14
Coyville
I’d spent the first week of summer vacation on my own terms: hiding and avoiding. I’d managed to avoid any and all social outings where there might’ve been even a slight chance I’d run into McCoy. Despite Guelph being a city with over one hundred and thirty-thousand people, there was always a chance. Having both grown up with the same crowd, in the same neighbourhood, and with the same hangouts, the risk of running into McCoy was still high. Too high, and too soon. I needed more time to wrap my head around his return, and how exactly I’m going to handle it, especially come September when he’ll be my boss. I’d been putting in a valiant effort so far in manipulating my mind not go to a place I knew it’d linger too long—Coyville. But I was doing a horrible job.
Cleaning, sleeping, reading—and even keeping myself busy by painting my bedroom a deep “Napoleonic Blue” that took me three full coats and the better part of the week—were no match against the power of knowing he was back, single, and here to stay.
Number of times I’ve seen McCoy Graves in the flesh since school ended: 0
Number of times I’ve thought about him this first week of vacation: too many to count.
Number of nocturnal emissions starring McCoy: 5, resulting in 3 sheet changes!
Number of times I stalked his Facebook page (fuelling those spontaneous orgasms in the night): 4
Number of times I’ve lied to Kami about these numbers when she’s called: 12
Number of times I’ve listened to Keaton go on about how great it is to have Coy back: 4
Number of times my mother has tried to get me to come to her annual Start of Summer celebration dinner: 7
Number of times I’ve been able to put her off: 6
Unfortunately for me, the jig would officially be up today, on Day 7—the day I’d finally caved, agreeing to venture over to my parents’ house for dinner. My mom had called this morning and threatened me, stating that I was absolutely required to present myself at her celebration tonight, or if I didn’t show, she’d be bringing the festivities to me. Which would include her lugging all of her scrapbooking shit so we could add my annual “Year In Review” page to my “Working Girl”-themed scrapbook, a page she insisted I create and add at the end of every school year. Together, we’d list the names of my students on fancy paper, include pictures of trips taken (which were, of course, all perfectly edged with patterned scissors that created some type of scalloped or curvy trim). We’d also include any other exciting academic hullabaloos my mother saw fit to highlight. It was ridiculous, but I caved every year just the same because this was my mother. To be honest, it was kind of cool seeing my career in review as the years passed—not that I would ever admit that to Crazy Milestone Lady. Keaton was lucky. Since he owned his own shop, mom only made him add pictures of what he felt his best tattoo pieces were come January each new year, so he basically just had a really cool photo album to look at.
“Start of Summer celebration, my ass.” I slam my car door too hard after pulling my silver Prius in front of my parents’ house. Remorse for taking my anger out on poor Judas registers, and I’m annoyed all over. It’s not my Prius’s fault. What I should be slamming instead is a familiar gas-guzzling old grey Ford Explorer that was strategically blocking the entire driveway, as if to annoy me. McCoy had parked his beast as if it were a freaking tank, thus taking up my usual parking space and the one beside it.
Already on high alert, I smell the evidence immediately when I enter the front door, along with a whiff of parental deception.
“Son of a bitch, Keaton was right. She baked him a bloody cake,” I mutter, while trying to find some zen. Kicking off my pink KEEN flip-flops, I balk a bit, thankful my mom doesn’t see as they land with two harsh slaps against the wall in the foyer. Taking in a deep breath, I try to steady myself for what is sure to be an interesting night. Thinking back to that Cosmo article, I make it my mission not to be on the offensive, determined to try to enjoy this obvious “Welcome Home, McCoy” dinner. I walk down the floral-wallpapered hallway, following the sugary-sweet smell to the kitchen, where I knew my mom would be. At least with Katie busy gushing over Coy, I won’t have to stay all night scrapbooking…
“Hey, Mom,” I say, walking into the bright lime-green room with the white cabinets. My eyes immediately find my mom; she’s busy fussing over a large pan of roast beef, carrots, potatoes, and gravy. Katie Hatfield is known for her gravy. By the sounds of the soft expletives coming from her, and the measuring cup holding a thick white liquid in her hand, she’s currently fighting with a roux, trying to get that perfect consistency we all love. But Mom’s roast beef isn’t just a family favourite, it also happens to be his favourite meal.
“East! Perfect timing. I’ve been waiting for you to frost the cake. We need your Whirlwind for this one.”
“What are we celebrating? Roast beef tonight? It can’t be our summer kick-off,” I ask, letting her know I’m well-aware of her deceit. Usually, when celebrating the Start of Summer, we eat steak and seafood. All I can smell is roast, and there’s no sign of my dad manning the grill.
“Sweetheart, as I said on the phone, we’re celebrating McCoy’s homecoming.” She eyes me skeptically, waiting to see if I’m going to let her get away with her little omission.
“No, you said it was the Start of Summer dinner.” I give her a not-so-satisfied look.
“Pshaw, we’ll do the surf-and-turf next week. We haven’t seen Coy in ages,” she beams, her hazel eyes shining with happiness. “Like I was saying, I’ve left the frosting for you to make. I think this is cause to go all out, and I can never seem to get the sprinkle ratio in the Whirlwind quite right. So, you mix it, and we’ll ice the cake once it cools.” She points to the ingredients she’s laid out on the opposite counter for me.
“Where is everyone?” I ask, moving over to the counter to start the frosting, wanting to be prepared for when I have to see him.
“The boys are down in the rec room watching the game with your father. They’ll be up soon—unless you want to go down and say hello first?” she asks, a sneaky glint in her eye.
“I can’t believe my own mother has turned on me. You know he’s not my favourite person. And I’m not thrilled he’s back. I don’t know why we even have to celebrate his return,” I state, a bit more abruptly than I mean to. Over the years, McCoy had woven his handsome self into my family, and I know both my parents think of him as one of their own. I know I need to suck it up, and take one for the team. My mom once told me, after McCoy had moved away with Lola, that she’d always secretly hoped he and I would someday, somehow end up together. Clearly, this idea hasn’t changed now that he’s not only back in town but is now also single, information I’m sure my mom received with glee once getting the lowdown from Keaton. A conversation I’m sure happened well before I found out at that little breakfast of revelations we’d had not so long ago.
“Oh shush, you,” she says. “You know he’s family. And it’s a milestone. It’s been almost four years since Coy’s been for a family dinner.”
I scowl and beat the butter, milk, sifted powdered sugar and vanilla together with the electric mixer before shaking in the sprinkles.
“Whatever. You do realize he’s not actual family, though, right?” I ask, to be a pest.
“Semantics. We practically raised him in his teens. So don’t be rude to him tonight.”
“I’ll try, for you. Though we both know he drives me crazy,” I say, tasting the frosting to see if it’s crunchy enough.
“I do, but I think it’s the good kind of crazy,” she winks, before placing the cake in front of me from where it was cooling on the baker’s rack. The frosting is ready and my mom has finished dividing it among a few bowls and putting out the food colouring she wants me to use.
“A fish cake, Mom? What are we celebrating? Coy being slimy?” I snort, laughing at my own joke—and its impeccable timing—as my brother and The Fish himself can be heard coming up the stairs for dinner just as I put the finishing touches on the cake.
“Again, don’t be rude to him, Eastlyn. Coy is a part of this family, and we’re very happy he’s moved back home,” she warns, raising her finger and adding, “and do not think for one minute that I don’t know you’re just as happy.” She taps my nose as she walks past me carrying the potatoes.
“You do remember this isn’t his home, right?” I whisper, drying my hands off and reaching for the CorningWare dish that holds the carrots before following her into the dining room. I hate my mother’s intuition.
So, here’s the thing. Not only was McCoy tight with my brother, he was always tight with my mom and dad, too, but even more so once the guys hit high school. From the autumn of Grade 9 on, Coy was here a lot. Like, a lot a lot. Like to the point of having a dresser with clothes and sports equipment in the basement a lot. His parents were workaholics; he wasn’t very close with either of them, and his older brother, Rory, was living away at university. Both lawyers, his parents travelled often for work, and Coy spent a lot of time home alone from a fairly young age. From what I’d overheard in my parents’ hushed whispers on the subject, there were nights they didn’t make it home to him at all. Keaton had told me once that McCoy had been a surprise, and that they hadn’t ever planned on having more than one child. Naturally, my mom being my mom reached out with open arms, giving Coy a key of his own, people he could count on, and appointed the pullout in the basement his anytime he wanted it.
This all came to light one Halloween when my parents had dropped the Minor Niner boys off at some party where they ended up getting blitzed and sneaking in after curfew. They woke my parents with the sounds of dry heaving coming from the basement, where Mom and Dad found Dumb and Dumber taking turns bowing down to the porcelain god. I guess my mom tried to contact the Graves, and didn’t get a return call until late the next afternoon. My mom tried her best to be kind and understanding when speaking to McCoy’s mom, Leanne, who was more than happy to have my family welcome Coy so openly. And from that day forward, McCoy spent a lot of time sleeping on our pullout. We never brought the situation up, nor did he.