WALK AWAY
Settlers of Catan.
I was always red. The Woman was always blue. Addy and Dad never cared what color they were, which was probably why they always won. Settlers was the go-to family board game. You traded resources to build cities and roads. You got points for building specific things or hitting certain achievements like having the longest road.
The Woman and I never won. No matter how hard I tried to come up with new strategies, Addy always got the longest road or dad always magically figured out how to upgrade all his settlements to cities without anyone noticing.
One night, we were playing and I felt something nudge my hand under the table. I looked up from my deck, and dad was whisper-singing, “You can’t always get what you want, but I can get you what you need.” I grabbed the thing nudging my hand—two ore cards. I hadn’t gotten any since the beginning of the game, and I could literally do nothing except sit and complain about the inefficiencies of the Catan economy. For the rest of the game, he slipped me ore cards and I avoided stealing any of his routes.
He won because I let his territorial expansion go unchallenged, and then we fake fought the rest of the night and Addy was cry-laughing and The Woman was, too, and … I say all this because Mr. Crotcher said he told my dad what happened at school, and I’m certain it won’t matter. There was a point in time, the ore-card-sliding, fake-fighting time where it mattered, but Settlers was now just a dusty box in the corner of the dining room. I barely get slid a “good morning” over the table these days. I figure I’ll go home and, as ususal, nothing will happen, and after I ride out the tortures Mr. Crotcher has for me, things will go back to where they were.
I walk outside. Stupid papers still in hand. What do you do when you’re expelled from school and have nothing to do? Go to Pritchett’s—home of the best milkshake this side of that one chick’s yard, possibly in America—and sit. Definitely not go home.
“Hey, Genevieve,” I say, patting my black 1990s Buick Riviera on the rear passenger’s side window, which is proudly hand-crafted entirely out of duct tape. I may feel like utter hell, but Genny has only ever been the best, and she deserves all the love I can muster.
Inside, I settle into my seat and try to forget about everything by turning the radio on. Top 40 comes through the speakers. I frown and hit preset button number one. The sound of my daily enlightenment washes me away in a wonderful wave of perfect, publicly funded noise.
Marry me, NPR.
At a stoplight, in the middle of NPR’s All Things Considered, I pull out my phone and do some searching and favoriting of some more porn videos to watch later on. A few seconds later, the driver behind me honks his horn, and I look up to see the light’s turned green. I favorite two more videos before putting my foot on the gas pedal. The Hyundai driver honks again and speeds around me, nearly hitting my front bumper when he swerves back into the lane. I watch him disappear before returning to my screen to favorite one more video before I turn into the parking lot of Pritchett’s.
I walk inside, find my booth, and for the next three hours I sit and work through two baskets of waffle fries covered in cheese and gravy and a milkshake. I look for more porn videos. I ignore calls from my dad. It’s a great afternoon.
At around 7:30, Addy walks into Pritchett’s. It’s weird to see her here. She hasn’t been in here since she moved to Portland with The Woman two years ago. That and she randomly showed up last night. I’m not complaining. Addy might be the only person I ever want to be around. Still, seeing her here is weird. Like, brings me back to the old days where I almost think things could be whole again.
Hahahaha. Right.
She showed up last night at ass o’clock, so I hugged her and went to bed, but today, after we hug and she slides into the booth, I finally get a chance to look at her. In the light, I notice her usually short blond hair has gotten even shorter, stops-right-above-her-ear, bangs-almost-hang-in-her-eyes short. She’s wearing a gray long-sleeved shirt that says Coalweather Construction.
I point at it. “They’re giving you fancy gear now, huh?”
“A perk of moving up to project lead,” she says. “Now I get to build houses and boss people around.”
“The fact that you like both of those things so much is weird.” I smile then reach for a fry. “No one believes me when I tell them my older sister’s a construction worker.”
She waves a hand. “Please, lil’ bro, like you’ve talked to anyone since the divorce.”
I roll my eyes. “A—don’t call me ‘lil’ bro.’ B—I talk to Myself all the time, and he gets me. He gets me so much I might ask him out on a date.”
Addy goes to respond, but her phone rings. Jefe/Boss flashes her screen. She mouths, “Gotta take this,” then stands and starts talking about roof trusses. She steps outside, which I take as an opportunity to make my final porn selections.
I finish a black cherry and toffee shake as I look out the front window to see if Addy’s showing any signs of getting off the phone, but almost five minutes later, she’s still outside.
Behind me, a familiar voice requests a booth for four. I look up from my table, and, sure enough, there’s Mr. Crotcher by the host podium, flanked by a trio of high school kids. This must be my future, and it’s comprised of a sixty-six-year-old man and a random group of teenagers. I know I shouldn’t stare this long, but it doesn’t help that one of the guys practically has an arm made out of spiky bracelets.
I’m about to go back to my playlist when Mr. Crotcher looks up. I think our eyes meet, so I look back at my table, cursing under my breath. A few tense seconds pass, and just when I think he might not have seen me, I hear, “Hey, Adam.”
I don’t look up. “Hi.”
This is what he says: “I know it’s before your given start date, but would you like to join the boys and me tonight? Get a head start? Meet everyone? We’re going over a book on addiction. The discussion should be wonderful.”
This is what I hear: “Would you like to start your misery earlier than when I’m forcing you to?”
I shake my head. “No, thanks.”
He casts a glance at my phone and sees a screen filled with the thumbnails of my porn playlist. “You sure?”
I slide my phone in my pocket. “Yeah. I’m really sure.”
Addy finally comes back in. She’s walking toward me. Now, I really want Mr. Crotcher to leave. I don’t want her to hear anything he has to say, and I don’t want her to see him and start talking.
“That’s fine,” he says. “Look, Adam, I know your mother leaving has hurt you deeply—”
“My sister is here,” I say, pointing to her. “We’re supposed to be hanging out.”
Mr. Crotcher looks at her, smiles, waves, then turns back to me, taps a knuckle on the counter, and walks back to his table.
I cuss him out under my breath as Addy stops to hug him at his table with the other guys. They chat for a few minutes, and then she slides back into our booth.
“Aw, it was so nice to see him. I miss him. He’s so smart. I don’t have an elderly soul guide in Portland.”
“Shouldn’t have moved, I guess.”
She rolls her eyes. “You and you—”
I stop listening when this girl walks past the booth. No. She’s more than a girl. She’s a mountain in the morning sun. A forest of trees in a northern fall. I swear she’s the subject of every Michael Bublé song. Ever. A puff of tight, chocolate brown curls with a yellow hairband holding it back. The cutest nose ever put on a human.
Beautiful faice.
Loveloy legspdfpn.
Uhisoiasepuhn.
Addy snaps her fingers. “Lil’ bro, do I need to send in a rescue team?”
“What? Hey, don’t call me lil’ bro.”
She takes a sip of her milkshake. “Do I need to find out her name?”
That wakes me up. “Oh, nah. She’s not my type.”
Addy laughs. “BS! The formula for your type is girl plus that’s it.”
“Not true.”
She stands. “Right. You tell yourself that, Papi.”
“What’s Papi? Addy … Addy, where are you going?”
She walks toward the apex of a woman, and I have no idea what she’s going to do, and I don’t know if I can watch her destroy my chance with the most beautiful girl in the universe, so I go back to my milkshake. As I turn, I make awkward eye contact with Mr. Crotcher. He doesn’t know what I need. He doesn’t know anything about me. No one does.
My phone buzzes.
Her name is Desiree, but she goes by Dez and you literally need to marry her.
I’ll stick with a literal no marriage for now.
Adam … if you don’t come over here, I’m going to propose for you.
Let me know how the wedding goes.
You’re pathetic.
I’ve been given multiple awards for my extraordinary dignity,
thank you very much.
Any award received in France doesn’t count.
Come back so we can finish our milkshakes.
Fine.
What? Addy doesn’t say fine. I look for them and see Addy’s head in the furthest booth away in the center aisle, sitting with the so-called Dez. Dez catches me looking, smiles, then holds up Addy’s phone and wiggles it back and forth.
You’re really missing out, Frenchie.
I smile back and somehow, despite myself, walking toward her. She has beauty like a tractor beam.
I walk over to her table. “Hey, I’m Adam, which you probably already know.”
Dez doesn’t respond. Instead, she types D-E-Z into Addy’s phone, then holds it up so I can see it.
Addy motions for her phone. Dez gives it to her.
Isn’t she darling?
What are you two doing?
Addy shows the message to Dez. Dez takes the phone back.
Using mystique to lure you into a situation you don’t understand, therefore disabling your ability to label our interaction. In other words, I’m giving you a judgment-free “Talk to Dez” card.
“You’re welcome,” Dez says as Addy slides out of the booth so an older man with giant glasses can take her place. He smiles and nods at me.
“It was nice meeting you two,” Dez says.
Addy laughs. “Likewise. Come on, Gape-y.”
“Thanks for the card,” I say. “My French dignity appreciates it.”
Dez laughs. “Au revoir, Mademoiselle.”
As we walk back to our booth, Addy puts her hands over her eyes and says, “Oh my God, Adam. Why didn’t you get her number? It really seems like you were born yesterday.”
“Phone numbers don’t jive with my stance on relationships.”
“Do I even want to know?”
“Probably not.”
“Tell me, then.”
“I align with the wise, postmodern, Western philosopher 50 Cent. In his song, ‘In Da Club,’ he quotes a tenant of his life philosophy, ‘I’m into having sex, not into making love.’ When everyone is out for themselves, what’s the point of love? Is love even possible?”
Addy looks at me with this half-smile, half-furrowed brow face, and I know I’ve said too much. I change the topic. “Did Dad know you were coming?”
We slide back into the booth, and even though she looks disappointed, she nods. “I told him a while back so he could make sure you weren’t doing anything.”
“You were home when Dad heard about school, right? Does he actually have emotions about the situation?”
She nodded. “The emotion you’re thinking of is ‘pissed,’” she says, turning on what I call The Addcent. “But no worries, honey, you will have life just the same.”
Addy has talked in The Addcent since I can remember. Isn’t any particular accent, but it’s heavily influenced by the fact that she’s fluent in Spanish and French. She learned French in high school, but she learned Spanish by working construction. That’s one of the reasons her company keeps promoting her; she can talk to everyone. She’s so used to switching from English to Spanish at breakneck speed on the job that that’s become a habit off the job, too. I asked her about it once, and she just said, “Sometimes I think of words in Spanish and in English at the same time and that’s just how it comes out.”
Surprised that my dad is actually having a reaction, I ask, “Did Dad tell you anything he’s thinking?”
She jabs a fork into a waffle fry as big as my palm and then folds it, gravy and all, into her mouth. She chews, regards, swallows, and then says, “Dad doesn’t tell people things. Remember? You guys are twins that way.”
I shrug and turn to look at the front of the diner.
Addy sighs. “Are you ever going to tell me things again?”
“I used to have things to tell,” I say. “What happened at school’s not a big deal.”
She gives me not-a-big-deal?-then-why-are-you-expelled-for-eighty-days look, then asks, “Why’d you stop? Telling me things, I mean.”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. What’s wrong, Adam? Something’s wrong.”
“Really, it’s nothing, Addy. I’m fine.”
“If you don’t tell me, who are you going to tell?”
This is exactly what my ex-friend Jason used to do—badger me with questions like this. That’s why he’s an ex-friend. I don’t want them, and I don’t want Addy to turn into Jason. Besides, Addy gave up her right to be told things.
“I’m fine,” I say, standing. “Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll meet you back at the house.”
Addy’s eyes glisten. “Adam …”
“I’ll see you in a bit.”
I still don’t want to go home, so I hop in Genny and drive to downtown Bothell. I just walk around a bit with a to-go Thin Mint and Oreo milkshake sipping cookie chunks through the straw. The discipline papers are rolled into a tube in my pocket and they press into my thigh as I move. Downtown Bothell is undergoing a massive reno after a big fire, and every time I come here, I never know what will be done and what will be under construction.
I pass a swanky little chocolate store called The Chocomotive and see a woman inside. She’s trying to hold a bag of chocolates, push a stroller, and open the door at the same time. I walk up to the door and prop it open with my foot.
The woman sees me, sticks the bag of chocolates in her teeth, and shoves the stroller onto the sidewalk. Once she’s out of the store, she takes the bag out of her mouth and flashes me a genuine smile.
“Thank you so much,” she says.
I just nod and pull my foot away from the door.
She unrolls the bag of chocolates and holds them toward me. “Here.”
I reach for one, hoping to get something caramel-y, but right as my hand dips into the bag she says, “Your mother deserves a medal for raising such a gentleman.”
I pull my hand out and walk away.