Between the Lines
He fixes me with one of the stares he’s perfected after years of cross-examining hapless witnesses. I wait him out. “I’m aware that you drink, despite the fact that you’re considerably underage. You’ve been out from under my direct control for a while now, so I know there’s little to no hope of me influencing that behavior. But you’re not doing it in my presence, out in public. I have a reputation to maintain. So do you, not that you spare any concern for it.”
Wow. This trip is just one joy-infused moment after another. I should have stayed in Austin. “Why, exactly, did you decide we needed to have dinner together?”
He exhales through his nose, his patience as close to snapping as mine, though I can’t imagine why. He could have saved himself the agony by simply leaving me to my own devices for the evening. “I thought you might have questions about your mother’s rehabilitation process. Also I wanted…” he exhales again, his mouth a thin line, “…wanted to thank you for coming this morning. If nothing else, I know you care about her, and I appreciate the effort.”
If nothing else? What the hell kind of backhanded accolade is that? “I didn’t come for you, so you don’t need to thank me.”
“Nevertheless, I’m thanking you.”
“Awesome. Well, you’re so very welcome. Will that be all?” I sit up, put my napkin on the table.
“Why are you so hostile?”
“Why are you?”
“Look, I’m doing the best I can—”
“This is the best you can do, Dad?”
“Jesus Christ, Reid. Let’s not do this here.”
“I concur, counselor. Let’s not do it at all.” I sit back, fix an unnatural smile on my face and try to appear relaxed. “I don’t have any questions concerning Mom’s rehab at this time. I’ll let you or Marcie know if I do.” Marcie had given each of us her card and told us to call or email any time. Riiiight, that was going to happen. “Also, George and I are considering an action flick for my next project. They want someone older, bigger and more buff to do the part, but George is selling them on the idea that I can be each of those things. I’ll have to train like hell to get the role, but if they give it to me, I’m doing it.”
“Hmph,” he says, but it’s an impressed hmph. I haven’t gotten one of those in a while. I hate how good it feels—it totally pisses me off.
*** *** ***
Emma
“Have you told Emma about Derek?” Emily’s mom asks as we sit down to dinner.
“Abercrombie boy.” Jason, Emily’s twenty-something brother, moved back home three weeks ago, temporarily between jobs. Again. He makes a hobby of torturing his little sister.
Emily jerks the basket of rolls out of his reach. He’s already eaten two and was going for a third. “At least Derek has a job.”
Mr. Watson starts to laugh and tries to turn it into a cough as his wife gives him a tight-lipped look. Mrs. Watson believes that in order to succeed, young people need emotional support and encouragement. She’s the queen of cheerleading her kids, which worked well with Grant, the oldest, but appears to be backfiring in Jason. Em migrated to her dad’s way of thinking (that sometimes a person needs a swift emotional kick in the pants) when Jason moved back in for the third time.
“I’ve had jobs.” Jason scowls and digs into his pasta.
“That’s true,” Emily answers, “but keeping one seems to elude you. And really? The getting is easy; the keeping is the important part.”
“Like you know anyth—”
“Children!” Mrs. Watson says, and I wonder how that one word doesn’t make Jason go job-hunting immediately, and stay out until he finds one. “Emily, have you asked Emma’s opinion on the homecoming dance?” Uh-oh. I know this is a loaded question before Emily sets her jaw, because when Mrs. Watson invokes my view on something, she’s grasping for already rejected straws.
“Mom, seriously. You’ve gotta stop with the dance thing. We aren’t going.”
“So Abercrombie boy didn’t ask you?” Jason snatches a roll from the edge of Emily’s bowl. “What, he didn’t want to waste the money to see you wear a new shade of black?”
“Bite me, mister perpetually unemployed.” Emily takes a roll from the basket to replace the one he’d stolen. “You can’t afford to take someone to the Mini-Mart.”
“Enough! We have a guest!” Mrs. Watson says.
“Emma’s not a guest,” Jason scoffs. Which is kind of true. I’ve slept over at Emily’s house hundreds of times in my life.
“Jason, do you want dessert tonight or do you want to just go to your room?” his mother asks, no differently than she would have asked (make that did ask) when he was twelve.
“What? Mom, are you serious?”
“Dead serious.”
“I’m an adult! You can’t send me to my room.”
“The hell she can’t.” Mr. Watson glares at his son. I’ve watched them do this tag team maneuver on all three of their kids. Resistance is futile. You’d think Jason would know that by now, but I guess not.
“Dad, Jesus—”
“That’s it! To your room.” Mr. Watson points as though Jason needs directions. I bite the inside of my cheek and sneak a look at Emily. Her lips were pressed so tightly together that they’re losing color. On the counter is some sort of berry cobbler, and a big scoop of that stuff has our names on it, so we’re not getting ourselves sent anywhere.