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Off the Record
Jake pullsme through the door leading to the kitchen, and I can practically hear his teeth grinding to the roots as he releases my hand to rummage through the fridge. I barely have time to look over the dark cabinets, stainless appliances, and the oblivious chef putting finishing touches on some pastries before Jake snatches three glass-bottle beers and heads for the door leading outside.
I follow.
I don’t say anything to him as we make our way over a brick patio toward the lawn where the benefit brunch will be held tomorrow, and it’s all I can do to keep up with him. We then make our way toward the pool but skirt around it until our feet hit an asphalt walking path around the lake.
He finally slows to a stop and uses his shirt to open one of the bottles and offers it to me.
I’m not a huge beer fan but decide to take it anyway. I need it to take the edge off, and I’d be lying if I said the first sip didn’t taste like heaven.
Jake opens the other and downs it. Chucks it into the grass, which I’m sure his mother would love. Probably why he did it.
He opens the last one and takes a sip, his blue eyes looking out over the lake. His expression goes dark and he releases a solemn sigh.
Leaving him be, I make my way closer to the edge. There’s really nothing to say to fill the silence. The fact he hasn’t cracked any jokes yet, hasn’t hid behind humor, tells me how upset he must be. He can tolerate his sister’s antics pretty well, but there seems to be a higher level of frustration with her treatment of his younger brother.
Which I understand completely. I’d claw someone’s eyes out for Tabitha.
Because I know it’ll be a while before he’ll want to head back, I look around for a place to sit, like a bench or a log, and he says, “Come. There’s a better spot.”
I don’t argue, though it’s not far from my mind as we skirt the lake and settle onto a bench under a tree’s watchful branches mostly hidden from the house, from the world…how this would be the perfect spot for him to dispose of me if he wanted. Maybe I’ll be on the next true-crime podcast.
I fight a laugh at the thought. I’m not the one he wants to get rid of right now…
I don’t think.
He takes another swig of beer.
I follow suit.
“So,” he says. “What do you think of the family?” His voice drips with sarcasm.
“It’s…an experience.” He did promise me that. The full experience. I then fold into myself and rest my chin against my knees. Swirl the beer inside the bottle. “I do like Preston, though,” I offer.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “I wish he’d get out of here.” A sip of beer. “Find something that makes him happy.”
We watch the water for a while, how the surface reflects the neon pink sunset. The wind blows, rippling the surface and threading through the pines ahead. A burst of pollen billows into the air.
My nose itches at the imagery. “Honestly, though? Let’s just say I’m not feeling too guilty about the picture the article paints of them.” Well, maybe his dad. In my defense, the wreck happened before his stroke.
He has nothing to say to that.
“And Ruby’s a surgeon, right?” Can’t say her career will fare too well after this.
“Yeah, neuro.”
“I bet she has a lovely bedside manner.”
That elicits a laugh, though small, and he reclines into the bench. Spreads out a little.
“Great skin, though,” I add. Probably the only positive thing I have to say.
“Evil preserves.”
Look at him, making jokes again. “I guess I need to rethink my beauty regimen.”
“That brand of evil can’t be taught.”
