Just Don't Mention It by Estelle Maskame
It’s like it’s an offer she can’t resist, because her eyes light up for a fraction of a second, and then she turns around and walks back over. I start up the engine just before she pulls open the passenger door and climbs inside. “Okay, what?”
Man, I’ve got to stop focusing on her damn lips. I grip the steering wheel a little harder as I stare at her, taking in her gaze. I like that I can see the green of my own eyes in hers. A perfect hazel. I don’t want her to go back inside. I want to be selfish, to keep her here with me, so that I can watch her lips move as she tells me everything I can’t bear to hear.
“Alright, you want honesty?” I ask her. As subtly as I can, I move my free hand to the gearshift. We’re sitting in park. But not for much longer. “Okay. I’m being totally honest right now when I tell you that we’re getting the hell out of here.” I slam the gearshift into drive and step on the accelerator, and Mom’s Rover spirals out across the parking lot, wheel-spinning until it gains some traction. We’re going home, and so I pull straight out of the lot and into the flow of traffic.
“Are you SERIOUS?” Eden screams at me, desperately pulling on her seatbelt as though she’s terrified I’ll drive us straight into the damn Pacific Ocean.
“Not serious,” I say. “Just honest.”
“Take me back,” she orders, pressing her hand to the dashboard. She’s facing me now, those hazel eyes piercing straight through me. Clearly, she isn’t finding our spontaneous getaway as much of a relief as I am.
“You really want to go back there?” I ask her, my eyes flicking to meet hers. I accidentally swerve a little to one side, but I quickly correct it and keep my eyes trained on Eden. “Look me straight in the eye and tell me that you want to go back to that place and eat that gross food and sit with your dad for an hour. Tell me that you honestly want to do that.”
“No. I don’t,” she reluctantly answers, her full, wet lips moving slowly. God, I almost crash the fucking car. “But I know I have to, so go back before they kill us both. Are you even allowed to drive this?”
“Are you even allowed to look like that?” I mutter, mostly under my breath, because it’s seriously beginning to frustrate me, but I say it too loud and she hears me.
She grits her teeth and snarls, “Okay, there’s no need to insult me.”
“It wasn’t an insult, Jesus Christ.” I slam on the brakes as we hit a set of lights, and I look over at her, throwing my hand into my hair. She’s driving me crazy. “We aren’t going back. We’re going home to the house so that I can get a beer and tell you that Jake’s playing you, okay?”
“Thank you, Tyler,” she drawls after a moment, her words dripping with sarcasm. “Thank you for getting me into even more trouble.”
“Last night was on you,” I remind her. She has her elbow propped up on the doorframe now, her fingertips messaging her temple. “Sure, I took you out, but it was you who chose not to come home, so don’t try and call me out for that one.”
“Fine,” she says. “But new problem: Your mom is going to flip when she sees that her car is gone. How’d you even get the keys?”
“Chill out, they’ll all fit in your dad’s car.” The lights flash to green, and I slam my foot straight down to the floor, letting the engine growl. “And I still had them from when I was parking. Now stop distracting me, I’m trying to drive.”
“Try harder.”
Eden doesn’t say anything else after that. She’s too pissed at me to speak, because she keeps her arms firmly folded across her chest and her body angled toward the door, her mouth a scowl as she watches the passing scenery.
I focus on the road as best I can, but I do keep glancing sideways at her every few minutes to gauge how she’s feeling, and when we’re nearing home, I decide to give Mom a call. She’ll be wondering why Eden and I are taking so long to return.
“Tyler?” Mom’s voice echoes across the line. She answers pretty fast; on the third ring. “Are you coming back inside?”
“Hey, so, we left,” I bluntly state, my phone pressed to my ear, one hand on the wheel. Better to let her know. “I’m sorry but we couldn’t care less about eating together as a family. We’ll be at the house.” And, before she can yell at me or beg me to come back, I quickly hang up and throw my phone into the center console.
Eden flashes me a look of disapproval, because she rolls her eyes and shakes her head, her jaw clenched. Then, she turns back to the window for the remainder of the journey, which isn’t long. We pull up to the house five minutes later and I park up quickly.
“Go to my room,” I tell Eden as we’re walking across the lawn. I search my pockets for my set of house keys, swinging them around my index finger. “I’m gonna grab a drink and then we’re gonna discuss that asshole you’re so keen on.”
“I don’t want to discuss anything with you,” Eden says from behind me as I’m opening the front door. I look back at her, and she’s standing several feet back, her eyes narrowed sharply. If she’s trying to be threatening, it’s not working. She just looks cute.
“Go upstairs and go to my room,” I tell her again, turning to head for the kitchen. A beer is all I want right now. “I’ll be up in two minutes.”
I hear the front door close behind me, and then footsteps on the stairs. “Just to clarify,” Eden calls after me, “I’m going upstairs to my room, not yours.”
“I’ll be in your room, then, in two minutes,” I yell back from the kitchen, rolling my eyes. I don’t think we’re ever going to be on the same page, but I can at least hope. I’ll start with Jake, because I’m still not happy that she was with him last night. She might think I keep bringing it up just to be an asshole, but I’m seriously not. She needs to be warned, and as her stepbrother, I should be the one to look out for her. Shit, that sounds weird.
I grab a beer from the refrigerator and pop it open, then make my way upstairs to Eden’s room. She’s awkwardly lingering around by her bed when I walk in, giving me her usual attitude of crossed arms, pouted lips and a glare to match.
“Okay, where to start,” I say. I take a drink of my beer, considering the best way to get the message across to Eden, and then I remember that the truth bluntly delivered is her favorite thing. “Let me simplify it for you: Jake Maxwell is the biggest player of the year.”
“Funny. I thought you were,” she mutters.
Woah. What? Where the hell did she get that idea? I’m a lot of things, but a player isn’t one of them. “No, there’s a big difference between Jake and me,” I state, shaking my head. “Girls want me; Jake wants girls. You know, I don’t purposely go out of my way to find other girls. I just kind of bump into them at parties or whatever, maybe flirt a little, sometimes kiss them if I’m drunk and Tiffani isn’t around. That’s it,” I admit. I take another drink, because now I need it. Eden is listening carefully, her eyes never leaving mine. “Jake, on the other hand, is a player. He leads chicks on for weeks and sometimes even months, sleeps with them, and then never talks to them again. Guy does this with like three girls at a time. I can guarantee you that the second you put out, he’ll disappear. He always does. Pulls out either the ‘Sorry, I’m not feeling it anymore’ or the ‘I can’t talk to you anymore, because my mom’s super strict and says I can’t date until college’ card.”
“Why are you telling me this?” she asks, dropping her hands to her hips.
“Because I am,” is the shitty middle-school cop-out answer I give her. I’m telling her because I don’t want her to get hurt. I’m telling her because maybe I’m selfish, because maybe I don’t want her to spend time with Jake, because maybe I want her to focus on me instead. But I can’t tell her that.
“That’s not a valid reason.”
I smile at her. “Neither was my reason for leaving the restaurant.” Taking another swig of my beer, I turn around and walk out of the room.
* * *
It’s later that night that I can’t get to sleep. I’m tossing and turning, but all I can hear is Eden’s voic
I groan and get out of bed, then head out into the hall in the dark and crouch down to grab the Internet router from beneath the hall table. I turn it off, throw the router back, and then walk back to my room. Instead of climbing back into bed, though, I hover by the wall that separates mine and Eden’s rooms. I can’t hear her talking now, which leads me to believe it was a video chat. Thank God I’ve cut it off. I listen for a minute to make sure, and then when I’m certain the call has ended, I softly knock on the wall three times. I don’t know why. I almost do it impulsively, like I’m trying to get her attention.
Several seconds pass while I wait, and then finally a knock returns from the other side of the wall. My face lights up, my features relaxing. Eden’s no more than a few inches away from me, only a wall separating us. I knock back to her, four times, louder than the first.
“Can you stop?” Eden demands. Her voice is slightly muffled through the wall, but it doesn’t stop me from hearing that threatening edge to her tone. And I fucking love it.
“I turned off the internet,” I tell her. “Your conversation was giving me a headache. ‘God, Amelia, isn’t Chicago just so freakin’ awesome? School is my favorite thing in the entire world! It’s so great! I love psychology and homework and studying!’” I imitate, straining my voice to make it higher.
“I didn’t even say that,” Eden mutters, and then there’s a thud against the wall as though she’s punched it or something. She’s probably pretending it’s my face.
I stifle a laugh and press my back to the wall, sliding down to the floor. I stretch my legs out in front of me, tilting my head back to the wall and staring up at my ceiling through the darkness of my room. Just to tease her even more, I continuously drum my knuckles against the wall. “I could do this all night. I heard no one gets any sleep at college, so this is good practice for you. I’ll turn you into an insomniac in no time.”
“Has anyone ever told you how frustrating you are?” Eden asks as her tone begins to soften back into its perfectly deep huskiness.
“Hmm, I don’t think anyone ever has,” I joke. All I do is frustrate people, and Eden is no exception. In fact, I seem to frustrate her more than most. “How am I frustrating? Enlighten me, college girl.” I’m only teasing her, and I hope she knows that. I’m not being a jerk. A jerk wouldn’t be smiling right now.
“For starters, you disconnected the Internet and now you won’t stop knocking on my wall,” she says.
“Technically, it’s our wall.” I knock against it again. I’m sort of wishing it wasn’t there, that I could be looking at her right now. I want to read her expression.
“Either way, it’s extremely annoying. Please stop,” she says, but it doesn’t hold much of a threat to it. Her words seem demanding, but her voice isn’t.
“No can do.” I begin tapping my knuckles against the wall again, over and over and over again. I like messing with her.
There’s another thud, like she’s hurled her fist straight into the plaster, and I burst into laughter. I’m getting to her, and I hate that it suddenly goes silent. She doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t knock again. I figure she’s given up, so I heave a sigh and lay my head back against the wall again, listening for a while, hoping she’ll come back. I was craving silence ten minutes ago, but not now. I close my eyes, still sitting on the floor with my back to the wall, and when I open them again, it’s almost 2AM.
I quietly knock on the wall once, but there’s still no reply.
I try again when I wake at 4AM, but there’s no reply then, either.
I even knock one last time at 7AM, but when I fall back asleep, I’m left still wishing she’d come back.
27
FIVE YEARS EARLIER
“You know, you don’t have to be up here all night,” Mom says as she enters my room on Sunday evening. She walks over to my desk and smiles down at me, gently rubbing my shoulder. She doesn’t realize that she’s rubbing a bruise. “Don’t you want to watch the game downstairs? I think the 49ers are losing, but hey, who knows? They might turn it around. At least your dad is praying they will.”
“It’s okay,” I mumble, keeping my head down, my hand never stopping. I’m writing out some notes from the work we covered in geography class over the past week. I have a test coming up soon, and failing it isn’t an option. Besides, Dad has asked me to study tonight.
“You’re always studying,” Mom comments, and even though I’m refusing to look at her, I know that she’s frowning. I can hear it in her voice. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m definitely not complaining, but maybe you should live a little too.”
“I want to study,” I lie. I write even faster with more pressure, my pen leaving deep grooves in the paper. I wish she would stop rubbing my shoulder. It hurts.
“How did I get so lucky to get such a hard worker like you?” Mom muses with a sigh. I can sense her frown transforming into a smile now. I know her so well. “But seriously, enough for tonight. Either watch the game or help me with the laundry. Your choice.” She leans over my shoulder and plucks the pen out of my hand. I was developing cramp anyway, so I’m grateful.
I twist my neck to look at her for the first time now, and she’s resting the laundry basket on her hip with an eyebrow raised as she smirks challengingly back at me. I force a smile onto my lips, even though I don’t feel very happy. I feel drained, but I always do. “Okay, Mom. I’ll watch the game.”
“Good, now get going!” she says with a laugh, nudging me off my chair. Reluctantly, I get up as she drifts around my room, scooping up clothes from my floor, and I make my way downstairs.
I can hear the sound of the game echoing from the living room and with an overwhelming sense of dread, I force myself to man up and enter the room. As I push open the door, I keep my chin up and feign bravery. The 49ers game is playing on the TV, the volume up way too loud. Jamie is on the floor on his stomach, his chin resting on his hands, his eyes wide and fixated on the TV screen. He’ll ruin his eyesight if he keeps sitting that close. On the couch, Chase is sitting cross-legged next to Dad, eating a bag of chips. Dad has a beer in his hand and his eyes flash over to look at me as soon as I walk into the room.
Still, I keep my head held high and my gaze on the TV as I sit down on the opposite couch. I can’t sit back and relax, though. I’m rattling with nerves and my blood runs cold with fear.
“What are you doing down here?” Dad asks after a few minutes, keeping his voice relatively quiet amid the noise of the game. Slowly, he takes a swig of his beer and narrows his eyes at me over the rim of the bottle.
“Watching the game,” I state. I try to keep my voice clear, strong. I look at him for only a split second and then I turn my attention back to the TV. Don’t back down. For once, once, I just want to defend myself. I deserve to watch the game too.
I hear Dad release an aggravated sigh into the air, and then I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he gets up and walks over, sitting down next to me. His knee bumps against mine, and he angles his jaw toward me, hissing, “You’re supposed to be studying.”
“I already did,” I tell him. I don’t like him being so close. I can feel his breath on my face, and it’s a mental battle with myself to stay rooted in position. If I move, I’m weak. If I back down, I’m weak. If I let him tell me what to do, I’m weak. “How come they get to watch the game and I don’t?” I nod to both Jamie and Chase, who are still glued to the TV. We are keeping our voices low now, so they can’t possibly hear us.
“Because they do,” Dad says. He nudges me with his elbow. “Get back upstairs.”
“No. I’m watching the game with you. Mom told me to,” I bite back, and the adrenaline floods straight through me, sending a shiver surging down my spine. I’ve never spoken back to Dad before, not li
Quickly, my courage changes to fear when Dad grinds his teeth together and grabs a fistful of my shirt with his free hand. Rising to his feet, he yanks me with him and shoves me hard toward the door. I glance back at Jamie and Chase, and they’re so invested in the game that they haven’t even noticed Dad throwing me across the room despite it happening right in front of them. Dad is glowering at me, daring me to stay here and challenge him further as he sits back down next to Chase. He takes another sip of his beer, and I finally give up and walk out of the room.
In complete and utter defeat, I storm back upstairs and into my room. Luckily, Mom isn’t here anymore to ask why I’ve returned, so I shut my door behind me and slump down onto the floor, leaning back against my wall. Why can’t he just let me watch the game? I’ve already done my work. Don’t I deserve a break now?
I reach for the closest thing to me, my school backpack, and I throw it across my room. It hits the opposite wall with a soft thud, but it’s not satisfying enough for me, so I even kick over my chair. But then I feel guilty, so I quickly pick it back up again.
“Tyler,” Dad says, and I flinch at the sound of his voice and his sudden appearance at my door. I should have known I wouldn’t get away with talking back to him like that, because he’s followed me up here, his beer still in his hand. He walks into my room and slowly clicks my door shut behind him, and that’s when it’s confirmed: I’ve made it another bad night.
I stand frozen in the center of my room and already I’m trying to focus on something else, trying to numb my mind so that the next few minutes can be a complete blank to me. My stomach is twisting as Dad walks toward me, and just as I’m about to squeeze my eyes shut, he brushes straight past me and sits down on the chair at my desk instead. I peel open my eyes again and watch him carefully as he sets his near-empty bottle of beer down on my desk and exhales, hanging his head low.