s the one who set fire to all of this. He’s the instrument of this destruction.
But I still want him,my heart thumps pathetically.
The past few weeks have been clear, my brain replies. He’s made it clear he doesn’t want you back.
“It’s all right, Marlowe, not everyone’s built for it.”
I huff, my breath warming the air under the blanket, and pull myself free. I’m not some shameful, sordid secret, like when we found out our postmaster was sticking letters in his pants prior to deliveries. I refuse to be an awkward memory. I’m going to make him look at me. I’m going to show him that all this time wasn’t for nothing.
I can be romantic. How hard could it be? I turn the phone back on, the cursor blinking at me in pity.
Your hair is as gold as… gold.I wince, deleting the last word.
Your hair is as gold as pyrite.How is that worse?
Your hair shines like neon in a light-emitting diode.Ugh, why am I fixated on the periodic table? Gold like Momma’s favorite hoops?
I close the message thread before any of my pitiful attempts spill into the ether.
I wince into the darkness of my crocodile cave. Just because I don’t have the words doesn’t mean I don’t have the feelings.
I open a browser and pull up my new favorite website and distraction, burying sickly feelings of failure down deep. I refuse to feel guilty about searching for information about Ashton Hayes after the way he spoke up in class. What if he’d murdered someone in the past with one of his spiked ear cuffs? Or was a secret Transylvanian prince? Both would be important pieces of information to have, but the only thing that popped up was that band he seems to have started shortly after moving here.
The Never Mind the Monsters website leaves a lot to be desired. Now, I’m not a website purist, but nothing could have prepared me for the blinding neon-green background or the Papyrus font. There are only a few grainy pictures, and one video where you can barely hear the music over the videographer’s talking. But what I could hear has crawled into my brain. I know the words, I know the moments where Ash grabs the microphone as if steadying himself, and I find myself humming the melody throughout the day.
A throat clears and I kill the video. My stepdad, Stu, leans against the doorway to the dining room. “Hey, Lo,” he says, salt-and-pepper hair tousled, with a smile that shines from half a dozen billboards in our town. Most people I know have bought their cars from his dealership. Once a River Haven High football star, he stayed in this tiny little town and now sells Cadillacs at a rate that makes it seem like everything he touches does indeed turn to gold.
He came into my life when I was three, still reeling from my parents’ divorce the year before. Dad still lived in town, and the back-and-forth between houses was giving me whiplash. I couldn’t figure out a schedule or a rhythm. He showed up one afternoon, leaned down, stuck out a hand, and seriously introduced himself as Stu. I sometimes wonder if it hurt him that it never once occurred to me to call him anything else.
He gleams, just like Josh does. A sense of self that I look on with envy. Tan skin, and shining white teeth that he protects by drinking red wine through a straw.
“Our appearances are our first impression, Lo,” he’ll tell me, as if it’s not ridiculous, swirling Merlot with a pink silicone tube. I’ll nod sagely, because he’s probably not wrong, but also because he’s kind.
He’s always been kind, and though his booming voice and even louder personality tend to take up every square inch of a room, he’s always tried to make space for me too.
“Hey,” I say now, pulling the blanket farther down from my face. “Was just a little cold.” No Nile crocodiles here. I’m using this blanket for completely normal reasons.
“Sure, those brisk September nights in Georgia will do that to you.”
“Exactly,” I say, ignoring the smile in his voice.
“I’m driving Blue to a sleepover, and then me and Mom are off to dinner. Do you need me to drop you anywhere?”
See? Kind. His tone is light, and he knows as well as I do that my old but sturdy Volvo is poorly parked in the driveway, but he’s just trying to check in.
“Nope,” I say, with more emphasis than the room can bear. “I’m in for the night.” I smooth the blanket across my legs.
“Are you sure? You’re always out on Fridays,” he says, not taking the hint.
Yes. Yes, I was. I will Stu all the emotional intelligence I can spare and pray he won’t make me say it. Again. Yes, Friday nights were always date night, when there was someone who wanted to date me.
He finds a clue in my silence, and realization blooms across his face. A rosy hue rises to the deep tan that remains in place year-round thanks to the methodical application of Sun Bunny Self-Tanner.
“Oh, gotcha. Sorry, kiddo.” There’s so much remorse in those words I almost feel worse for him.
“Yeah, well, things are a little different now.”
He wilts a little more, his big personality shrinking in real time. He liked Josh. He was Josh, at one point. But I think he liked me with Josh most of all, because we finally found some common ground. He understood parties, football games, and homecoming dances. I still had math club, science projects that spilled out and took over our dining table for weeks at a time, academic award ceremonies, but now I was also a “normal” high school kid. I don’t even think he thought of me as a real teenager until the fateful weekend Momma found condoms in my room.
He turns his salesman shine my way. “Well, you should come to dinner with me and your mom, then. We’re heading to the steakhouse, and I won’t even try to steal some of your dessert.”
I smile and infuse as much gratitude as I can into it. “That’s a really nice offer, Stu, but a crowbar couldn’t get me off this couch right now.”
He laughs, and it’s filled with both guilt and relief. I know neither one of them know what to do with me right now. I was the stability in this house. Reliable. Unflappable. A steady presence in the face of Blue’s daily hurricane. Sad me has cast a pall through every hallway.
“I’m ready, can we go already?” Blue crashes through the kitchen door in a cloud of body spray. She drops her overstuffed duffel bag at Stu’s feet.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” I say, just to see her roll her eyes, and she doesn’t disappoint.
“Are you just going to sit there all weekend?” The words are sharp, thrown carelessly over her shoulder, but I see the stalling. The slow shuffle of her feet as she waits for my answer.
“I’m fine, Bluebell. Promise.” I hide a smile. “You better not have left that duck wandering around this house.”
“I will have you know that duck is better behaved than most of the other occupants of this house.” Her cheeks pink, she folds her arms tightly. “But Snow White is in her hutch since you’re too mean to want to hang out with her.”
“She’s a farm animal.”
“She’s family.”
“All right, girls, let’s table this old argument for the night.” Stu picks up Blue’s bag and gently tugs on her ponytail. “Go tell your momma to come on.”
Blue walks to the doorway and yells up to the second story. “Momma, let’s go! Night, Meemaw!”
Coming, babydrifts down to us, but I can’t resist one more poke. “Meemaw can’t hear you from this part of the house.”
“Yes, she can! You don’t know everything, Marlowe.”
“I know it’s my room she’s haunting, and you would have needed to yell from the kitchen doorway.”
“She haunts my room sometimes too!”
“Girls, girls. Meemaw is haunting all of us, okay? Marlowe, quit teasing your sister, I’m trying to get my steak this century.”
My heart tugs fondly as Momma races down the stairs with a kiss in my direction and they finally pour out the front door.
And then the house is mine, and quiet. I flip through channels, but nothing can capture my attention for more than a second. I feel like static is buzzing under my skin, keeping me constantly alert and uncomfortable. Waiting for the last shoe to drop. For the next explosion in my life. I shove the blanket to the floor and try to shake off the jitters.
The house creaks beneath me, and I move my heavy limbs into the kitchen and put my brain to work. We’re solidly an ingredient house—Momma doesn’t believe in snacks or a messy pantry, and we work for every guilty pleasure here. I pull out a sturdy mug and start measuring.
Flour. Cocoa powder, oil, milk. Sugar.
Ninety seconds later, the microwave beeps with my salvation. I choke a little on its density. It’s less the cake of my dreams and more a heavy concoction that will sit in my gut like a brick.
I try again, adding chips and espresso powder for a mocha vibe. Again, close, but just this edge of bitter.
I put specimen two aside and try another version with some vanilla, brown sugar, and butter. Sweeter, but still flat and dense.
I move on to specimen four and add baking powder and cinnamon. This one fluffs up very satisfyingly, but the cinnamon falls a little flat. It’s too quiet a cake for heartbreak. I need sprinkles.
The fifth version boosts my spirits enough to get halfway through it before the doorbell rings and the front door crashes open at the same time.
“We’re here, where are you?!” Odette yells.
I choke around a bite a little too big. “Here” creaks out of me.
They push through the swinging door and pause at the cake mug sentinels surrounding me.
“You okay there, buddy?” Odette asks. Poppy follows close behind, her lips forming a silent O.
I straighten, pulling up Josh’s old River Haven football sweatpants. “Never better, why do you ask?”
“Oh, no reason,” Odette says, moving forward and picking up specimen one before wrinkling her nose and putting it down.
“The original was not my best effort.”
Poppy opens the silverware drawer and snags a spoon and specimen three. She takes a bite before pushing it away.
“The vanilla ratio on that one might be a little heavy-handed.” I grimace.
“So, just casually making an excessive amount of cake for no reason?” Odette asks, inspecting me for cracks.
“Well, that’s better than going to his house, right?”
She covers her face. “Tell me you didn’t.”
“Or texting him everything I’m remotely feeling?”
“I truly cannot tell if you’re joking or not, and I’m going to need a hard yes or no.”
Poppy holds up specimen two. “This one isn’t good either, Marlowe.”
We pause to look at her. She grabs specimen four.
Odette shrugs. “Ignore Pops. This is me again asking if you’re okay.”
“I’m fine,” I say softly, just to make the tension bleed out of her shoulders. I bury the instinct to ask why they’re here. I know why. They always know where my mind is at.
“This one’s much better,” Poppy says, holding up the snickerdoodle attempt.
I nod. “Yeah, that one was less hot, solid pudding, and more cake.”
“It’s the baking powder, the carbon dioxide makes it spongier.”
I swallow around the lump in my throat. “Thanks, Pops.” She slides number five, the one I ate the most of, closer to me.
“What can we do?” she asks, examining me behind green leopard-print glasses.
I half-heartedly lift a shoulder, my hands curling around the warm mug.
“I know you dismissed us creating a plan before, but we have the next valedictorian, a state champion science fair winner, and the captain of the math club all in this one room. You know there isn’t a single problem we can’t solve,” Odette says, tilting her chin up, and I can’t help laughing.
“Fine, what do you have in mind?”
“I mean, what exactly did he say?” Poppy jumps in, pulling out a slim notepad from her bag. “That you didn’t act romantic enough? That’s easy, what are some romantic acts you can display to show your expertise?”
The silence hangs heavy between us.
“Why are you asking me? I was literally dumped over this.” I rub my eyes as a dull ache grows behind them. “Josh was always the grand-gestures guy. The flowers, the songs he would AirDrop me if they reminded him of us. I never realized it was a contest.”
“Were you supposed to keep buying each other carnations until you were both smothered under their weight?” Odette asks.
Poppy frowns at us. “I refuse to believe that we can’t figure this out.”
I sigh, committing to the process. “Okay, well he said I didn’t seem that interested.” The shame bubbles up again. “That I never did anything romantic. I doubt he would have considered copying him very romantic either.” I shrug like it’s nothing. Silly Josh and his silly words. No Chernobyl-level emotional wasteland here!
Odette doesn’t bat an eye. “Okay, fine, what romantic behaviors or acts have we witnessed between people?”
“Well, remember when Brad let his cousin give him a homemade tattoo with Jennifer’s name across his bicep?” Poppy starts to scribble.
“Yeah, and I remember her leaving him for that same cousin the next week. Can we maybe avoid any body modification?”
Odette steps closer and leans over Poppy’s shoulder. “What about when Tiffany was dating Marcus and shoved paper hearts and confetti in his locker?”
I frown. “Confetti is terrible for the environment.”
“Also, for the wildlife. It’s not biodegradable, Odette,” Poppy says, mouth twisting in judgment.
“I wasn’t endorsing it! I was just mentioning it!”
I set my mug down, mulling it over. “Marcus couldn’t stop talking about it, though.”
“For you, I would build a confetti cannon that would shove both plastic and your love down Josh’s throat until he tastes them both for weeks,” Poppy says, closing the notepad with a snap. “Despite the repercussions for the fish.”
“That’s a horrifying mental image, but I love you too.” I smile, and this one is just for them. No sadness, no thoughts of Josh haunting the corners of my mouth or the shape of my eyes. “Why don’t we turn all of this impressive brain power toward something else for a while.”
Odette opens the silverware drawer again and slides my phone inside it. “You’re right. Let’s stop wasting time with these half-assed mug cakes. Let’s whole-ass a plate of brownies.”
We measure out ingredients as methodically as chemists and gather around the oven with cold glasses of milk already in our hands.
I use pot holders to pull our masterpiece out while they hover at my elbows, then carry the tray into the living room. We pile blankets and throw pillows on the floor. I find a documentary on fungi, destroying angels and false death caps unfurling across the screen while we grab brownie squares that burn our fingers.
“Look at that one,” I say as a lace dress explodes out of the mushroom like a lady doing a curtsy.
“Ten out of ten,” Odette says, licking her fingers.
“I’m going seven out of ten and deducting points for color and consistency,” Poppy says.
“Come on, Pops! You have to at least throw it a bone for razzle-dazzle.”
“I do not use razzle-dazzle in my scoring system.”
I smile, melted chocolate and gratitude sticking in my throat.
Poppy yawns, her warm limbs leaning heavily against me. “What’s that one’s name, Marlowe?”
“Phallus indusiatus,” I say into the darkness, the light from the TV playing over our sprawled bodies.
Odette hums her acknowledgment, stretching out like a cat.
The documentary goes deeper into the forest, and the mushroom rankings fade into heavy, even breathing. I roll Poppy over, unable to fall headfirst into sleep with them.
I snatch a paperback off the coffee table, and a lady with a gown slipping off her shoulders stares back. Her hair is in a curly updo, and she’s gazing up at a muscular man in a kilt as if he’s the only steady thing she’s ever seen. He’s grasping her bare shoulders like he’s going to devour her.
Momma’s had books like these lying around my entire life. They’ve blended into the background like lamps and the cream baroque wallpaper that has hung on these walls since before I was retaining permanent memories.
They always felt a little… frivolous? Like, compared to Dad’s autobiographies and sturdy leather-bound books, they’ve always seemed like less.
I pick it up and tilt it into the light of the TV. The cover is worn, and the pages soft and curled in the corners. You know, I don’t think I can ever remember seeing one of those beautifully leather-bound books in my dad’s hands, but this? This is loved. Lady Jessica Conquers a Duke has been read more than once, and obviously with devotion.
Maybe just a few pages and I can relax enough to sleep.
I flip the page. And then another. And then another. Next thing I know, it’s two A.M. and I’ve moved to the couch, found a book light, and am knee-deep in Jessica and Collin’s bullshit instead of my own.
I laugh as Jessica gives Collin every scrap of attitude right back to him. I groan when they have their fifth misunderstanding, and when they fall into each other I start to question whether those hushed and hurried moments in Josh’s bedroom had actually been sex.
Jessica and I aren’t too different, actually. She’s a quiet wallflower who ends up married to a duke after being accidentally compromised in his presence. None of that may mimic my own life, but she does start to fall in love with him, and then set about making him love her in return. Maybe I don’t need grand gestures; maybe I just need Jessica’s solid advice.
I burrow deeper into the couch, reading the sex part a second time, for research purposes only, and let myself fall into their happily ever after.