A Little Hope(36)

“Suzette’s not here.” The sun is high above the trees, hidden by clouds. The air has a heaviness to it, a damp chill like snow might be coming. “She took her mom to a matinee.”

“Shit, who’s gonna call the ambulance then?” Ahmed grins.

They started four-wheeling in high school. Ahmed’s uncle had a fleet of four-wheelers he always let them ride at his farm a half hour from Wharton. When Damon told Ahmed that they had bought this place, Ahmed said, “Dude, what I need to know is, how much land?”

“Five acres.”

“You know what that means.”

“I do.”

“Poppin’ wheelies left and right on Red and Blue.” Now Red and Blue wait in the back like two Transformers, dried mud on their wheels. Damon cannot wait to hear the noise of the engines, see the rush of trees and grass, that reckless trajectory of every bump as the cold air blasts his face and he breathes through the ski mask he will wear under his helmet.

“You’re a prince to bring these out here,” Damon says.

“Dude, stop kissing my ass.” Ahmed stands on the porch steps and seems to stare at the welcome mat by the front door. It is outlined in black with their monogram on it. Damon wants him to look away. He wants to tell him something he can’t say. About Suzette. About this house. Something ticks inside him.

“But before Red and Blue…” Damon takes two cigars from his coat pocket and holds them like a game show model would. “Tradition.”

Ahmed takes a flask from the inside pocket of his coat. “Cheers, buddy.”

“I’ll go get some glasses,” Damon says. He wipes his feet on the doormat out of habit, enters the house, and closes the door without thinking. Why did he leave Ahmed outside? He doesn’t know. But he sees the table in the foyer with a small lamp and framed black-and-white picture from their wedding day. The white couches across from one another, the brick fireplace. The throw pillows everywhere. He shakes his head. She stayed up so late, so many nights getting this house ready. The week before the wedding, she had the floors refinished, and now they are glossy. Damon can still smell the varnish. He can still smell the factory scent of the new furniture, the paint (Dew or Mist or some name like that), the fresh carpet up in the bedrooms. He stands there in the middle of the kitchen, looks at this museum of hers, and the room echoes.

He opens the cupboard, and the glasses are crystal—from somewhere like Nordstrom, with small anchors etched in them—and he imagines knocking one over as he’s smoking his cigar with Ahmed on the porch and Suzette’s disappointed face. She is wonderful, but he just found this out about her: she’s the type to frown over a broken glass. Neither of his parents were like this. Most of his previous girlfriends weren’t fussy, drinking beer from bottles, letting him smear their lipstick when they kissed. Suzette is different.

But he loves her. He does.

He loves the way she holds a book and sketches sometimes, that strand of hair by her eye. He loves at night when her contact lenses are out and she has her glasses on, sweet-smelling lotion on her face. Yes yes yes. He loves the worn pair of slippers she keeps by the bed and the glass of water she sets on the bathroom sink every night. He likes her body, her hand on his chest. He likes lying under the paisley sheets with her. He likes the texts she sends him: the winky face, the “C u soon i hope.” He likes her work. The kids she cares so much about. She would do anything for them. She works with battered women, too, getting them new clothes, new apartments. She is a good human, and he loves that. She is tough, scrappy in a way you don’t expect a rich girl to be.

He hears the furnace kick on. The heat crackles through the baseboards. On the kitchen table is the section of white scarf she was knitting. Through the front window, he sees Ahmed pacing back and forth.

He reaches to the back of the cupboard and finds two small glasses from his old apartment. They have a red and blue Phillies design, chipped and faded. He runs his finger over the small Liberty Bell in the center. They were his, before Suzette. Before Amanda even. He holds these glasses, his glasses that he picked out, and walks to the door, passing a porcelain umbrella stand with two new navy blue golf umbrellas standing at attention.

Outside, Ahmed has his back to Damon, hands in his pockets. Damon can see his breath in the air, and it makes him feel lonely. “Pour whatever you got in here.”

“Nothing but the finest Scotch, Romeo.” Ahmed has called him this since fifth grade, when Mrs. Waverly, their language arts teacher, made Damon read the part of Romeo. He can’t remember who played Juliet, but he remembers her standing on the teacher’s desk as a makeshift balcony, a sheet of cardboard around her like a railing. Did she have glasses? He thinks she did. He can remember the glare of them as he spoke to her. Damon was so embarrassed that he mumbled his lines, and the kids laughed. Ahmed should have been Romeo. He would have loved every second.

They hold their cigars and look out at the yard. They each have an inch of liquor at the bottom of the glass. “So who you been seeing these days, A-Team?”

“Oh man, nobody and nobody. My apartment must be like the house on The Munsters. Every chick that comes close just runs away screaming.” Ahmed sips his Scotch.

“Bullshit. You’re probably banging models. You just don’t want me to feel bad.”

“Yeah, like I wouldn’t broadcast that.” Ahmed shakes his head. “Damn, I’d let C-SPAN set up cameras if that was the case.”