You're to Blame(62)

“Why are you laughing?” In the fridge I usually find all my favorite things. Dee keeps it stocked in case I mosey over, which is rare, but fresh squeezed orange juice sits on the middle shelf. I pour a glass and take a long sip. “What is this garbage?” I lift the cup to inspect the drink.

“No reason to squeeze fresh oranges anymore. Lord knows your mother hasn’t drank a drop of anything with sugar since the eighties, and don’t get me going on your father. For an uppity son of a bitch, he has cheap taste in juice,” Dee rambles on one of her usual tangents. When I was younger, I’d nod, pretending to understand what she was murmuring about. “And we aren’t here to talk about what’s in the fridge.”

“If you must know, yes, we slept together. It changed everything, and I screwed up. I acted like it wasn’t a big deal, but it was.”

“Jesus, young boy. You’ve made yourself quite the mess.”

“Yes, and now her boyfriend is awake, and it feels like every second that passes, she’s slipping away.”

“Oh my god!” Dee squeals, circling the kitchen island. Her mouth is wide open with shock. “You’re in love with her.”

“In love?” I scoff. “You’re fucking with me, right?”

She smacks my hand. “Watch your language, young man.”

“You curse all the time. I probably learned to curse from you.”

“Quit changing the subject.” Dee snickers through clenched lips. “You’re in love with this girl, Duke.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m in love with her.” Do I love her? Could I love her? Fucking hell. “I’m challenged by her. She captivates me whenever she’s in the room, and somehow, she knows exactly how to push every button of mine. She’s not the kind of girl to give up on people, and I find that most attractive about her.” I take a deep breath. Every moment with Charlotte, even the little things, has meant something to me. “If you met her, you’d know what I’m saying. She has a presence about her, Dee.”

“That’s how you describe someone you’re in love with, Duke. Most girls would line up with their ass in the air to hear a man say what you just did about this girl.” She pats my cheek. “And I hope I get to meet her someday. You aren’t easy to keep up with, and it seems she’s been doing a damn good job.”

Fuck, maybe I do love this girl.

“Dee,” my mother calls through the intercom system. She had the whole house rewired so she could avoid human contact or a personal relationship with her staff. Yeah, that’s the kind of mom I have. “I need a glass of water, please.”

I whip around and nod towards the speaker. “Where’d the manners come from?”

“It’s new.” She opens the cupboard and pulls out a tall glass, filling it halfway with ice and water. Just how mother likes. “But you won’t hear me complaining. Stop back through before you leave. I think your father is in his office.”

I groan. “As if I care.”

“He’s still your father. He’s a part of you, just as you are a part of him.” Dee passes by, but turns to face me with her lips straight in a line. “Do yourself a favor, Duke, and apologize. To everyone. Him. Her. Yourself.” She pats me on the cheek and walks out with the glass in hand. The space becomes immediately unwelcoming. She’s the only source of homey warmth this place has to offer.

Everything in this house is a shiny distraction. It’s how my parents prefer it. No signs of weakness or abnormality are allowed.

The day I’d walked in with my first tattoo, you would’ve thought I committed a heinous crime. My mother glared at my forearm throughout dinner, as if she stared long enough, the nightmare would end, and the phoenix would wipe away with a warm, wet cloth.

“Only gutter rats have tattoos,” my mother said to me. This was the moment I decided not to let anyone dictate what I did and when I did it. The day also commemorates when I stopped accepting cash from them. In their world, cash means something I’m never willing to give. Control.

My hand glides up the stairway railing, and I take each step as if it will be my last. Being under their roof makes me weak. All over again, I’m the kid who hid in his closet, begging not to come down to the party because I didn’t want to play the part they expected. Even as a young kid, I had a stronghold on my destiny.

Over the top of his high back chair, my father’s head is visible. I tiptoe past, hoping not to disturb him. Old habits die hard. When safe in my childhood bedroom, I close the door, careful not to let the latch click.

To my surprise, nothing has changed. Every time I visit, my father threatens to rip my band posters off the walls. The state of the art stereo where I played hellfire loud music remains tucked in the corner. A wealth of clothes I’ve never worn hang in the closet, the door ajar. Tens of thousands of dollars were spent to make me play a part, appear to be one of them, but I always chose a simpler look. The only thing my parents could control was my school uniform. Only the best private schools and tutors’ money could buy for their son.

The dresser is clear of even one speck of dust. It’s apparent Dee’s been busy. My eyes shift to the mahogany frames filled with pictures from my childhood. Unlike the ones in Charlotte’s bedroom filled with undeniable love and admiration, mine are full of stark poses and lack any personal touch. There’s no proof of love, and I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t sting a little.