“That’s what we told the neighbors,” she said, a sly grin on her face.
I looked down at my now-empty glass, the kitchen around me already taking on a pleasantly fuzzy feeling. “I’m going to need another drink to clear my mind of this picture of you getting rogered on a workshop table.”
She got the vodka and soda from the fridge, her cheeks rosy with the memory. “Oh, Petra, he didn’t roger me. People didn’t do that back in those days.”
“Pour, woman, and please stop talking.” Exactly what did she think rogering meant? I had a pretty good idea, but didn’t want to find out.
She topped up my glass. “I’m so glad we can be girlfriends now that you’re older.”
“I had sex with Dalton Deangelo.”
She frowned. “Did he roger you?”
“Yes, but you do know that just means regular sex, right? Anyway, we have another date for tomorrow.”
“You do know how babies are made.”
“Mom, would you say that to one of your girlfriends?”
“Probably. I have no filter.”
“That just makes you better.”
She took a seat next to me, and we were both sitting quietly, looking out the window over the sink into the back yard, when a bucket’s worth of something rained down on the bushes.
“I knew it!” she yelled, slamming her hand down on the counter.
By now, I had more vodka than blood in my veins, so I said, “Chill out, he’s just marking his territory.”
“I’m going to glue that mother-flipping attic window shut, that’s what I’ll do.”
Mother-flipping? I snickered.
“With crazy glue!” she yelled at the ceiling.
“The front room looks really good, by the way. I can see how Dad’s recliner would ruin the aesthetic.”
“That f**king chair is an atrocity.”
I busted a gut laughing, because she rarely swore, and seeing her this upset was like visiting the zoo at the exact right moment, when something cool was happening, like animals escaping their pens and running amok.
A few words about my mother’s decorating:
The woman karate-chops her throw pillows. She buys new wooden things and puts an antique paint-chipped finish on them, while simultaneously buying paint-chipped things and refinishing them to a glossy newness. She knows the names of interior decorators who appear in magazines, and refers to them by first name: “Stephen and Chris said that foxes are the new owls.”
It’s a wonder my father’s beloved La-Z-Boy made it this long, albeit periodically covered in doilies and slipcovers that restricted its natural movement.
The doorbell rang. The Storms were at the door! Could the evening get any better?
Yes, yes, it could. They brought Adrian.
He walked in behind them, tall, blond, and muscular, looking like coming there that night was punishment.
“You’re here,” he said when he spotted me.
“Get used to it,” I said, still feeling sore from his comment about girls like me, whatever that meant. “I’m all over this town. I am this town.”
Adrian jerked his head and commanded, “Cujo! Take her down!”
I screamed and ran for cover in the dining room, where the table was already set for dinner.
The four of them came into the dining room a moment later, laughing merrily. Apparently they hadn’t brought Cujo, and it was all a joke.
My father came down from the attic and joined us, no mention of the chair or things that may or may not have been tossed out of the attic window. My parents were on their very best, most charming behavior. We were, after all, entertaining company. Jazz was playing on the stereo.
Maybe it was the fact my entire mouth was numb from the drinks, but I didn’t feel compelled to talk about anything at all that night. I just sat there and listened to Adrian’s mother talk about her orchids (she and my mother headed up the Beaverdale Orchid and Dandelion Wine Society), and nodded along as my father talked about how amazed he was more people didn’t lose their limbs in radio-control helicopter accidents.
Mr. Storm Senior sat through dinner quietly frowning under his copper-and-white mustache. If you ignored the mustache and the ugly plaid short-sleeve shirt, he was actually a handsome man, which was why the Beaverdale Fire Department had borrowed him from the police station to pose shirtless for their fundraising calendar project the last five years.
Now, if Adrian had been on the calendar, I would have bought a box of copies. I gazed across the table at him, admiring those cheekbones and feeling like I was seventeen all over again.
I thought I was being stealthy in my eyeball tour of Adrian, but when I was washing up the dishes in the kitchen so my mother could continue visiting, Adrian came in and said, “What’s your beef with me?”
“No beef.” I turned on the tap and started filling the sink with hot water to clean the serving bowls.
I started to feel very funny, being alone in a room with my former crush. Not funny in the ha-ha way, either.
CHAPTER 15
Adrian Storm grabbed a dishtowel from the stove. “I’ll dry,” he said. “Hey, remember when we used to use Photoshop to mess around with portraits for the yearbook? Remember how you changed my hair to black and gave me a matching goatee?”
I turned and stared up at him, the world still pleasantly soft and squishy around the edges from good food and booze.
“I completely forgot about that. You have a good memory.”
“Sure do. And I remember how you used to love bubble gum. Either strawberry or watermelon. I still think of you any time I smell either flavor.” He picked up the serving plate I’d just rinsed in the second sink and started wiping it dry, the towel squeaking on the ceramic surface. “Simpler times. Do you ever wish you could go back and do things differently?”
“Like not make bad real estate deals like you did?”
“Well, that. But I mean further back. Remember when we went to Toby’s party? We were all about fifteen, I guess. And remember when we played that game?”
“Yes.” How could I forget?
“I wish I’d fought for you.”
I swallowed hard, my throat full of something buzzing like a hive of bees.
He continued, “Who knows what would have happened, but I always regretted being such a wuss.”
“We’re too young to have regrets.”
“We’re too young to have much of anything.”
I stopped washing bowls and turned to him.
Adrian’s gaze moved from my eyes, down to my lips.