In the morning, well, mid-morning, it's almost eleven, I walk into the kitchen, each step I take, tugs uncomfortably on the band aids all over my thighs. Luckily, they're high enough for me to wear a pair of shorts without dad seeing them. He's in the kitchen, Niles is on his laptop at the breakfast bar and Aunt Ellie and Uncle Leroy are leaning against the counter top.
"There she is," dad says.
"Luce," Aunt Ellie shuffles past dad and her husband, throwing her arms wide open. Her hugs are nostalgic, she smells like sweet cinnamon and pine, it's a vintage smell. It reminds me of the nights I spent at her house while she and mom downed a bottle of wine and giggled until Uncle Leroy had to tell them to keep it down. "You look beautiful, sweetheart."
Uncle Leroy doesn't give me a hug and I appreciate that, as much as I love Aunt Ellie, every touch gives me chest constrictions, and Uncle Leroy has never been much of a hugger anyway. He's quiet, kind of serious, he has been for a long time. Mom tells me that he used to be a different person. He smiled all the time, he was fun, he was energetic. Then his daughter was brutally assaulted and murdered and his light went out. He's still a good person, he still loves his family, but he's different. How can he not be?
"Your dad said you wanted to see some photos of Grandma Eleanor," Aunt Ellie pulls me by the elbow towards a box sitting on the other end of the bench top. It has L.E Skincare written all over it, her brand. We pass Niles, he's focused on some documents on his screen.
"Hi," I say, and he peers over his shoulder, smiling.
"Your grandmother had the best taste in clothing," Aunt Ellie says.
"When did dad tell you I wanted to see the photos?" It occurs to me that dad and I had this conversation last night and here she is.
"Last night," she says. "We came in this morning. I was too excited."
Dad and uncle Leroy talk over coffee while Aunt Ellie covers the bench top with old photos, the images are faded and the edges are worn but they're beautiful. Grandma Eleanor was beautiful. Drayton and Uncle Leroy look a lot like Grandpa Jacob too, the same smile and nose.
I take my phone out and start snapping photos of Polaroids and prints. Grandma wears a lot of large collar blouses, tailored blazers and billowy skirts. There's a photo of her and grandpa in the sixties, she's holding a microphone while she interviews him at the first super bowl, he was a big time quarterback in the NFL. That was where they met, it must have been love at first sight from the smiles on their faces.
"I wish I could have met them," I say.
Ellie gives me a sad smile. "Eleanor would've loved you. She was such a wonderful woman. She loved having your mom and I around too, to make up for not having her own daughter, I think. She loved having a granddaughter as well," she says and her whole face contorts into the epitome of grief at the mention of her daughter. It hurts to see such raw pain in such a sweet face. "She talked about spoiling her a lot. She would have been thrilled when you came along too."
Ellie smiles, its tighter than normal and her green gaze glistens as she holds up a head shot of Grandma next to me. "Spitting image."
"Sure is," dad pipes in.
Uncle Leroy wanders over and looks at the photos, hands in his pockets. "Max and Lucas look like dad, don't they?" He says to dad.
Dad shrugs. "I haven't met Drayton's kids."
"Oh, right."
Sometimes I forget that Uncle Leroy and Aunt Ellie are grandparents. They're so young and totally dispel that whole grey hair, wrinkles and shawls image of a grandparent. Where does that even come from? Television, I suppose. Children's books. It's insane to think about how images fed to us at a small age can alter our perception for such a long time.
"I'm sure you've seen photos of the children on social media," Aunt Ellie says.
"I don't use social media."
"Bull," Uncle Leroy folds his arms. "You were the first one to send us all E invites to Facebook when it started up."
"It's boring now, I'm too busy for that stuff."
The three of them quarrel, light heartedly of course and it's obvious that this is, and always has been the norm for them.
A text from mom comes through and I stare at the screen, the words sitting on top of my chest.
I miss you, Luce and I love you. So much.
I ignore it and open Instagram to upload some of the photos of Grandma. They suit the new vintage aesthetic I have going on. For a moment, I consider deleting the fighting photos and erasing that entire era. As much as I like the idea of starting fresh and re-inventing myself, it's so final. I decide to sit on it and come back to it later.
A private message from Gia stirs that familiar feeling of an increased heart rate that makes me breathless. The actual message stops my heart altogether.
Slut. Lol.
Sorry that was Logan hahahah
I block her.
My finger is bleeding, so I stick it in my mouth and wince at how raw and sore it feels. Niles has his chin in his palm while he taps on his mouse and I wander over to him while the other three delve into a conversation about a development dad has going on in Miami.
"How's work going?"
Niles lifts his cap, runs his hand across his hair and puts the cap on again. "It's all right. I'm drawing up next week's schedule at the moment. Check this out."
He scrolls down on a digital calendar and stops on Monday. In a little box, with a bright red pin and highlight over the words, is Lucy's first day of school.
"Like I'm five or something," I laugh.
"It's sweet," Niles defends. "You excited?"
"No. I won't know a single person there. It's the worst-case scenario coming to life. I have to be the new girl in senior."
Anger towards mom resurfaces all over again.
"I'm sure out of three thousand something students, you'll find a friend. Go for the misfits and the outcasts, they never turn down a friend."
"Is that because they know how it feels to be turned down?"
"Yeah," he looks at me like it's obvious. "Most interesting people too. Deeper and way more to them than the superficial kids driving their dads Audi to school."
"You know, some rich kids aren't that bad. It's a stereotype to assume we're all shallow with no personalities outside of shoe shopping and hair appointments."
The side of his mouth turns up in a grin as he realizes I'm talking about me. "That's true, that's true. To be fair, the rich kids in All American aren't so bad either. Well, most of them."
"What's All American?"
"The best series on television. Black cast, football, confronts major issues going on in the lives of today's teens. It's on Netflix."
"You like football?"
"I'm American, aren't I?"
I'm about to ask if he wants to go and get lunch together, I'm sure he can introduce me to all the best eateries in the near area, but Aunt Ellie interrupts before I can speak.
"Luce, your mom told us about the fighting. What happened?"
The entire room is waiting for me to answer her, she packs up the photos on the bench top, relaxed and unaware of how much I don't want to answer that question.
"I didn't want to do it anymore."
Her brows pull, she's quiet while she puts the rest of the photos into the box and then she looks at dad with a long hard stare. It's awkward. The entire room is focused on this exchange and even though it started off between her and I, I'm not sure who it now belongs to. Eventually, her attention falls on me again and her warmth is genuine.
"That's a shame, sweetheart. You were doing so well."
I wish people would stop reminding me of that.
Niles and I don't go out for lunch because Aunt Ellie and Uncle Leroy stay, not leaving until almost four in the afternoon. After they're gone, dad complains about being behind on work because of the surprise stop in. Aunt Ellie is an open-door sort of woman. She loves visitors, she loves hosting events and having a reason to hire a caterer. You could show up on her doorstep at two in the morning and she'll put the kettle on and consider her morning started. I love that about her.
I get the feeling dad would prefer some warning and the option to kick his guests out when he has things to do. He heads to the office, leaving Niles and I alone in the house. Now I feel like I need to be the host.
"How come you didn't go the office with him?" I ask, leaning on the other side of the countertop. His laptop has a sticker of Kendrick Lamar on the front.
"I'm done for the afternoon," he says, biting the inside of his cheek while he focuses, the glow of his screen reflects in his dark eyes. "I'm working on. . . something else."
"Do share."
"Na uh."
"How come."
He peers over the laptop screen, his hands no longer tapping on the keyboard means we've descended into silence and I hate how aware I am of his size and strength when we're alone. It's not enough to remember I'm strong, I constantly feel weak. He purses his lips and exhales a breath; it echoes in the kitchen.
"I write a blog."
I can't help but react. "You do?"
"Don't make fun of me."
"I'm not. I'm surprised, that's all. What's it about?"
He sucks in his bottom lip, hesitance written all over his face.
"Come on," I say. "I'm not going to tease. I'm genuinely interested."
"You promise?"
"Yes."
He stares at his screen. "I write about all sorts. Music, art, food, life as a caregiver, life as a black man in America. But I also write about. . . being Asexual."
"What, um, what is that?"
He looks up. "You've never heard of Asexual before?" I shake my head and he closes his laptop. "In simple terms, I don't have sexual desires or arousal. I don't have sex. Never have. Not sure I ever will. The last time I made out with someone and came close to that point, I felt repulsed. It repulses me."
"Wow," I'm stunned and ashamed for having been so unaware of this sexuality. I circle the counter top and sit on the stool next to him. "So you don't date?"
"I do," he palms his jaw. "I am capable of romantic feelings. I'd like to fall in love and have a girl. I just have to find one that doesn't mind the shop being shut, you know? It's hard. A lot of folks fuel their relationships with sex. It's important to most people. I haven't been with a girl that hasn't left because of the abstinence."
"There's obviously other people that are Asexual though, right?"
"For sure," he holds up his hand and uses his thumb to point at the black ring on his middle finger. "This is how we identify ourselves. We've got clubs and group chats and Instagram pages. I don't know, it just hasn't happened for me. I did meet one girl, but she couldn't take me home because her pops was racist as hell. I wasn't into that."
"Fair enough. I appreciate you sharing that with me."
He nods and rests his hands on his thighs. "Thanks for not being weird about it."
Knowing that Niles isn't sexually active or even capable of arousal, a weight lifts and I feel more at ease than I have in a long time.
"Now," he spins on the bar stool and stands up, holding out his finger for me to take. "To thank me, you can be the subject for my next blog. Teach me some moves, Miss fists."
His height never fails to amaze me. "I don't fight."
"I'm not asking for you to go three rounds in the ring with Miss Rousey. Just give me some moves. I might need to defend myself one day."
"Self-defence and MMA are a little different."
His shoulders fall forward, and he sighs with exasperation. "Alright, don't teach me, take me down. I want to see if I can hold my own. I bet I can."
He raises his fists, bopping from side to side. His small side steps almost take him from one side of the kitchen to the other and I can't help but laugh.
"Trust me," I say. "You can't. I'm fast."
"Prove it." His sock causes him to slide on the wooden floor and he flails as he goes down and takes the bar stool with him. "Oh damn," he hollers from the floor where he lies on his back. "You are fast. I didn't even see you move."
I curl over, the laughter hurts my cheeks and becomes silent as I clutch the counter top.
"Round two," he stands up and starts his bopping again. Fists raised and his head flicking from side to side. "Come on, show me what's up."
It's a trap, he wants me to fight, some sort of attempt to rediscover the love I have for it. I'm onto him and I'm not falling for it, but I don't mind putting him on his ass for a laugh. I dart forward, tap his jaw, lightly kick his kneecap, and side swipe his ankles so he collapses onto the kitchen floor again. He blinks, utter confusion as he stares at me from where he lays.
"How did you do that? I didn't even see it. It didn't hurt. Is it going to hurt later? Is it a delayed reaction? Is it the adrenaline?"
"I wasn't going to hit you for real," I say. "You would've been out like a light."
"I believe that," he says, springing to his feet. "That was sick. Might be bold of me, but I don't think you quit for no reason. You've got a love for it."
I roll my eyes.
"The smile you wore after you took me down tells me I'm right," he says. "You don't have to tell me what happened. I just don't think you should let go of something you love that much. Not for anything. What does any person want in life?"
"Free food?"
"Yes," he points. "But also, to be able to do what they love and to be good at it. I don't know. Think about it."
I hate that he's right.
My phone starts to ring and for a painful moment, I think it's mom. It's Nari. I'm surprised it took her this long to call back after last night. She must have been giving me space. I answer the video call and turn around so she can see Niles as a warning to be careful of what she says. Her attention homes in behind me as soon as she appears on the screen.
"Hello."
"This is Niles," I point behind me and he waves. "Niles, this is best friend Nari."
"How's it going?" He says.
"Good thanks," she looks at me and lowers her voice. "Girl, he's hot."
My face warms up and I can hear Niles laughing behind me as I run out of the kitchen and downstairs. "You realize whispering doesn't make a difference on a video call. He heard that."
"That's fine," she falls back on her bed, the Rapunzel pillowcase creasing and disappearing under her halo of black hair. "Things aren't good with the one who shall not be named, huh?"
"I blocked her this morning," I mirror Nari and fall back into the bed.
"Really?"
"Yeah. She messaged me and called me a slut and then said it was Logan who did it."
Nari's mouth falls open and I tell her about our phone call last night.
"I can't believe he said that," she says. "It's to save face, for sure."
"I know," I feel sick thinking about it. "Can we not talk about it?"
"I do have to say one thing," she winces. "Logan drugged you. That's big time gross behaviour and he'd do it again, I think. Most of them do. Don't you think reporting it could potentially keep other girls safe?"
"If I thought reporting him would get him off the streets, sure," I feel anger crawling up my throat, scratching and begging to be unleashed. "But it wouldn't make a difference because there's no proof. These stories always end the same way. I don't want to be told what to do. You weren't the one that went through it so until you have, don't tell me what to do."
"I'm. . . you're right. I'm sorry."
The look on her face makes me feel awful and I sit up, feeling the tug on my band aids again. I'm a wreck. Nari doesn't deserve to be snapped at. Her heart is in the right place, it's not her fault my head is in the wrong one.
I pull at the hem of my shorts and tear a band aid off, looking at the slit in my skin, it's red and raw and when I lightly pull at the flesh, it starts bleeding again. This time, I'm not in the shower, the water doesn't dilute the blood. It's thick, dark red, it's real blood. I cut myself, I did that to my own body. It's sickening and I stick the band aid back over it.
"I saw your mom," Nari says as I'm biting on the inside of my cheek, attempting to hold back tears. "She asked how I was and said she's missing you a lot. Your brother started reciting that drums scene from Step Brothers too. Right in the middle of the store. It was so embarrassing, but he does Will Ferrell so well."
"Cool, Nari. Want to talk about every single thing I'm missing out on back at home? Rub it in a little deeper, please, it doesn't suck ass enough as it is."
The last thing I see when I hang up, is her obvious heartbreak. I'm such a bitch.