The next weekend Brooks was ready to take me to his special place.
“Dress comfortably,” he called up to me from downstairs where he waited impatiently, “and hurry up.”
He sounded like a kid on Christmas morning.
“Coming.”
The spare room that Brooks had furnished for me was only slept in that one time, and I wish I could say I felt guilty about that. Yet, despite all the space, my things mostly ended up scattered everywhere. I kept my makeup on the vanity and more clothes in the closet, though I preferred to wear his clothing at every opportunity. One of the perks of dating a giant dork was I could fit, or even swim, in most of his slogan t-shirts.
“You know, there are other colors besides black,” he informed me as I descended the stairs. I wore my standard uniform black leggings and an oversized black sweater. It was comfortable, as per his request, but I still had to look like myself.
No one would ever use comfortable as the one-word description of me. Melodramatic, yes, but I wasn’t comfortable in any sense of the word.
“Of course I know that,” I teased. “There’s onyx and smog and charcoal and…”
Brooks pulled me off the step and into a kiss, effectively shutting me up.
“Want me to change?” I asked after I caught my breath. The question was basically rhetorical, because I knew he’d say no, and even if he said yes, my other options were black too.
He shook his head, causing his constantly growing curls to fall in front of his eyes. “Never.”
It would’ve sounded so cheesy from anyone else, but I heard no cheese, only love.
He was wearing gray athletic pants, though I never saw him do athletic things, and a blue tee that did his body justice but soon was covered by a darker blue sweater. I loved it. I always loved what he wore and didn’t wear.
Sometimes it hurt my eyeballs because he looked so good. Like maybe he was the sun and I shouldn’t stare directly at him for fear of going blind. Sun poisoning is a very real thing, which always baffled me. The sun is life giving, its existence is essential to all living things, and when the sun burns up, it will mean the literal end of the world. How could something be so good and so bad at the same time?
I just had to hope that Brooks wasn’t my sun.
I could handle the good with the bad, but I craved, needed, yearned for, someone who wasn’t quite so self-destructive.
The smile was still plastered on my face as Brooks backed the Lincoln out of his driveway. My seat on the passenger side gave me a great view of Aaron getting into his truck across the street.
Aaron looked at me like he had no idea who I was. I hoped he didn’t anymore.
“What?” Brooks asked in reaction to my gawking while reaching over to catch my hand.
“Nothing.” I shook my head. It was hard for me not to look at him.
“Well”—he brushed a kiss across my knuckles—“I hope you have fun today.”
“I will.” I knew I would no matter what. We always managed to do the most amazing things together, like watch movies and hold hands and breathe.
We drove for about twenty minutes in comfortable silence that was only occasionally interrupted. I wasn’t exactly sure where we were and I had no idea where we were going, but it was clear we were in a well-to-do neighborhood. It wasn’t a plan with all the twists and turns and cookie cutter homes that were a sign of true upper-middle class. Instead, it had the interesting floor plans, unique building materials, and sprawling space of a true old-money neighborhood.
I took in the sights, my fingers itching for the satisfying scribbling sound only pencil on paper can make, when I noticed a rather large and looming home at the end of the block. While it was beautiful, it was also imposing with its high dark stone walls and gated driveway that screamed keep out. It would be perfect for a haunted house tat.
Brooks steered the car up to the stately gate, and a bit of a panic surged through me. It hardly seemed like the kind of place I’d want to be dressed comfortably at. It seemed more like the kind of place I’d want to be wearing Spanx and a push-up bra under my equally uncomfortable but supportive clothing.
“This is just a stop we have to make on our trip.” He offered me a sheepish smile as if admitting to some kind of guilt. It was rather unsettling.
“Where are we?” I asked, already pretty certain of the answer.
I could see right through his cool demeanor. Brooks was never anything but the picture of calm perfection, but the nervousness was rolling off of him like heat waves on the hood of a car. It was making me feel nauseated.
Brooks punched in a few numbers on a keypad that I swear just materialized outside his window. He did it without looking, with the ease of having done it several thousand times before. My heart was in my throat and I had the overwhelming urge to flee. My fingers slid over the shiny door handle while I tried to envision the consequences of my exit.
“This is my parent’s house,” he said, trying so, so, hard to show how casual it was with the sweep of his hand.
We drove through the gate far enough so it could automatically close behind us, then Brooks stopped the car again. He was staring at me and waiting for a reaction I wasn’t going to give him.
So many thoughts were swarming through my head that I really didn’t know what to say. Meeting them would make our relationship seem real and I wanted that, I did feel flattered, but why the secrecy about it?
None of that was really the issue. The real issue was something that had been plaguing me since the first night I met Brooks—inadequacy. It was easy for me to look good when I was compared to no one at his house, but this fancy mansion with his fancy parents would make comparisons comical.
“Why?” I asked, still hoping I wasn’t giving my feelings away. If he could see the terror writhing in my chest he’d realize I wasn’t the girl for him.
“We just need to stop and get a key.”
“You should’ve told me we were meeting your parents today.” I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I spoke quietly, fearing his family would see or hear me being upset before they even met me. I began picking at my stupid, ill-fitting clothes. “I should be wearing something different.”
Brooks unbuckled his seat belt and grabbed my hands. “Like what? A ball gown?” He laughed at his own joke and I turned irrationally furious because yes, I wanted to be wearing a ball gown. It worked out well for Cinderella.
“You lied to me.” I threw his hands down. Air became scarce and I had an overwhelming need to vomit. What if they asked about my parents? What would I say about my dad?
He picked my hands back up. “No—no, I didn’t. In fact, I was really careful not to.”
As I mulled that over, Brooks began to slowly edge the Lincoln down the cobblestone driveway, steering with his knees. Each thump of the tires below us seemed to mock me and my ignorance of the set-up.
The lawn that spanned far beyond the house was as beautifully manicured as Brooks, and when we circled back to the impressive five-car garage I wouldn’t see any oil spills on the concrete.
I sat in my seat, taking in every sight as Brooks came around to open my door. The large man and house dwarfed me in every sense of the word. When he opened my door and I didn’t immediately get out, he crouched down beside me.
“Do you want to leave?”
Yes, I did, but I couldn’t tell him that. I could see the excitement all over his face and knew he’d been wanting to do this. Also, I could see someone peeking out behind a curtained window on a door that appeared to be right off the garage.
To my dismay, I was already making a horrible impression as the whiny girlfriend.
“No.” I shook my head.
“It looks like you want to leave.”
“I wish you would’ve told me. That’s all.”
“Well,” he said as he unclicked my seatbelt and guided my hips to turn toward him, “you didn’t tell me we were meeting your mom. This only seems fair.”
My eyes widened. Was he being serious? “That’s hardly fair. I didn’t want you to meet my mom. Ever.” That was the wrong thing to say. Hurt flashed across his face and I could understand why, so I added, “You know how I feel about her. It’s not the same as you and your family.”
He nodded and said, “I understand, but you don’t know much about my parents. Or how I feel about them, for that matter.”
The comment stung like a belly-smacker in a cold pool. I spent so much time trying to avoid talking or even thinking about mine that I blocked out the fact that everyone has some kind of parents. Now that I was thinking about it, there were a lot of things I never asked Brooks about.
“I’m sorry, really I am. I’m just really, really, really nervous.”
“Don’t be.”
“Which?”
“Either.”
I pulled my hair free of the low, messy ponytail it was in and shook it loose. I hadn’t brought any makeup with me because I didn’t think I’d need it, but luckily I had my lashes on, as always, and I thought I looked okay when we left his house.
I gave him the best smile I could and said, “Let’s go.”
Brooks gave me a marvelous smile in return, and before I could stop him, he kissed me hard on the lips. Like all of our encounters, the kiss went from sweet to pure steam in a matter of seconds. He plunged his hands into my hair and pulled me mostly out of my seat and on top of him.
We were crouched down by the side of the car while Brooks’s hands roamed all over me, but I couldn’t forget we had an audience. I broke away.
“Your family is right there.”
He kissed me again and tugged at the neckline of my shirt. “Maybe we should meet them the same way we met your mother.”
I laughed at his little joke but really just wanted to die. Could a veterinarian prescribe something for human anxiety?
“No.”
He pulled me up along with him and firmly grasped my hand. As he led me toward the inconspicuous door at the back of the house, I wondered how I was going to impress people I couldn’t confuse by having sex with their son. Before he even reached the handle, the door flew open and a very kindly looking older woman called his name.
“Oh, Villiam.” A slight accent and her muted blue and red patterned dress suggested she was from another time and place.
He dropped my hand to embrace the woman as she spoke quietly into his ear. She was short and compact and had the hands of someone who had worked all her life. Though she was older, her hair still held on firmly to its light brown color, and she smelled faintly of fresh baked goods even at my distance. They looked nothing alike, but I didn’t care because I already felt comfortable around her.
“You haven’t been by for veeks,” she scolded. “Vhere have you been?” I decided her accent was Russian as she turned to seemingly, if not really, notice me for the first time. “I think I know vhere,” she said as she appraised me.
Her expression was hard to read.
“Marta, this is Ollie.”
It wasn’t lost on me that he offered Marta no explanation as to who exactly Ollie was. She muttered something in Russian that I understood even with a language barrier, and my first impression of her vanished.
I never got anything right.
“Hi,” was all she eventually offered.
Brooks picked my hand back up as we entered the kitchen of the lavish home. I studied his face for an indication of what I’d gotten myself into, but he was giving me nothing in return. In fact, he wasn’t even looking at me.
The small entryway led directly into a particularly expansive kitchen. There was enough space on the almost-white countertops for even the most adventurous chef to test out his skills.
Our odd trio came to a halt at the wide archway dividing the kitchen from a suffocatingly formal dining room. I vowed to myself right then and there that, even if I was ever invited to, I wouldn’t eat in that dining room. It was entirely possible that no one ever ate in the room of blindingly white chairs and smudge-free glass table top. I wouldn’t.
“Is Mom home?” Brooks asked, pulling me into the moment and out of my thoughts.
I shot him a look of complete and absolute horror. Not only was this little visit a surprise to me, it was a surprise to his parents. I attempted to shake my hand free from his, but he caught my fingers and held on to me more firmly.
If he let me go, I really think I would’ve ran back to the car; I noticed he had left the keys in the ignition.
“Da,” Marta told him. “Ya poydu.” She took off in the direction of an equally formal gold and white living room.
“Spasibo,” he told her casually. Like it was common for him to speak Russian and to show up with random girls in his parents’ home.
I turned on him in an instant. “Why didn’t you tell them we were coming? And since when do you speak Russian?”
He sighed and rested his free hand on my cheek. “I don’t, just a little. I speak Marta, really. And because I wasn’t sure if you’d actually come and I didn’t want to have to explain your absence.”
Those words had the ability to soften me instantly. After all the disappointments I’d had in my life, I perfectly understood what he meant, and it pained me to know he wasn’t sure if he could count on me.
“I can’t believe you are housekeeper-rich.” That got a laugh. He visibly calmed down, the tension leaving his shoulders, and stroked my smiling cheek. “Speak any other languages?”
“Jag är så kär i dig.” He looked triumphant when he said it and gently pulled my face to his.
“Swedish? Is that what that was? You speak Swedish too?” Our lips were so close and the sense of peace that fell around us was as real as the house. “Tell me what you said,” I whispered.
I had a decently good idea of what he said, because I did spend some time in the country, but I wanted to hear it in English.
He ignored me to close the gap between us. I thought I was in for one earth-shattering kiss until his mother rounded the corner, clearing her throat. He went rigid and dropped his hand from my face as I forced my eyes to look up from the white marble floor.
“William.” She sounded cheery in a way that I knew she didn’t have to practice at. Unlike Marta, she spotted me instantly and headed for me before saying anything else to Brooks.
“Hello, darling.” She sounded exactly like Mrs. Howell from Gilligan’s Island. She looked a little like Brooks, with the blue eyes and blond hair; she too was exceptionally tall. She clasped my hand with both of hers. “I’m Mrs. Brooks.”
She tucked a pale curl that had escaped from the rest of her upswept hair back in place and glanced quickly between Brooks and me. “I’m Ollie.” I tried to sound refined in same way.
Mrs. Brooks’s attention momentarily left me so she could offer her son her cheek to kiss in double European style. Even though it was only a little after ten o’clock on a Saturday, she wore crisp khaki pants and a white cotton blouse. She was definitely the kind of woman who was presentable at all times.
“To what do I owe this lovely visit?” She looked and sounded pleased we were there, but somehow I just knew she wasn’t. But that was probably because I was an avid faker myself. And to be fair, maybe she was happy to see her son.
“I wanted to get the keys to the lot and for you to meet Ollie.” I was happy Brooks finally decided to speak, but what I was really waiting for was for him to tell someone, anyone but me, I was his girlfriend.
“Ooohhh.” She said it in a long, drawn-out and high-pitched way that sounded extremely happy. “Well, I think your father is the only one who knows where those silly things are. Honey?” she called into the direction she’d just come from. While Brooks’s attention was momentarily behind him, she gave me a look that so clearly said “Why you?” that I almost thought I heard it. “Can you come in here?”
For a few moments, we stood completely enveloped by awkward tension I wasn’t sure anyone else felt.
When Mr. Brooks finally came into view, it was like I was looking at my Brooks twenty-some years in the future: same height, same eyes, same strong jaw, and though his hair was graying and shorter, it was identical in texture. He smiled at me instantly, and if he didn’t like what he was looking at, he did a nice show of hiding it.
“Hello, William.” They clasped hands and I thought I heard a clap of thunder from two gods greeting. “And who is this?” I couldn’t help but notice how similarly he was dressed to his wife. Was there some kind of rich-person dress code?
“This is Ollie,” he told him. And just as I was about to give up on being given a title, he added, “My girlfriend.”
Even though Brooks’s dad was shaking my hand, I couldn’t help but gauge his mom’s reaction. Just as I suspected, she didn’t seem thrilled. The look probably only lasted a second, but her mouth turned down and her eyes tightened in a moment of pure panic.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Brooks,” I told him, only kind of meaning it.
“Doctor,” Brooks modified quietly. I should’ve known.
“Alan,” Brooks’s dad further corrected. “Please, come sit.”
He ushered us all into the living room, where I sat as delicately as possible on the posh sofa and Brooks sat a little too closely next to me. Mrs. Brooks—who didn’t tell me to call her by her first name, so I had no idea what it was—ventured off, mumbling something about finding Marta.
“So.” Alan smiled, sitting across from us in a chair like a throne. “What’s up, guys?” He had one arm casually across the back of the chair and one foot resting on his knee, all while looking so much like his son it was disorienting.
“I wanted to take Ollie to the lot.”
Alan’s smile grew to almost megawatt levels. “I should’ve known this wasn’t just a get-to-know-you visit.”
“Maybe another time.”
“Well, I can get the keys for you, but you have to stay for at least one drink.” Alan turned to speak to only me in a conspiratorial way. “I’d bet any money Gwendolyn and Marta are making some Bloody Marys.”
Somehow, I had just known her name was Gwendolyn. I don’t think a likeable Gwendolyn has ever existed.
A quick glance at Brooks told me he wasn’t excited about the prospect of staying any longer than necessary. I didn’t want to stay, but I didn’t want to be rude either. I cast my eyes down to my hands, which had suddenly turned endlessly interesting.
“One drink. But we’ll just have water and then we really have to go.”
“What’s the hurry?” Alan asked with the lift of a blond eyebrow. He was sitting so casually in such a proper room that I wanted to mentally transport the three of us to a restaurant with sawdust on the floor where we could all relax.
Gwendolyn called Alan into the kitchen then, which led me to wonder why the housekeeper wasn’t enough help. There were two grown-ups, one of whom could probably rival Martha Stuart, living in the house. Who was making the mess?
I turned to Brooks. “What’s going on?” A bit of a laugh crept into my voice.
“I’m sorry,” was all he said as he placed his hand on my knee.
“It’s okay.”
“No, I was dishonest, and I know better than to lie to you.”
I exhaled, and all the anger from before melted away. As I studied him sitting on his parents’ elegant couch, in their elegant house, in their elegant neighborhood, he seemed out of his element. It was a way I wasn’t used to seeing him, and while his calm confidence had always drawn me to him, I found him so endearing while failing.
Even someone like Brooks let his parents make him feel like a small child.
“Don’t be,” I finally had an opportunity to tell him. “You’ve already met my mom.”
“I know, and I convinced myself that justified bringing you here unannounced, but it doesn’t, it really doesn’t.”
“Believe me, you could do a lot worse than wanting me to meet your family.”
“I just had to bring you here, you know, to show you—”
Alan and Gwendolyn, who I bet never tolerated being called Gwen, reappeared before he could finish his thought. As Alan predicted, she was carrying a silver serving tray with two thick red drinks, each garnished with a celery stick, as well as two tall, clear glasses.
Mrs. Brooks passed them around before sitting down—actually, it was more like hovering—on the chair next to her husband.
I took a sip of my drink, trying my best not to spill or slurp. Of course it wasn’t a typical glass of water. It had crushed ice and tasted more like mineral water, but the real kicker was the pieces of vibrant yellow and fresh green lemon and lime floating in it.
So help me, it was amazing, and Mrs. Brooks’s hawk eyes noticed my reaction to her scrumptious glass of water and that earned me a real, albeit half, smile.
Brooks became mute again.
“So, Ollie, tell us about yourself.”
That’s such an awful, job interview kind of question. All my words vanished as a wave of anxiety washed over me. “What would you like to know?” I smiled and took another sip of the drink, determined to keep a straight face and thankful for the water to have as a distraction.
“What do you do for a living?” Brooks’s mom asked. She wasn’t messing around.
I wanted to ask her what she did for a living—or perhaps tell her I was an exotic dancer just for the priceless reaction—but instead I told her the truth.
“I’m still in art school.” Something I couldn’t distinguish flashed across her face. I wanted to say it was a pleasantly surprised expression, but I couldn’t be sure—that was quite possibly wishful thinking.
“I don’t want to know about what the girl does, I want to know who she is,” Alan told his wife.
“Well, don’t you think they’re one and the same?” Gwendolyn quipped back. He extended his hand to rest his palm on her arm.
“I’m also working on an internship.” I said it because I wanted to sound like I had a lot going on, but I regretted it. These people didn’t have tattoos, but then again neither did I. An internship at a tattoo shop wasn’t going to impress them.
“Oh.” Gwendolyn seemed impressed. “At one of the galleries downtown? I was just at the Warhol yesterday afternoon.”
“Sort of.” Why oh why did I open my mouth? The ice in my glass began to rattle.
“She’s interning at Young and Beautiful,” Brooks said. “It’s the most prominent shop in the entire state, if not the tristate area, has been featured in a few different television specials, and Ollie is extremely talented.”
I smiled at the affection his voice held. I had no idea he knew that much about the shop, even though I should’ve known he’d do his research, but he was proud to tell his parents.
“Now that is interesting,” Alan said, taking a swig of his drink and leaning forward. “I’m a big fan of the art form. It is one of the oldest art traditions globally.”
“It is,” I piped up and sat forward too. “Even Neanderthals were tattooing.”
“Right. It transcends time.”
“It’s unifying and beautiful when you think of it in those terms.”
“Oh, I like her,” Alan told Brooks with a wink that wasn’t tacky at all.
“Me too, Dad,” Brooks answered. “A lot.” My heart swelled, and I smiled while doing my best to avoid old Gwenny’s stare. “But we really have to be going. Can I have the key?”
“Of course you can.” Alan stood and so did Brooks. I followed suit. “I’ll just go get it.” He turned like he was on a mission, then stopped and swung back around. “Actually, I keep the keys in my den, which is also where I keep my Philip Pearlstein. Would you like to see it, Ollie?”
“I’d love to.” I smiled.
Before he could change his mind or anyone else said a word, I followed Alan out of the room and down the back hall. While carrying my water glass with the same attention I’d pay to a small child, I was racking my brain for information on Philip Pearlstein. In class we discussed all Pittsburgh artists, but I couldn’t remember if he was the guy who did the nudes or the urbanscapes. It was necessary for me to impress Alan. I couldn’t let him out-art me, so I tried to think of anything I could say to sound like I knew everything.
The trip to the den was much too short to come up with anything significant, but my worry about not being able to tell which artist he was referring to was unnecessary. As soon as I turned into the room, a moderately sized pair of surprisingly perky breasts greeted me. Pearlstein was definitely the artist who paints nudes.
Lying Female Nude on Purple Drape was a piece I remembered well, because unlike a lot of Pearlstein’s subjects, this woman had a rather perfect body. Her pale skin was flawless, and we only got a glimpse of her light brown hair. She wasn’t doing anything provocative, but it was obvious she was a sensual woman.
“What do you think?” Alan asked as he rested his hip against a dark and polished wooden bookshelf to our right.
“Wow,” I answered without having to fake it. “There’s a huge difference between seeing art on a screen and in person.”
“I must admit I love to show this piece off.”
A quick glance around the room told me he had a lot to show off. The books on the floor-to-ceiling shelf were the leather-bound, gold-writing kind that only older people seemed to know where to get, and various small sculptures and paintings took up all other available space. The floor was a dark wood, a stark contrast from the white everywhere else, with a large ornate rug in the middle of the room. Did I even smell the lingering scent of cigar smoke? That couldn’t possibly be allowed.
It was all overwhelming. I didn’t know how to act around this kind of dad. My dad hadn’t really collected anything except stamps in his passport, but he appreciated everything, meaning a conversation with him was effortless. With my dad it was so easy. He’s so friendly and so kind and so easygoing.
Was. I had to remind myself. He was those things. Not anymore. Now he was nothing but a memory.
Those thoughts made me regret that I hadn’t insisted Brooks come along with us. I had nothing to talk about with the man except the glaringly naked woman hanging on the wall across from us, and all I could think about was how I wished my dad was around to meet Brooks. I’d never experience the thrill and excitement of having my dad meet the man in my life.
“You should,” I said, flashing him a terrible smile. “She’s stunning.”
“She is.” Alan came to stand next to me in the middle of the room. “But I’d like her better in the bedroom. She doesn’t quite…fit here.”
“Really? Granted, I haven’t seen your bedroom, but I think she looks perfect in here.” The painting’s muted color palette was a bit off from the rest of the décor, but I’d bet my last dollar this was the only room Alan was allowed to decorate in his own home.
From the back of my mind, a tiny nugget of advice I tucked away years earlier came rolling to the forefront. Sadie told me that in order to get on the parents’ good side, the girlfriend must compliment the mom on raising a terrific son and flirt with the dad. Not in a gross or overt way, but in more of a complimentary I-can-tell-you-used-to-be-something kind of way.
“Mrs. Brooks probably wouldn’t want to wake up to that every day.” I patted his arm in what I meant to be a funny gesture.
Alan laughed, wiping away any fear I had of that being a rude thing to say or a weird thing to do. “You’re probably right. But me”—he draped his arm over my shoulders and led me a step closer to the painting—“I can’t get enough of the view.”
“Do you have any other pieces? I’d love to see them.”
“I have a few things I’d like to show you.”
“Great,” I said with a hint of a giggle. None of it was me, but Alan seemed to be enjoying our conversation so I tried to keep it up. It turned out the key to being able to chitchat is to pretend I was someone else.
“Of course, I’d have to wait for a more private time to give you the whole tour.”
“You’d wait?” I asked.
“Yes. That way we could really take our time to discuss and explore.”
“You must have a lot to show me,” I said, feeling out of the loop.
“I do.” He laughed. “And I think you’ll really enjoy it.”
“Honey?” Gwendolyn called from down the hall. I jerked away from Alan like I did something wrong. Did I? “William is anxious to leave.” She rounded the corner, and she was the one who looked anxious.
“Coming, dear,” Alan answered like a husband from a fifties sitcom.
“Follow me,” Mrs. Brooks said in my general direction.
I obeyed and Alan followed just a few steps behind. Seeing Brooks standing in the spot we’d left him in comforted me. I had to hold myself back from jumping him.
“Here you are,” Alan said, holding out a large brass key ring with more than a couple worn keys on it. Brooks reached for it while my mind buzzed with questions about what they could possibly go to, and with relief that the end to the horribleness was in sight.
But just before the keys could settle into his palm, Alan pulled them away. “You can have them under one condition.”
“Yeah, we’ll be extra careful, Dad.”
I hardly recognize the voice as coming from Brooks, it was so annoyed and angst-filled. It made me seriously wonder what he was like as a teenager. Previously I had pictured a biology-studying goody two shoes, but now he had me envisioning black clothes and punk music. I could get into that.
“Not that. Well, yes, that. You have to be careful. But you can have the keys if you will promise to return them tonight and stay for dinner.”
Alan was the only one in the room who seemed to think that was a good idea. Gwenny nibbled her lip and looked away to avoid eye contact. Brooks shifted his weight while taking my hand in his.
“Fine,” he agreed. “We’ll come to dinner.”