Tease(70)

“Julia, you want more?” I hear Dad ask my mom. His voice has that edge to it—they can’t say anything to each other without it sounding vaguely like a threat.

“God, no. But thank you for cooking,” she says, and there’s a clatter of dishes in the sink.

I take a deep breath and peek around the doorframe. I don’t know why I can’t just go in there, but I can’t. There are so many reasons why not, but mostly, right now, it would just be impossible to have the chocolate-chip pancake discussion one more time. I don’t like them, and no one, particularly my little brothers, can understand why. And Dad will think I’m just being a brat to spite him, like I live my whole life to thwart his crappy efforts at playing Good Father. I can’t explain that there’s nothing to even thwart, so why would I bother trying?

And Mom will want to say something about my outfit or whatever. She’s been really nice since the other night in my room, but it’s basically an addiction with her, to look at me and immediately find something that needs improvement. And of course everything about me needs improvement. I just don’t need to talk about my T-shirt and cutoff shorts right now.

I can’t see very far into the kitchen, but I watch Mom at the sink, her hair pulled back into a loose, pretty-but-weekend-y ponytail. I’m surprised to see she’s wearing jeans too—usually when we go to Natalie’s she wears something she’d wear to work. They’re nice jeans, of course, with a nice shirt.

Then my dad comes striding into view, carrying the skillet to the sink. He’s in chinos and a polo, the Saturday uniform of absentee fathers everywhere. I didn’t even know he was coming today, and actually it seems like he must’ve gotten in last night—his hair still looks a little wet from a shower. Wait, is he staying here?

“Thank you,” Mom says to him, taking the pan and adding it to the pile she’s rinsing and then putting in the dishwasher. “And thanks for cooking, this was nice.”

“Of course. I’ll get the boys to their games and then meet you at the lawyer’s office.”

“Okay, but no rush, stay with them as long as they need. Tommy’s just a couple fields away from Alex today, so you can go back and forth, maybe, and then bring them home.”

They’re talking like they’re still married, like it’s just another weekend. Most people probably wouldn’t hear the tension in their voices, or see the way my mom isn’t really looking at my dad. But still. I realize how much easier this last six months would’ve been if we were a two-parent household. Even two parents who still pretty much hate each other.

My stomach does another sloppy flip, like a broken, half-cooked pancake. I take one last look at my parents and finally back away, unseen, going around the long way to the front door. I have my keys and my bag already. I guess we could drive together, Mom and me, but my car is in the driveway, and Dad’s isn’t blocking it—he parked on the street, his bulky black car looking like the FBI came to stay with us or something. I take that as a sign, and without really thinking I get into my car.

I don’t want to go straight to Natalie’s—if for no other reason than I’ll be way too early—but I need to go somewhere. When I pull up to the intersection with the Albertsons on the corner, I make a split-second decision to turn. I’m not even expecting Dylan to be there, but then I see his car, and I park hastily, not giving myself time to think.

The store is freezing, as always. Outside the temperature has dropped fifteen degrees, an early preview of what fall will feel like, if we get more than a couple of days of it before winter sets in. But it always takes a few days for places like school and the grocery store to catch on and turn their thermostats up. I haven’t caught on, either—even my emergency Teresa sweater is still in the car. Goose bumps pop out on my arms as soon as I walk through the automatic sliding doors.

The sight of Dylan doesn’t make them go away, that’s for sure. He’s right at the front, unloading boxes of apples, standing with his back to me at one of the first tables inside the produce section. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him—outside of stalking his Facebook page, I mean—and the sick-excited feeling I’ve had since I woke up gets even more intense. Just watching his back as he leans over and opens another cardboard box, pulling a tray of Granny Smiths up and setting them on the table, makes me dizzy.

Plus I realize I have no plan here, no agenda, no point. Did I just want to see him? Just one last look before he goes to college, which I’m assuming is what he’ll be doing next—starting late, or moving to some off-campus housing until spring semester, or—

I don’t have a chance to decide what I’m doing, though. Suddenly he turns, looking at me so directly and immediately I wonder for a second if I didn’t say his name out loud. We’re staring each other in the eye, me shivering in short sleeves, him in his dumb blue apron.

He doesn’t look surprised to see me, really. We’re standing too far away from each other to talk without yelling, so I kind of angle my head back, toward the door I just walked in, trying to silently ask him to come outside. This makes him raise his eyebrows, maybe because we’re usually in the back, hiding from everyone. But maybe that’s not what he’s thinking. I don’t think I’ve ever really understood how Dylan thinks.

“Hey, dude,” he calls out to another blue-apron guy, who’s stacking cartons of caramel apples a couple of tables over. “I’ll be right back.”