-10-
Let the Show Begin
One week later I get a call, the name popping up on my screen making me pause the treadmill. Pulling out my ear buds, I put the phone to my ear and answer with, “Is something wrong?”
“No. Well…it depends by what you define as wrong,” Cyvil says nervously, barely able to hear her above the sound of gym equipment being used around me.
“What is it?”
“My parents want to invite you and your dad over for dinner tomorrow night.”
“Okay, how is that a bad thing?” I ask, stepping off the treadmill completely and grabbing my bag, heading for the locker room to hear her better.
“Because we’ll have to be on, as in we have to look convincingly happy.” She still sounds slightly frazzled, and it makes me chuckle. Her questioning “What?” doesn’t sound nearly as amused.
“I can be happy. Can’t you?”
“…Yes, but it’s going to be for a whole hour. You think you can do that?”
I shrug, forgetting she can’t see me. “If you’re that worried about it, tell them I can’t make it and we’ll have to reschedule.”
“My father will think it’s suspicious.”
I pause mid-step. “What, that I have a life?”
“No, the fact that you have one that doesn’t have me at the forefront of it. I know it sounds ridiculous, but he basically thinks that I should be the center of your universe at the moment. And if you bypass the dinner for something more important, it’s not going to leave the best impression.”
I sigh, sitting down on the bench, wondering what’s going to make her happy. She doesn’t want to do this, and yet she says we don’t have any other options. “Then I guess I’ll just see you tomorrow then.”
As I’m about to hang up, I hear her voice say, quiet this time, “I’m sorry.”
I stare at the locker in front of me, painted an ugly gray that reminds me of the sidewalks of New York City. It feels like every time I talk to this girl she’s apologizing for one thing or another. I’m sorry I cut your neck. I’m sorry I have to refuse you. I’m sorry my father is a jackass. I’m sorry you heard the truth. I can’t imagine what this one is for.
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
A sigh, a pause, and then, “I shouldn’t be putting my anxiety on you. Instead I should be glad that at least one of us has a calm head. I’m just worried that we’ll say the wrong thing and it’ll all be over, deal absolved before it could even begin. There’s so much riding on this that it has me breaking out in hives, and I never get hives. And then my sister called today and said that she’s freaking out because today is her due date and she’s worried something will go wrong and I –”
“Have you ever golfed before?” I ask, stopping her before she loses consciousness from saying all that in a single breath.
“I – golf? No, why?”
I don’t go into details, just tell her where to meet me and ask if she could be there in an hour. She’s hesitant at first but says “Yes” all the same, and I hang up, hoping this works.
***
One hour and ten minutes later, Cyvil is standing in the Tee box in front of me, a seven iron in her unsteady hands. She looked at me like I was crazy when she got here, but when she saw Moon and Rosy with me, and I explained about the obsession Moon has with teaching us this old man’s sport, she relaxed a bit. But now, she seems stressed again.
“Do I just swing it, or is there a technique to this?” she asks, eyes looking down at the ball. I thought this would be a helpful activity, a way for her to take out her anxiety on something that can’t talk back. And so I stuck the club in her hand, grabbed us a bucket of balls, and now here she is, looking more frightened than I’ve ever seen her. She looked more comfortable with a knife in her hand the night we met. Go figure.
“Just take a swing and we’ll see if you could use some tweaking,” Moon says from the box behind her, leaning on his hybrid as he watches her with a curved smile.
I cross my arms, giving him a dirty look. “How come you’re nice to her when you give advice but act like we’re a couple of numb nuts?” I motion to Rosy and myself, and Rosy pipes up with a, “Yeah, jackass” right before he gives his ball a whack and it rebounds, hitting the metal guard separating the boxes and shooting back at the other golfers like a boomerang. Curses fly up around us, Cyvil having to duck to miss the projectile.
Moon gives us a droll look, not having moved an inch. “That’s why.”
Stupid Rosy.
I turn my attention back to my fiancée, who looks more frightened than ever.
“Go ahead, you can’t do any worse than he did,” I say, nodding at Rosy, who is currently apologizing to a little old lady who got hit in the leg by his rogue ball. She hits him surprisingly hard with her purse before wobbling away, cursing him out as she goes.
Cyvil shakes her head at the sight, but at least she’s smiling now. That’s what I was hoping for.
“Okay,” she says, shifting her feet from side to side, eyes focused on the ball at her feet. “But if I hit anyone, say it’s Rosy’s fault, alright?”
“Hey,” he complains when he joins us again, one hand massaging his arm where he got the brunt of the purse. “Pequeña pelirroja,” he mutters under his breath. Moving back into his box, he picks up his driver.
She turns around and narrows her golden eyes on him, her accent perfect and her words smooth as silk when she says, “¿Quieres repetir eso para mí?”
His eyes widen, first in surprise, then in embarrassment. “Uh, whoops. Sorry.” His shoulders hunch in a wince. It’s the first time I’ve seen him properly put in his place by a woman. You know, other than his mother.
Moon and I snicker at him, and I ask her, curious, “What did you say?”
She gives him another look, though less threatening this time. “He called me a mean little redhead, and I asked him if he wanted to repeat that for me.”
“Good girl,” Moon grins, standing next to me now with an empty mesh bucket in his hand. Looks like he’s tapping out for the day.
Rosy bristles over his ball. “Dude, pick a side.”
Without hesitation, we both say, “Hers,” as she finally takes the shot.
The club face connects with the ball and it goes flying into the air, a perfectly straight shot onto the green turf below.
There’s a silence.
And then she’s asking, “Was that okay?”
In answer, Moon says as seriously as I’ve ever heard him, “Marry me.”
I shove him in the shoulder while she laughs uncomfortably.
“Baby, that was better than even Tiger Woods over here can do,” Rosy says, his words meant for Moon, smile vengeful. He knows well enough that it will set him off in just the wrong way.
“Then maybe you should watch her instead of me and see what she’s doing right and what you are doing embarrassingly wrong.” Moon walks over and pats him on the shoulder, expression sarcastic, and I shake my head at them, moving closer to Cyvil as she lines up another ball. Leaning against the metal post, arms and legs crossed, I watch her hit another shot.
“Is it helping?” I ask, kicking another ball to her to tee up.
“What do you mean?” Her eyes are staring down, never leaving the ball as her arms take the club back, easy and smooth, and the head easily connects with the white front of the ball, sending it flying. Unbelievable.
“This, driving practice. Is it taking your mind off your problems?”
She pauses her hands on the shaft of the club, her brow furrowing before surprise takes its place. “Actually, yeah. It is.” She looks up at me now, a slight breeze blowing her hair around. It doesn’t take her long to figure it out. “That’s why you asked me here, isn’t it?”
I smile, guilty.
Pretending to look mad while trying not to smile, she’s about to take another hit of the ball when an older man walks by with a bag of clubs on his shoulder, his eyes watching her swing. But then just as suddenly, it isn’t impressed anymore, but horrified.
The bag drops from his shoulder in a clatter, mouth opening in a small O.
Everyone turns to see what happened, what caused the commotion, and follow his eyes to Cyvil.
He stares gaping at her facial scar and the ones peppering her neck, the wind no longer hiding it with her hair.
When she realizes that it’s gone too quiet, she looks around curiously, seeing everyone staring at her now, some gasping, others looking away quickly so as not to be rude. But it’s too late. They already looked, and the damage has been done.
Seeing the attention he’s caused her, the man staggers down to retrieve his bag, not giving her another look as he walks to the other end of the range. Slowly but surely the sound of clubs swinging through the air and light chatter starts up again, the incident forgotten.
Looking back at Cyvil with wariness, I see that same look on her face, the one she’d had when she caught me staring at the scars on her hand last week in her house, when I stared at the one on her face when we first met. It’s the embodiment of sadness, and seeing her wear it, I’m surprised to know that I would do anything to take it away.
Apparently, so would my boys.
Rosy quickly puts back his borrowed club, knowing the outing is over, and Moon walks over to us with a small, understanding smile on his face as he wraps a loose arm around her shoulders. Rosy gives her a wink when he joins us, hands in his jean’s pockets.
“What’s it feel like to be the center of attention? I never to get to experience it with Walking Ad over here always around,” Moon says, giving me an annoyed glare.
She laughs quietly, eyes staring down at the club in her hands, the ones covered with a past I have no clue about. I appreciate the guys for trying to make her feel better, but I think I should take this one.
Grabbing her hand while taking the club gently out of the other, I say, “Do you want to go home?”
She goes still, eyes glued to her hand in mine, and I wonder when the last time someone held it. By her stunned, almost incredulous reaction, I would say a while. Looking up slowly, eyes full of something I can’t place, she says, “Would you mind taking me somewhere first?”
Cyvil
I could tell he thought it a strange request, but when Moon heard where I wanted to go, he basically dragged me, Rosy, and Jagger to the car, demanding “Jag” be a good cabby and drive us there, “Posthaste”, if not for my emotional well-being then for his.
Have I mentioned how much I like Moon?
I’m pretty sure he’s my spirit animal.
And like a good friend/fiancé, he drove us all the way to Greenwich Village to the corner of 84 Charing Cross Road, and stopped at 154 West 10th Street, where the warm glowing lights inside Three Lives & Company bookstore beckoned me; where the glossy and colorful covers of their latest releases tease passerby in the shop window, inviting them to stop in and explore. Which is just what I’m going to do.
“You sure you want to come with?” I ask Jagger and Rosy as Moon guides the precession to the store with long strides, making it to the door a good thirty feet before ourselves. He slips inside with the ease of a ghost.
“I don’t really read,” Rosy admits, looking at the store front with a hint of reservation, the same kind of expression mirrored on Jagger’s face.
“Well it’s time to start,” I say, grabbing each of their shirtsleeves and hauling them with me before either can change their minds and run back to the car.
Hearing the chatter of quiet voices, like a calming murmur, and smelling the fresh scent of newly printed pages and India ink has me closing my eyes, reveling in the peace of it all. What originally got me into reading as a kid was the Zen it gave me, transporting me to another world, one that didn’t include kids making fun of me at school for my disfigurement, or my parents looking disapproving when I’d try to wear my hair up, exposing my facial scars. It made me forget about reality and instead had me diving into fictitious lives that would keep me hostage for hours. It was the only time I ever remember being truly happy after the incident, and whenever reality strikes its ugly head, I return to this same comfort.
Which is why I possess a double reason for coming here, for dragging the boys along with me. One, I need to buy a present for my niece or nephew, and also, I didn’t want to let what happened at the driving range kill the good mood it had originally put me in. And naturally, I thought of my favorite bookstore to kill two birds with one stone.
Knowing the layout like the back of my hand, I slowly make my way to the bookshelf I know will have my present for little Cyvil Jr. It’s one I’m not sure my sister will appreciate, but it’s one I hope her child will. Because one way or another, he or she is going to be a reader. I’m setting the groundwork early for us to have something to bond over. And who doesn’t love –
“Harry Potter?” Jagger eyeballs the beautifully illustrated cover of The Sorcerer’s Stone as I heave it off the shelf, bringing it down to view. Letting my hand trace the silver lettering, I smile.
“Isn’t that a kid’s book?” Rosy asks, peering over my shoulder. We have yet to see Moon slinking around, somehow remaining cloaked behind the numerous tall bookshelves cluttering the store. I could really use his help with trying to convince them that books don’t have age limits. Well, unless you’re seventeen and under, then you really shouldn’t be reading erotica.
“Yep,” I say, handing the copy to Jagger, my hand reaching for The Chamber of Secrets next. I hand that one off to Rosy.
“What are you doing?” Jagger asks by the time his arms are filled with four of the seven books. Rosy looks like he has the same question on his lips, his own arms weighed down with his share of copies.
“Just be thankful I didn’t pick up The Lord of the Rings or Game of Thrones”, I tell them, satisfied with my choice. Just then, Moon finds us, popping up at the end of the aisle, his own impressive stack of hardcovers cascading in his hands.
“This place is bomb,” he gushes as he shows off what he’s getting, his smile rivaling the brightness of the sun. I splutter laughter when I see Tolkien and Martin on the sides of his copies, along with Maas and Meyer. Now that is a heavy load.
“What’s this for, anyway? I imagine you probably already own these.” Jagger nods to his brimming arms, not looking nearly as annoyed as I had predicted at my sloshing them off on him. Normally I would have brought each one to the counter myself. But when you have two guys with you that clearly live in the gym, then why not use the resources?
“I did, as a kid, but then we moved and they got lost in the chaos, or so my mother says.” A lie, I’m sure. “But actually, these aren’t for me. They’re for my sister’s baby.”
Jagger pauses, looking at me with an odd expression. “You mean the one that hasn’t been born yet?”
Now Rosy, too, is looking at me like I’m a few fries short of a Happy Meal.
“Yep, that’s the one,” I say, not bothering to explain myself. Walking down another book lined aisle, I let a finger glide across the colorful spines, deciding the next time I get my paycheck from the hospital I’ll make a return visit and buy myself a nice little hardcover. I haven’t bought one in far too long, and my bookshelves are lonely.
Reappearing by the counter, Jagger and Rosy stand behind me as we wait for Moon’s large purchase to go through. By the end of it, the man has spent over three hundred dollars. He happily gives the woman a jet black credit card.
“So, you’re trying to make the kid into your mini me, huh?” Rosy says, letting the books fall ungracefully onto the counter once Moon is finished. I, and the woman ringing me up, give him a dark look.
He takes a step back, eyes widening.
“No,” I say as I get out my wallet. “I just want us to have something in common, a bond. My aunts and uncles were never really around, let alone tried to share a hobby with me, and I don’t want to be like that for him or her.”
“I think it’s a nice thought,” Jagger says with a small smile, but that may be because he doesn’t have to hold the books anymore. “Aunt Cyvil, the fun compulsive reader. I can see it.”
I smile, too, grabbing the bags and having the boys help me with them, which they do without complaint.
***
After our shopping excursion, Jagger drops off Moon and Rosy at their respective places before he makes his way down my driveway, stopping in front of the guest house. Since I had Kendall drive me to work, and then I took the subway to the range, I really appreciated the ride home, especially with all these books with me.
Yesterday I had spent the day taking things from my old room and moving them into the guest house, much to my parents’ surprise. I think they figured that after I agreed to their terms that I would just move back in. But I realized that having my own space was a nice change, and I decided to make the move permanent.
Looking at the main house a stone’s throw away, Jagger says, voice contemplative, “You ever wonder why parents think they know what’s best for you, even when it makes you miserable?”
I blow out a breath, my eyes glued to the window that used to be my own. The room is dark, empty. Just like how I felt in it. “All the time,” I say truthfully. Shifting my gaze to Jagger, seeing the sharp outline of his profile in the small cabin of his car, I think about the things his father has made him do. And not just trying to get him to marry me. “Jagger?”
“Hmm?” He’s still watching the house.
“Did you really want to study economics in college?”
Now he’s looking at me, some kind of a hybrid smile on his lips. It’s amused and slightly worried. I have no idea why.
The hand he has resting on the gear shift twitches.
“No.”
Before I can ask what his true field of study would have been, he’s dipping out of the car, my bags going with him. Apparently, this subject is closed. Opening my own door, I follow him out, thanking him once he’s helped drag all of my stuff inside. With a quick, “See you tomorrow,” he’s back out the door and in his car, driving away.
Slumping down on the sofa, Grim joins me, looking happy to see me again after being gone longer than I predicted. I scratch her back as I pull out my cell, hitting speed dial 1.
“What?” Atillia answers tersely on the third ring.
“Bad timing?”
“Bad timing as in I’m supposed to give birth to a human today? Yes, I would say so.”
“Wait, are you having contractions?” I ask, sitting up straighter. My mind starts running with all the things I have to do yet. I have to get a bag packed, make arrangements for Hanna to watch Grim for me, go to the store and –
“No. I’m fine. Just fatter than hell and couch bound while I watch a COPS rerun. You know, like a winner.” I hear what suspiciously sounds like potato chips crunching, and I close my eyes in annoyance. At least she isn’t going into labor. But it makes me worried. If she’s eating junk food, then that means Quincy isn’t around.
“Till, where is your husband?”
“Grabbing me a tub of paleo ice cream down at the hippie food store.” Crunch. “Why?”
“No reason,” I chuckle, trying to cover it up as a cough.
“Whatever. I’m bored. What’d you do today?”
I spend the next twenty minutes talking about Jagger’s oddly kind way of getting me out of my head, and how it kind of backfired in the end, but was still a nice gesture. She asks what I got at the bookstore, and I have to lie, which I hate to do to her, but I want her gift to be a surprise. I already bought her a bunch of baby clothes and gave them to her at her baby shower, but the books are going to be my real present.
Finally we get to the part about Dad wanting to have a family dinner tomorrow night, which she and Quincy are invited to, but she says, “I’d rather pop out quads than deal with your situation.”
“Wow, thanks.” We’re both watching the COPS marathon now, our resounding “Yikes” echoing across the phone when the fleeing redneck gets Tased.
“Till, do you think asking someone about their college major is a personal subject?” I ask her randomly.
More crunching. “No, why?”
I tell her about Jagger’s strange reaction this afternoon, and she agrees, it’s weird. “It kind of makes me think about other things, too.”
“Like what?”
“Well, I don’t really know anything about him that’s personal, other than he has a fear of someone shaving his head.”
A pause. “I’m not even going to ask how you know that.”
Pretending as though she didn’t say anything, I go on. “I don’t know where his mom is, or if she and Mr. Wells are divorced. He never mentions her. And any time the topic strays in a personal direction, he bypasses it.”
“Like you do?” she says, her tone telling me she thinks I’m hypocritical, which maybe I am. I guess I shouldn’t fault him for not wanting to divulge his more personal details, especially when I don’t want to do the same. I have to remember that this is only temporary after all. It’s not like we’re actually engaged and need to know these things about each other. Still, it doesn’t lessen my curiosity about the life that Jagger really leads.