Interim(13)

He locked the 9 mm in the safe and headed out the door past the kitchen, where he left the beer in the fridge.





~

It doesn’t really bother me that my dad doesn’t accept me, doesn’t like me. He’s got his own shit to deal with, I guess. But it’s impossible to be in an environment where you feel unwanted all the time. You really start to think it’s your fault, even when you know deep down that it’s got nothing to do with you. It’s not because he created you. It’s because you didn’t turn out the way he’d hoped. Or maybe his life didn’t turn out the way he’d hoped.

But that’s on him, not you.

~





She climbed into the SUV, taking care to lift her legs so that the backs of her thighs didn’t touch the seat.

“I like your sweat on my seats,” Brandon said, observing her.

“Don’t I know it,” Regan joked.

She laughed. Brandon snorted.

“Seriously. Put your legs down. I don’t care,” he said.

She complied. “Normally they stop sweating by now. I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Uh, it’s five thousand degrees out,” he noted.

She giggled. “Yeah, and I probably burned five thousand calories at practice.” She swiped her forehead, erasing the miniscule beads of sweat stuck to her hairline. “I should have showered.”

“Who cares?”

She discreetly smelled her armpit.

“Uh, I care,” she said, looking at him through bug eyes.

He burst out laughing.

“You don’t stink,” Brandon reassured her.

“I stink,” she countered.

“Well, I know just the thing for that,” he said, starting the engine. He pulled out of the school parking lot and headed for Adobe Drive.

She smiled. It had become routine: Every Friday afternoon after practice, Brandon took her out for ice cream. It started when he got his license. She loved it so much that she even arranged her work schedule around Friday ice cream once soccer season ended. There was something different about Brandon when he ate ice cream. He was just . . . normal. And nice. And funny.

“Brandon, ice cream will not stop me from stinking,” Regan said.

“Maybe not, but it’ll make you feel better,” he replied. “Maybe help you stop sweating,” he noted, glancing at her face as he drove.

She wiped her cheek, thinking back to the first time Brandon was self-deprecating, and maybe a little insecure. He stood at the counter on their first date taking in the myriad flavors of creamy sweetness, eyes wide and greedy, then turned to her helplessly.

“What was I thinking?” he asked. “This was a bad idea. I’m a former fat kid.”

At first she said nothing. And then he whipped out a measuring cup and handed it over to the girl behind the counter. He winked at Regan.

“Just kidding. Came prepared.” He pointed to the cup. “Fat fighting weapon.”

She stared.

“You can laugh, you know,” Brandon said. “It’s supposed to be a little funny.”

She attempted a smile. It felt more like a grimace.

“Do you not remember what I looked like?” he asked, studying her face.

Regan grew more and more uncomfortable.

“We can get yogurt instead,” she offered. “Like fat free or something.” Oh my God, I said that OUT LOUD.

Brandon burst out laughing as he took the half cup of peanut butter chocolate ice cream from the girl.

“This is wonderfully awkward, isn’t it?” he asked her, and she giggled.

“Brandon, I’m so sorry,” Regan said. “I just . . . the measuring cup . . . your jokes . . . I mean, are they jokes? Should I be laughing? What should I say? I’m really uncomfortable right now.”

“Calm down,” he said, chuckling, then looked her over. “You’re so adorable when you’re nervous.”

And that’s when she opened wide the door to her heart. She was fifteen. She knew nothing.

Regan sighed, remembering.

“What’s on your mind?” Brandon asked as they walked into the familiar parlor.

“You don’t carry around your measuring cup anymore,” Regan noted.

Brandon scratched his cheek. “What made you think of that?”

“Just thinking about our first date,” Regan replied.