Page 16 of Play Nice

I wake up facing the opposite direction in bed. My head is where my feet were, my feet are where my head was. The blankets are piled up on the floor.

This has never happened to me before. It’s disorienting. Unpleasant.

I rub my forehead. I’m hungover even though I didn’t drink that much. I don’t think.

“Straight vodka,” I say, shaking a loose fist at the sky.

I turn off the city sounds. I forgot to set an alarm, and it’s almost eleven a.m. Such meager sunlight comes through these windows. The cursed wedding dress curtains certainly don’t help.

New window treatments, a fresh coat of light paint, some strategically placed lamps, mirrors. A crystal chandelier, maybe. The ceilings aren’t quite high enough.

I start a list in my Notes app of all the things I want to buy today. I text Dad and ask him if he can come pick me up now and we can get lunch.

He’s at the house twenty minutes later, Amy in the passenger seat.

The three of us go to our favorite deli for sandwiches, then spend far too much time and money at Home Depot, then to Benjamin Moore because I want bougie paint, then to my favorite antique store in Chester for inspiration.

I buy some tin ceiling panels, a few mirrors, a pair of art deco wall sconces, and a beautiful brass banker’s desk lamp.

“I would never know what to do with any of this stuff. I’m so amazed by your creativity,” Amy says, popping a stick of gum into her mouth. She offers me the pack. “You have vision .”

“Thank you, Amy. For the gum and the compliment.”

I have her take photos of me in the antiques store. She’s better at it than Dad.

“What about me?” Dad says as we head out to the car. “Where’s my thanks? Sacrificing my Sunday.”

“Please. You love this,” I say. “Quality time with your favorite daughter.”

“I don’t have a favorite. You’re all my favorite.”

“Sure.” I wink at him, and he bursts out laughing.

“Subtle,” he says, shaking his head. “What am I going to do with you?”

On the drive back, we have a sing-along to some Journey, some Whitesnake.

A half hour later, we pull up to 6 Edgewood.

“You sure you don’t want to come over for dinner?” Amy asks.

“I have leftover spaghetti in the fridge,” I say. “And the other half of my sandwich from lunch. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” Dad says, parking and getting out to open the door for me. He helps me carry my spoils into the house. Amy stays in the car.

“Never took Amy for superstitious,” I say to Dad, punching in the code to the front door.

“It’s not that. You know she doesn’t believe in that crap,” he says. “This place caused a lot of pain and suffering. She was the one who put us all back together. Your sisters, especially.”

Daphne and Leda confided a lot in Amy. I loved her, but most of the time growing up, she just felt like my dance teacher.

One who happened to live in my house and be married to my dad.

Maybe because I was a legitimately talented dancer and did it competitively and spent more time with Amy in that capacity than my sisters did.

My relationship with Amy is about as deep as a baby pool. But it’s sweet and easy, and I think I prefer it this way.

I pop my gum.

“Don’t do that,” Dad says. “I hate that.”

I do it again.

We carry the rest in, and he says he’ll come by tomorrow during his lunch, then he gives me a big hug and leaves.

I paint some swatches on the wall in the living room, but there isn’t enough daylight left for me to determine a favorite. I pick at the other half of my deli sandwich and drink a bottle of kombucha while sitting on the couch, editing and posting the antiques store photos.

The knock at the door is so jarring I just sit there after it happens, wondering if it actually happened, until it happens again.

I check my phone to see if Dad called. Maybe he accidentally left something or has something to drop off? But no missed calls. No texts—not from him, anyway.

Phone in hand, I step cautiously down the stairs. I see someone through the glass panel in the door, but the flower obscures them. Is it a delivery? Did I order something and forget? It’s a little late for UPS.

I open the door just enough to poke my head through.

“I knocked this time,” he says. It’s Austin. He’s got a six-pack of beer and a tray of cookies.

“You’re learning,” I say. “How’s your nephew?”

“A narc,” he says. “Try to be the fun uncle and suddenly you’re a bad influence.”

“It’s a thin line.”

“Exactly.”

“You want to come in?” I say, stepping back and holding the door open.

He looks past me into the house.

“Unless you’re too intimidated,” I say.

“I am intimidated,” he says, crossing the threshold, bringing his pretty face close to mine. “But not by the house, to be clear.”

“Duly noted,” I say. “We can go upstairs.”

I follow behind him, checking out the view. He wears jeans and a generic black sweatshirt. His Vans.

“The cookies are from my mom. The beer is from me,” he says.

“That’s sweet,” I say.

“She remembers you. And your mom. They had coffee…a few times,” he says, setting the cookies down on the dining table. He looks around.

“That surprises me. My mom would often lament her status as the outcast divorcée.”

“Well, my mom’s a widow, so…” He crosses to the wall, studying the array of paint colors I swatched.

I don’t want to hear about his dead parent any more than he wants to hear about mine. “Did you bring a bottle opener?”

He takes a set of keys out of his pocket and walks back over, opening a beer for me. Then he opens one for himself.

“Cheers, neighbor,” he says.

“Cheers,” I say. We clink bottles. “So, you live at home with your mom.”

He laughs. “You’re direct.”

“Your powers of observation know no bounds.” I grin and take a swig of beer. In theory, drinking a lukewarm Yuengling in the suburbs on a Sunday evening with a mommy’s boy isn’t exactly my idea of a good time. In practice, it’s not so bad. “You want to sit outside? It’s a nice night.”

We go out through the sliding doors and sit in the two plastic Adirondack chairs on the deck. I immediately go back inside and get my blanket. It’s a little chilly for May. But the stars are out, and the moon is full and bright.

“I do live at home with my mom,” he says. “Just turned twenty-six, living in my mom’s house.”

I shrug. “My dad still pays for my cell phone.”

He laughs again. He laughs a lot. I like that about him.

“Yeah, well. My mom has MS,” he says. “It’s hard.”

“So you’re a good son, not a fuckup?”

“Oh, I’m both,” he says.

“I’m neither.”

“Not a good son?”

“No,” I say. Thinking of my dad this afternoon, I add, “But I am the favorite daughter.”

“I could see that,” he says. He takes out a joint. “Mind?”

“Go for it.”

“Where are your sisters?” he asks, lighting up. “Are they helping you?”

“No. They’re too traumatized,” I say, taking the joint from him and hitting it. “Not by demons or whatever. By my mom.”

“Ah,” he says.

Because I can’t tell my sisters, or Dad or Amy, and because he’s here and I feel like it, I tell him, “I found a copy of her book in the house. She wrote little notes in it, for me.”

“Had you read it before?” he asks.

“Nope. My dad didn’t want us to. He made us promise. Link pinkies. Cross our hearts.”

“Makes sense. He’s not exactly the hero of the story.”

“You’ve read it?”

“A copy got passed around my high school.”

“I only read the first few chapters. I only found the first few chapters. The copy was so old it was falling apart; the glue in the binding was disintegrated or whatever,” I say, offering up the joint. He accepts it. “I can’t find the rest.”

“You could download it, if you’re curious.”

“Nah. It’s not available in digital. And it’s out of print. But it’s fine. I don’t care. Like, I’m not going to go out of my way to track down another copy. It’s not a particularly pleasant read. Not exactly a good time.”

“Huh. Yeah,” he says. “It’s fucked-up.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific, if you’re referring to my childhood.”

“No, just that, a lot of the second half of the book is about you.”

I take another swig of beer. And another. “And here I’d assumed the demon got top billing.”

“You’re up there,” he says. “I don’t know how much of it is true. But…fucked-up.”

The conversation isn’t fun anymore, but it’s an easy fix.

“Why did you come over here?” I ask him.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. He turns his head and looks over at me. I want to run my tongue along his jaw. “To do this.”

“To sit outside and drink beer and get high under the stars while we talk about sad things? Poor us.”

“No. Well, yes. But mostly to look at you. And do this.” He reaches over and gently pulls one of my curls straight. “I’ve wanted to do that since I was a kid.”

It’s my turn to laugh. I let my head back and giggle like crazy. Then I grab his face and kiss him.

—

We stumble inside. He lifts my dress over my head, kicks off his Vans while I unbutton his jeans. They slide down to his ankles, and he trips. We fall back onto the couch.

He’s an excellent kisser and knows exactly how to use his hands. What luck to have him show up on my doorstep.

“Can I touch you?” he asks me. He waits until I say yes, until I whisper the word into his ear, then he slips his fingers between my thighs.

He doesn’t talk to me, which I appreciate. The next person to ask me, Yeah, you like that? is getting a firm no.

He makes me come with just his hands, and I could leave it at that, but I like him enough to go down on him. He weaves his fingers through my hair. He doesn’t pull, he’s not rough with me, but he’s not so gentle to turn me off. He warns me before he finishes.

All in all, a great hookup. No notes.

We get dressed and he opens two more beers for us. We drink them on the couch this time, my legs draped over his lap, his hands skimming my shins, my knees, my thighs. I play with his hair.

“Your hair is curly, too.”

“Not curly like yours. Not springy.”

“That’s true,” I say.

“What’s in there?” he says, pointing to the sketchbook.

I reach over and pick it up, hand it to him. He flips it open.

“Well, shit. You’re talented, too,” he says. “Hot and talented.”

“They’re just sketches.”

“Get outta here,” he says. “There’s shading.”

“So?”

He turns the page. “All right. This one’s a sketch.”

“Can I see that?” I ask, taking the sketchpad from him.

I’m staring at something that I clearly drew, only I have no memory of drawing it.

It’s just the word “Hello” in bold cursive lettering. It’s my go-to scribble.

“What is it?” Austin asks. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” I say, closing the sketchpad and setting it down on the coffee table. My palms are suddenly sweaty. I want to put the sketchpad somewhere else, somewhere out of view. In another room. In the trash. Set it on fire.

I don’t know why.

“It’s late,” I say, standing.

Austin nods. He gets up, takes the empty beer bottles to the kitchen.

He comes back and kisses me on the lips. “Good night, Clio Barnes.”

“Good night.”

He’s down the stairs, door open, and I wait for him to turn around and say something. He doesn’t, so I do.

“If the lights are on, I’m around.”

He turns, smiling. “I’ll still knock first.”

He closes the door behind him. I lock it from the app on my phone.

I eat two cookies while I check my socials and respond to comments, then get ready for bed.

Instead of city sounds, I put on basic white noise.

When I get into bed, I put the pillow at the bottom, so I’m in the position I was when I woke up this morning, the opposite of how I fell asleep last night. I must have reversed in the night, deciding I was more comfortable this way.

I settle in and pass out instantaneously.

When I wake up the next morning, I’m on the floor.