"Danny, we have a real problem here."
"You're overreacting, Vera. Everything is fine."
"Everything is not fine. This situation is out of control."
"Well, it's going to be fine. Eventually."
"You always say that..."
I keep my post on the steps, listening in as my parents argue. They don't do this very often.
Of course, everyone gets into it now and then, and they've had their fair share of screaming matches over the years. Many of them right in front of me and my little sister. But that's never from carelessness or bad timing.
Unless it's something really serious, they don't usually take their arguments to another room. In most cases, a fight that starts in the kitchen ends there, same goes for any other room in the house. And if they happen to have a small audience, in the form of their children, we're rarely told to leave.
Mom always says you shouldn't hide the bad parts of marriage any more than you should hide the good parts. They're both important.
I'm okay with it. For as long as I've been alive, their fights have never lasted long, always ending in healthy conflict resolution. I feel fortunate that they've always trusted me and my sister to witness it, talked us through it, and raised us to understand what strong relationships look like.
Not that I've had much use for that advice yet. But that's not important. The important thing is that they don't hide it from us.
You know what I wish they would hide though? The fucking make up sex. Or any of the sex, for that matter. I could do without those sounds drifting down the hallway when I get up to pee in the middle of the night. But I guess I should be relieved they're still in love after all these years.
Not to mention, happy. Almost irrationally so.
If it's not the disgusting sounds of parental coitus flowing down the hall at any given time, it's the sound of their laughter. My dad is always making my mom laugh. Like, what the fuck is so funny? The dude is not that clever.
She's not laughing right now though. Nope. They're having it out in their own little way, and this might be the one time I'm not invited to listen in. Because it's me they're arguing about.
Mom's voice drops low. "He was driving drunk, Danny."
"Not technically," is Dad's quick response.
Yes, technically. But I haven't told them that, and I never will.
"I know that. But he had been drinking."
"He said it had been a couple hours since he had a drink. And he was sure to take a piss before he got behind the wheel."
Yep, that's what I told them.
"Danny Adler, so help me God," Mom's exasperated groan slices through the house. "How many times do I have to tell you that you cannot piss yourself sober. That's not how it works."
Soft footfalls behind me announce the presence of my little sister on the stairwell. I look up at her, pressing my index finger to my mouth to keep her quiet. She nods, joining me on the second to last step, her knee bouncing against mine in silent greeting. But then, she sees my phone and wallet in my hand, the hoodie tucked under my arm.
"Where are you going, Gray?" she whispers.
"Nowhere, if you don't pipe down, Cecelia Rose," I whisper back, unable to keep my smile contained.
"I don't want you to get in trouble again," she sighs.
Cece's too good for this world. Any time she's gotten in trouble, I swear it's been an accident on her part. Or she told on herself. Her therapist says it's because of trauma, she didn't have an ideal childhood before we adopted her from foster care.
They say some kids act out really badly and others do the complete opposite. But, one way or another, I know her prior circumstances are only a fraction to blame, if any. The truth is, Cece was born with a heart of gold.
"I won't get in trouble," I tell her, quickly adding, "At least not much more trouble. I set the bar pretty high last time. Anything I do now will be a blip on their radar."
That's sort of true. Not really. I don't know anymore.
All I know is that a simple bonfire with friends is child's play compared to what happened a couple weeks ago. Even if I'm "grounded for life" and not supposed to leave the house tonight, I doubt my parents will do more than roll their eyes if they find out I'm not in my room. And it's not just because they don't know the whole truth about what happened that night.
As it turns out, driving a car full of wasted underage people to the hospital because one of them got hurt doing something we never should have been doing, especially when you've also been drinking, places you pretty high on your parents' shit list. But when any incident goes down the way that one did, they do tend to let the little things go, justifying it with the old, "It could be worse."
Hell, even the local sheriff turned a blind eye to the mess that showed up in the ER that night. More concerned with Elliot Crissmore's safety, and grateful for my quick action in getting him to the hospital, he didn't ask any questions or make me do the breathalyzer. We were all sent home with a warning.
Thank fucking goodness.
That's where the whole truth comes into play. Because I'm pretty sure I would have failed that breathalyzer.
I know myself, and I was a touch over buzzed that night. But since I know myself, I also knew I was the best person to get us safely to the hospital. And that's exactly what I did. The whole incident was a dark and shiny shade of gray area, but everyone made it through alive. And that's all that matters... right?
"I don't think you're supposed to base your next play on the severity of how the last one went down," Cece points out. "Maybe, for once, you should stay home and not test their limits. Mom's really mad this time. You could get super, mondo grounded."
"You mean more than I already am? Being condemned to work that stupid camp?" I resist the urge to laugh out loud. "The least they could do is let me have one more night out before the sentence begins. And if they really want to lock me down for going to a bonfire, let them." I poke Cece's shoulder. "You and I can just have a bonfire out back. I'll let you burn all my marshmallows."
She just smiles and shakes her head, before letting it land on my shoulder as we keep listening to the conversation in the kitchen. We catch Dad mid-sentence.
"But my point is, he was the most sober one there that night and he took initiative, Vera. He's responsible. He knows his limits. Anyone else behind the wheel and it could have been tragic, but it wasn't."
"I know that," Mom responds. "I just think... I don't even know what I think. He's a good kid, deep down and especially where it matters. I just wish he wasn't so damn defiant. We told him not to go to that lake after dark. It's dangerous."
A chill runs up my spine as memory overcomes me. Suddenly, I don't want to hear any more of this conversation. Thankfully, it seems Dad doesn't either.
"Well, it's over, Vee. Everyone's fine," he says. The screech of his barstool against the kitchen tile sounds through the house, making Cece jump up beside me.
"Be careful tonight, Gray," she whispers, dropping a quick kiss on my cheek before running up the steps, not wanting to get caught dropping eaves with her troublemaking brother.
Meanwhile, I know better. Dad getting up from his seat doesn't necessarily mean he's coming upstairs anytime soon. More than likely, and I shudder at the thought, he's probably about to get handsy with Mom against the kitchen counter.
"And I'm not disagreeing with you about camp," he says, delivering another reminder of the fresh hell I'll be dealing with for the next three weeks. A little laugh escapes him. "His Uncle Hart will keep him plenty busy."
I have no doubt about that.
Fucking camp. I thought I was done with that place years ago. Never did like the whole community togetherness thing. But football commitments saved me from being a counselor for the last three summers.
This time around, I don't head to UCLA until July, but volunteering at camp beforehand was never on the agenda. Since graduating, I was supposed to spend my small fraction of a summer doing whatever I wanted. But my little incident cost me, and my parents changed their mind about camp. Being a volunteer leader is the punishment they've formed.
It may not seem that bad on the surface. Most people would kill to be sent to work at a simple day camp, in lieu of, say, jail or community service hours. But when you're at your parents' mercy, and they tend to know you better than anyone else, they're able to cherry pick punishments that they know you hate. It's very effective in the parenting world, I'm sure. But not fun when you're on the receiving end of it.
"I think it will do him some good before he leaves," Dad continues softly. "And this is probably the last time he'll ever do what we say."
"He's hardly ever done what we say," Mom sighs, and I can practically hear the way her eyes just rolled. "He only listens to you at work because you're the boss. When it comes to everyone else, he throws his last name privilege around and does whatever he wants. Like I said, he never listens."
"Sure he does," Dad laughs. "Like you said, he's a good kid. And a hard worker. He's just... rebellious."
"That's literally the definition of not listening."
"He listens to you. Sometimes."
"That's because I'm his mother."
"Look, it was a bad night," Dad says and his voice is all muffled. Like he's burying his mouth somewhere. I gotta get the fuck out of here. "Any other time, he's had a designated driver. Even Gray admitted that he usually takes it easier on the alcohol when Brandon's around."
That's mostly true. But I have no plans to take it easy tonight. Speaking of which, I need to go...
"First of all," Mom's voice picks up some energy all of the sudden. The kind that won't let me get up just yet and make a run for it. The kind that tells me I should probably listen to this. "Brandon has his own life. He won't always be the one getting into shit with our son and being his voice of reason. Case in point, he was absent that night and look what happened."
"Vera, I know you're pissed about the alcohol. But they all do it. It's not like we really have any room talking either–"
"It's not just about that, Danny. He's in high school, I can forgive the drinking. I'm talking about the big picture here. He has no discipline. He thinks everything falls into his lap. And sometimes it does! I mean, even the police looked the other way. His teachers catered to him, you know damn well he's Colt's favorite on the team. He doesn't play well with others unless he's on the football field."
"What are you saying, baby?"
"I'm just..." Mom pauses. I hold my breath as she finishes her thought. "Have we failed him, Danny? Were we too, I don't know... easy on him? Getting pregnant with him, and staying that way, was no easy task. And sometimes, I just wonder if we've let our affection for him blind us when it came to discipline. If we've let the concept of unconditional love go too far."
"I don't think we did that, Vera. I think we did the best we could as two people who were learning as they went. And besides, Cece turned out just fine."
"Cece's always been an angel," Mom says, her voice softening a touch. But it does little to lighten the blow to my chest.
The realization that I've truly upset her this time is becoming clear, and I don't know what to do with that. My usual go with the flow attitude is telling me to relax, reminding me that I can't do anything about it now. It's in the past. But all at once, it's like every bad thing I've ever done is trying to break through the surface of my memory right now, playing on a highlight reel of disappointment. I feel like a shitty son.
My parents have never kept their difficult journey to parenthood a secret. They've always been open and honest about the troubles they had early on, the losses they suffered before I came along, and the disaster my birth was. How it sealed Mom's reproductive fate, and became the reason she grows plants all over the house.
I've never really felt guilty about any of it because they've never made it out to be something they regretted. I've always been enough for them. They never called our family complete or incomplete. Even before Cece came along. She's always been the heart we never knew we all needed. "Our family is just right, but free to grow in love," is what my parents always say.
But the shit I've put them through has been drastic at times. And sometimes I wonder if I've been too much. Not what they expected. Not worth the trouble.
That's a dire thought.
I wish I could go back and change things, but I can't. So, what's the point? What can I really do about the past now? Nothing.
Especially when all I want to do is get the hell out of this house. My voice of reason has agreed to be designated driver tonight and he'll be outside any minute now to pick me up.
Coming to my feet, I make my way back upstairs. If Mom and Dad aren't planning on leaving the kitchen any time soon, I can't take the back door. Which means I'll have to use the alternative route out of the house. Great.
No escape is ideal here. The back door is a risk because it's noisy. But my bedroom window is precarious. I broke my leg going this way a couple years ago. That was fun. I'm a little better on the landing these days though. Being six foot tall with excellent upper body strength doesn't hurt.
In a matter of seconds, I'm scaling down the brick, crossing lattice work, and jumping as quietly as possible onto the tiny tool shed at the side of the house.
Brandon's car is parked up the road, headlights cut off while he waits for me in the darkness. Him and Elise. They come as a packaged deal these days. Actually, they've been coming as a packaged deal since sophomore year when she moved to town and cast a love spell on him. Not really, but you get the point. He fell hard.
June was devastated for about five hours before moving on to someone else.
I slide into the backseat just as my phone is going off in my pocket. "Elise," I nod toward the passenger seat, acknowledging the petite brunette sorceress that stole my best friend's heart, before glancing across the way to the captivated buffoon, himself. "Brand."
"Gray," they both say at the same time before laughing.
As the car pulls away, I reach for my phone with a pretty good idea of who it is.
Hannah: Where the hell are you? The fire's roaring but I'm still cold without you.
Oy. That's a lot of pressure for a guy. Keeping a girl warm when a raging bonfire isn't doing the trick. Whatever will we do to create friction?
Her next text has nothing to do with the bonfire. It has no words at all, in fact. It's just an image. One she apparently took in her bedroom before getting ready to come out tonight. Before she put any clothes on.
"Is that your non-girlfriend girlfriend?" Elise asks, craning her head around to spy on me.
I hide the screen from her at all costs as I quickly scan the photo. All the way from the bubblegum ends of Hannah's blonde hair to the tips of her glittery toe nails.
Yep, she's naked alright. And she looks really fucking good.
"Mmhmm." I close out the image, shove my phone back in my pocket, and clear my throat real awkward-like.
Brandon's eyes beam up to the rearview mirror, suspicion rampant. "She have anything interesting to say?" he asks through a laugh. "Like why you guys aren't trying long distance when you go to college? I mean, your connection is so real. It's what forever is made of."
His sarcasm is always a nice touch.
Elise snort laughs and then shoots me a guilty look, pressing her lips together for a second before muttering, "Sorry."
I shrug. "It was a mutual parting."
"Okay, but you're still hooking up," Brandon says.
"So?" The force behind my voice is unintentional, but it seems to get the message across.
The message that I really don't want to talk about my weird situationship with Hannah Hardesty right now. Or about the fact that I know damn well it wasn't a mutual parting on her end. And that if I was being honest with myself, I used college as an excuse to end something I was over with weeks ago, and I feel like shit for stringing her along.
And yet, I am still hooking up with her. Because she's hot and we have a good time. And when I leave for college, I won't have to see her again. Which makes the whole thing easier while I still get laid for the summer.
Fuck.
Am I a piece of shit?
My gaze shifts out the window, seeking distraction in the streetlamps and porch lights glowing in the darkness as we pass through a neighborhood. It just makes me think of my parents again. Probably still in the kitchen, doing God knows what, thinking both of their children are upstairs in their bedrooms.
A fleeting thought has me wondering what kind of conversations went on in these other houses tonight. Were they like the one I just overheard at home? Are other people as disappointed in their children as my parents are in me?
"You okay, man?" Brandon interrupts my dismal thoughts before they get too far.
"Yeah," I mutter. "Just a gigantic failure as a son."
"What the hell does that mean?" he laughs.
"Apparently, you're my voice of reason," I answer, keeping my eyes out the window. "And everything falls in my lap."
The car goes silent for a few painfully long seconds before Elise clears her throat.
"Whatever you overheard, I don't think they meant it, Gray," she offers softly. "And also, you shouldn't eavesdrop on your parents. Nothing good can ever come from that."
"I agree," Brandon chimes in, his voice serious at first. But then, like he tends to do, lightening the mood with a small laugh, a shit eating grin on his face. "They're not completely wrong either. I mean, things do fall in your lap."
That has me rolling my eyes. Our long standing joke from the first day of football practice when Uncle Hart picked me to be his assistant for something and I got labeled as a brown noser, a coach favorite. It blew over as the weeks passed, but I can't deny that things have come fairly easy for me.
Good grades, a starting position, girls. Never really getting punished, despite being an absolute hellion. Still getting sex from someone I broke up with.
Maybe I'm as spoiled as my mom insinuated earlier. Maybe things do fall in my lap.
The rest of the car ride is quiet. I stay busy pondering my life, while Brandon and Elise sit in the awkward silence I've created as we make our way out of town. But before I know it, we're rounding the corner to Carver's field and it occurs to me that we're missing someone.
"Aren't we picking up June?" I ask as the huge fire comes into view.
Elise shakes her head. "She's sitting this one out," she informs me, pulling Brandon's hoodie over her head. "Mia just got into town. They're doing family stuff."
"Oh, Mia's in town?" I ask, like I didn't already know. Like I don't always know.
I haven't seen her since we broke into the pool, I never seem to be home when she visits anymore. Too busy with football training, which is probably for the best.
We get out of Brand's car and walk across the field to the fire, grabbing a drink, and scrounging to find a seat as we greet everyone in attendance. The same old crowd.
I've been sitting for all of thirty seconds when Hannah spots me and dashes over with a pep in her step, dropping herself right into my lap. An excited giggle bursts from her mouth and her arms sling around my neck.
I breathe in the scent of her perfume, separating its notes from the smoky smell of the bonfire clinging to her skin. It smells like the same stuff Fiona wears. And, honestly, a bit like whatever Mariah used to spray on herself, too. When we were done in the bathroom and she was worried about going to class smelling like sex.
I wonder if it has anything to do with them being cheerleaders. I also wonder if they know they all wear the same perfume. Whatever it is, it doesn't smell unpleasant. The sweet and tangy notes seem to wrap me in memory. I just can't let Hannah know that it's not just my memories with her coming to mind. Even if we're broken up, she wouldn't want to hear that.
As she settles on top of me and gets comfortable, her hair tickling my nose as she nestles in closer, my eyes travel around the fire. When they land on Brandon, he's giving me a look, eyebrows raised, a little knowing smirk in his mouth.
Through the fire light, I can read exactly what’s on his mind. Especially when he shifts his glance to Hannah, his eyes bouncing down to my lap and back up to me again.
"See?" he seems to be telling me. "Things do fall in your lap."
Jackass.
But what's worse is that I'm pretty sure he's right about me.
They're all right.