Charles had been a military guy before he went to college. I’d never seen a hair on his head longer than an inch. If it even got close to that, he joked that he looked like a damned hippie and went to get a haircut. It amused the shit out of him to harass Cole and me about our hair length whenever he got the chance.
‘You’re just jealous that we have hair,’ Cole smarted off the last time his dad had grumbled that he couldn’t tell him apart from Carlie. I’d spat milk through my nose.
My parents met the Hellers at Duke. Dad and Charles were PhD track in economics – worlds apart from Cindy and my mother, who were undergrads and best friends. None of them would’ve ever met their future spouses if not for my mother’s decision to stroll through a doctoral student get-together held by her father – a distinguished economics professor and a member of Charles’s and Dad’s dissertation committees.
I was eight or nine the first time I heard the story, but the telling I remember was when I had my first real crush – Yesenia, in eighth grade. Love and destiny had suddenly become essential things to comprehend.
‘I saw your dad from my bedroom window and thought he was so cute.’ Mom laughed at my eye roll. I couldn’t imagine my father ever having been cute.
‘I was sick of the pretentious artist boys I usually dated, and I thought someone like my father might suit me better. He always listened to my opinions and spoke to me like I had a brain of my own, and he spoiled me rotten, too. But his students were all so nerdy and awkward – until your dad. I thought if I could get his attention, I could get him to talk to me. Of course then he’d fall in love with me and ask me out.’ Her eyes crinkled at the corners, remembering.
‘I must have tried on a dozen outfits before settling on one. Then I waltzed down the stairs and nonchalantly cut through the living room on my way to the kitchen. My clever little plan worked, of course, because I was pretty cute myself back then.’
This time, I was the one who laughed, because my mother was beautiful. There were times I caught my father staring at her like he couldn’t believe she was standing in his kitchen or living in his house. Like she shouldn’t be real, but was, and somehow belonged to him.
‘He followed me into the kitchen to refill his iced-tea glass.’ She nodded at my confused expression. You couldn’t pay Dad to drink iced tea. ‘I didn’t find out until later that he hated iced tea. He leaned against the counter, watching me make a sandwich. “So are you Dr Lucas’s daughter?” he asked, and with a perfectly straight face, I said, “No. I just wandered in off the street to make a sandwich.” I turned and looked him in the eye to give him a smirk, and I almost stopped breathing, because he had the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen.’
I had my father’s eyes – clear and grey as rain, so this compliment was for me. I hadn’t known yet that I’d also inherit his height, his analytical abilities and the watertight way he could disappear into himself.
‘Then, Charles strolled into the kitchen. Your dad glared at him, but he grinned and said, “You must be Dr Lucas’s daughter! I’m Charles Heller – one of his many acolytes.” One of them asked me what I did, and I said I was an undergrad at Duke. “What major?” your dad asked, and I told him, “Art.” And then, Landon, he almost kept you from ever being born.’
I waited, stunned. I hadn’t heard that part of the story before.
‘He sputtered, “Art?” and asked me what I was going to do with such a worthless degree.’
My mouth fell open.
‘Right? I wanted to punch him right in his handsome, arrogant face. Instead, I told him I was going to make the world more beautiful – duh! I let him know how unimpressed I was that all he was going to do was ‘make money’. I stomped back upstairs, spitting nails and determined to never look at one of my father’s students again, no matter how cute he was. I even forgot to take my sandwich with me.’
The rest of the story was familiar: an impulsive invitation – passed through Charles in a chance meeting – to her very first gallery showing. Her best friend, Cindy, was there for support, in case Raymond Maxfield was insufferable. But my father was the opposite of insufferable. Appraising her work, he was awed. My mother always pouted that it was actually her paintings and not her charm, her beauty or her sass that made him fall in love with her.
He’d always insisted that it was definitely her sass.
I knew the truth. He fell for all those things, and when she died, it was like someone had extinguished the sun, and he had nothing left to orbit.
LUCAS
Hours after I came home from the club Saturday night, I still couldn’t stop thinking about holding Jacqueline – how she’d fitted against me, bracketed by my arms. Her eyes, dusk blue in the smoke-thick club. Her nervous swallows. Her stuttered questions. As if everyone else had disappeared the moment I pulled her close, I didn’t smell the mixture of sweat and cologne from the crush of bodies around us – just her sweet scent. I could no longer hear the music, shouts or laughter. I was only aware of the beat, pounding vigorously, like the blood tearing an endless loop through my body.
Once home, I lay in bed and stared unseeingly towards the ceiling as my imagination ran rampant. I pictured her stretched out on top of me, knees astride, her body meeting my measured thrusts, her mouth open to the stroke of my tongue. My hands kneaded my thighs and every nerve in my body blazed. I felt her soft, bare skin. Her silky hair brushing the sides of my face. Her complete trust.