Butterfly Kisses | ✓

15 | hazel

"Ren," Mom said, sounding more amused than I expected, "what was our only rule about having guests in the house?"

The truth was, I had forgotten that we even had a rule, since I had never invited anyone to this house before. Adrenaline spiked through me, not long before self-consciousness settled in. "Letting you know so we can clean up beforehand?"

She nodded. "But if he's already here, there's not much we can do about it. Is he here to talk to us?"

"Yeah." A slew of curse words ran through my head, which was now preoccupied with how much of a mess we'd left in the living room. "We might sit around for a bit, but he wants to apologize to Dad first. For the third time."

He frowned. "That's really not necessary," he said. He was used to teenagers treating him like garbage — he joked on a regular basis that he'd signed up for it when he became a teacher. "But I guess we should hear this. Vera?"

"I'm coming." Mom left her half-knitted sock on the end table and joined us. Like a sort of triumvirate, we descended the stairs together, me ahead of parents and Mom with her arm around Dad's.

When we stepped into the living room, shame washed over me like a tsunami, my eyes flitting over the patchy second-hand couch and the television that was small enough to qualify as a computer screen in this day and age.

The carpet was slightly ratty, and worst of all the cardboard box full of miscellaneous things still sitting in front of the dusty heater five months after we moved in. Bursting through the top were some of Dad's books and Mom's photo albums, and I knew that some of my old track-and-field ribbons were sitting at the bottom.

The box was filled with reminders of our former glories, and it was fitting that we didn't have a place for any of those things in our new home.

If Isaac noticed the shabby condition of our house, he didn't mention it. He stood up when he saw us. "Hi," he forced out, holding out a plastic bag I hadn't noticed before. "I brought cookies."

I almost choked when my father accepted the bag, then passed it over to me. I peered at the box inside, its transparent cover revealing several rows of golden-brown, chocolate chip cookies.

"They're butterscotch," Isaac added, and I recognized the flavour as his favourite. "I don't know if you'll like them, but I just wanted to say I'm really sorry about this morning."

I handed the bag to my mother, and she smiled at its contents. "They look delicious. And I mean, it was just supposed to be a prank, right?" Her eyes meandered to each of us in turn. Isaac and I nodded, while my dad's expression softened. Apparently satisfied, she added, "Did you make these yourself?"

"No." Isaac lowered his head sheepishly. "Friend of my grandma's helped me out."

She laughed. "Okay. I think you've apologized enough. Ren explained everything to me this afternoon and I personally thought it was funny."

The last five months had changed my mother — she never got angry anymore, never took a single thing for granted. My father, though, had grown more cautious. "The prank itself wasn't very funny," he interjected. "But I'm assuming you know that now."

"Yes," I murmured at the same time Isaac said, "Yes sir."

Dad eyed the bag of cookies gingerly. "Just Victor is fine," he said, and I exhaled slowly. "Did you go to the elementary school here, Isaac?"

Isaac shook his head. "I've, uh, only been in town for two years."

"One of the science teachers there has pneumonia so I'm filling in for her for the next little while," Dad explained. He exchanged a look with my mother. "It's good, actually, that you have some perspective on what it's like to be new here. Ren's found things a little underwhelming so far."

"Dad," I cut in, narrowing my eyes. "Can we go?"

Mom waved us off and they both mumbled indistinctly, my father in indecipherable Portuguese. "Yes, go. I need to be at work soon anyways," she announced. "Thanks for dropping by, Isaac."

"Um, nice to meet you." Isaac gave a hesitant wave as I yanked him in the direction of the garden with a scowl. In the kitchen, I grabbed a watering can off the tiled floor, then shoved the sliding door and pulled us both outside.

The sky was still pink and orange, the horizon jagged with buildings-turned-silhouettes. I sucked in my breath, and motioned for Isaac to follow me to the side of the house, where I filled up the watering can with a hose.

We were silent at first, still mulling over what had just happened. Other than Jackie, Isaac was the only one of my classmates who had ever met my parents, and I was stunned by how well things had gone despite that he was probably the worst candidate for this possible. I swallowed a laugh, not daring to look at him.

In the end, it was my stomach grumbling and reminding me of Isaac's grandma's friend's cookies that spurred me into saying anything at all. "You must be close to your grandma," I noted. "You mention her in the passing a lot."

"Oh. Yeah." Isaac scratched his head. "She's all I have."

When the can filled up, I turned into the garden and started with a patch of tulips by the fence. I ran the water over them, my wrist gliding smoothly over the plants by sheer force of habit. "What do you mean by that?"

He followed me as I trailed down the row, his footsteps crunching against the grass. "Nothing," he said, his voice oddly husky. "My parents are divorced is all."

I stopped the stream of water, taking the time to arrange this new piece of information into Isaac's puzzle in my head. I was surprised I hadn't heard this before, but then again, he wasn't exactly an open book. He flinched and added, "Your parents seem super nice."

"They are. Um, I'm sorry if that was weird." I hesitated. "But if you ask me, it couldn't have gone any better."

"Yeah. No." He chuckled, tilting his head. "I sorta expected it to be like that. It's cool."

Without another word, he stepped a little closer, shrinking the distance towards us. Our shoulders touched as we both faced the fence. I could feel him breathing. Hyper-aware of the fact that my father was still lounging on the sofa just twenty feet away, I wrangled my brain desperately for something to say.

"So what is it like?" I asked, and cringed immediately at how insensitive I sounded. I hated small talk. "I mean, now you know a lot about my parents, but do you live with one of yours, or like,  both, depending on the week —"

Isaac laughed again, but it was quieter, more contemplative. "I haven't seen my dad in a year," he said. By the way he drew out his words, I felt each syllable come with a footnote. "I haven't seen my mom in two years."

His gaze swept over mine as he ran the heel of his hand down his face. And I knew that if anything was to permanently stay between us, it was whatever he told me next.