Love in the Time of Cynicism Read online

  Zero – A Brief Introduction to The Love of my Life

  I guess the first thing we should talk about is the whole suicide deal. The more you think about it, though, the more you realize everybody is an absolute fucking mess so the particular details of his own personal tragedy aren’t terribly important. So we won’t start there, with the depressing as hell beginnings of his story. You’ll have the honor of getting to know him the way his slew of therapists did: sarcastically, if only to stop my hands from shaking because I don’t like talking about him like this after everything that’s happened.

  His name was Rhett. Six foot four, the devilishly handsome young John Cusack type, a Gemini who enjoys long walks on the beach followed by sex on the beach. The cocktail, obviously; he wouldn’t dare be so frank on your first meeting.

  Not satisfied? Wanting a little more specificity? Well, first of all, that’s your problem and not mine. But I’ll give you the honor of going on, just for the hell of it.

  He had eyes precisely the color of that yellow-brown archaeological resin with ancient bugs stuck in it that you can purchase at any quality zoo. I only mention this because his seven year old brother points it out whenever the two of us had to babysit him. Curly black hair that didn’t stay in place even when he spent more time on it than his thirteen year old sister did on hers.

  He’s seen The Breakfast Club too many times for his own good and, like most misguided youths of our time, spent far too much time idolizing the character of young Judd Nelson before realizing that Brian Johnson’s where it’s at. Which is a nice segue, considering Brian’s tragic history juxtaposed to his.

  Of course, I only know what he told me. He was fifteen, stupid, and dating a girl he couldn’t stand. Flunking out of half his classes because he couldn’t sleep at night and was forced to get some shut-eye when he could, pissing off his parents at every turn because his ‘goddamn mental filter’ wouldn’t work when he was so tired all the time. Basically, his life was a blur. Nothing was clear and nothing made sense and nothing made anything better. He spent a helluva long time thinking about how to do it before deciding wrists was the best way to go. It matched his poetic sense of justice, thinking of his parents finding him in a pool of his own blood. Now that’s a morbid image if I’ve ever seen one, still makes me cringe even after all these years apart. My sincerest apologies.

  When he got out of the hospital with thirty stitches binding up three cuts, his family moved about three thousand miles from his apartment into some huge rancher in Texas. And that, I guess, is where our story – the story worth telling and worth hearing – begins.

  Chapter One – Color on Whitewash

  My fist bangs harder than ever against my brother’s door for the thousandth time. The sound booms down the lengthy hallway and I thank god my mom and stepdad aren’t home. They hate this sort of behavior, especially from me.

  “Trent!” I screech at the top of my lungs over his obnoxious music, a repulsive clash between classic rock and electronic, “Come on, I need a ride to work and it’s already eight thirty!”

  The lock clicks and the door opens, my bleary-eyed brother appears – obviously hung over and sleep deprived – and whispers painfully, “Sister, you need to chill with the knocking. It’s too early for that shit.” He makes the short words ten times longer than they need to be.

  A girl materializes behind him in one of his old Metallica tees and skimpy underwear. I groan in irritation; I’m going to have to cover up for him again. Her voice is soft and almost concerned as she glances at the back of my brother’s head. “What’s going on, babe?”

  “Nothing, Kat. Just a baby sis issue.”

  “It’s Cam.” The girl glares, then turns her judgmental gaze in my direction. From the brown roots of my stringy faded pink hair and lines of piercings on both ears to the corduroy rucksack permanently ripping off my shoulders and the tatters of my jeans and old, snug Wolverine shirt, both of which I’m pretty sure belonged to my six foot four brother before he hit puberty.

  Trent rolls his eyes. “Whatever. So, Del, what d’you need from your favorite brother?”

  “You haven’t heard me shouting the past ten minutes?” I try to mask my annoyance because I really need a ride, like, now.

  “Fine. Where you need to go again?”

  “My job.”I shove past him into the den of nightmares that is Trent’s room and dig through his drawers, throwing a shirt and jeans at him. “Because I’m the only one in this family who cares about financial stability, remember? Come on, I’m going to be late.”

  “Damn, T, your sister’s a real pain in the ass,” perky-blond-girl complains as she relaxes on my brother’s bed.

  Trent, thankfully, doesn’t agree. He pulls on the shirt and pants and grabs his car keys from a bowl on the dresser. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes, Cam. There’s breakfast in the kitchen. If you run into my mom…” He gulps as if such a horror hadn’t occurred to him. “Well, make something up.”

  “Okay?” The girl’s confused but clearly as hung over as Trent. “I’ll see you later, I guess.”

  “Awesome.” Trent stares me dead in the eyes then. “I hope you know I’m only driving you because I expect a free coffee when I get there.”

  “Talk to my manager,” I tease and head off down the steps.

  “Tracy can suck my-”

  “Del!” Why haven’t you left for work yet?” It’s my mother, arriving late for some unknown reason, in her tanned and primped glory. She’s a trophy wife/hostess/real housewife of small town Texas who’s had (at last count) two boob jobs, at least one liposuction, and a nose reshaping (which she claimed was for breathing purposes, but when you go in with the nose of a young Julius Caesar and leave with pre-adolescent Natalie Portman, something’s up). Today she’s covered her nipped-and-tucked form in some expensive as hell beige designer dress made for someone with much smaller boobs and coats of makeup so thick you’d think she just came from clown college.

  “We were about to leave, if you don’t mind.” I try to walk past her, though of course it can’t be that easy. Her viciously manicured claws grip my pale shoulder and she spins me around to face her. With heavy-lidded eyes she scrutinizes me.

  “I’m having a party tonight, Del, and I expect you to be on your best behavior. There are a few boys from Country Club families who you should be mingling with. I picked out a dress for you on my bi-weekly shopping trip this morning. Wear it.” Mom’s always trying to impress the people from Twin Rivers because she thinks the world should be an oligarchy. As if balding guys sucking hard at golf know how the world should work.

  “I have plans tonight,” I lie in the hopes of getting out of a social obligation where I’ll be forced to smile and reject food and wear uncomfortable shoes like the good girl I’m required to be.

  Mom sees through my bluff. Too used to it by now. “I seriously doubt that, honey. And even if you did, nothing is more important that fulfilling social obligations.”

  “Sure.” I shrug. “Mom, I need to get going. I should be home around two, if all goes as planned.”

  Her face softens a tiny bit, the curls around her head bobbing in a sympathetic nod. She pats my shoulder with a gesture that would be almost affectionate coming from anyone else. “Del, be careful out there. Don’t let anything happen to that pretty little face of yours. And, for your information, putting on some makeup wouldn’t kill you; in fact, it might help with your social standing.”

  Trent breaks first. “What the fuck is wrong with you, mom? Don’t be so hard on the kid.”

  Before she can go off on him for ‘potty mouth’ and ‘undermining her authority as a mother,’ I tug Trent out the grand front door and down our immaculat
ely landscaped driveway until we reach his car, a more than shitty pickup truck. Despite my mom and stepdad Michael Singer sweating money every time it’s hot (and in west Texas, it’s always hot), they won’t drop a dime on cars. I’ve had my license for three months and haven’t been allowed to drive anywhere. I’m not allowed anywhere near Michael’s Mercedes (or his Ferrari or his Audi or his Maserati, for that matter) unless he’s driving, and Trent’s even worse over the obscenely shaded orange Ford pickup he’s been driving since Junior year. It’s demeaning how little freedom I have in this household. Thankfully, I’ll be eighteen in a few months and then I can do whatever the hell I want without permission.

  Trent starts driving once we’re both positioned precariously (and without seatbelts) on the cracked pleather. Neither of us wants to break the uncomfortable silence so we sit without speaking for the fifteen minute ride.

  I’ve been working at the coffee shop downtown, or as downtown as Lightfoot, Texas can get, since I was fifteen. Even from a block or so away I can pick out its shape. The buildings surrounding it have been crumbling for the past few decades and now they’re mostly rubble. Only Ebony’s, with its black washed brick façade and floor to ceiling front window, has stayed in business. My mom used to take me here before she married Michael and became a prima donna in her own right. Back when she had aspirations beyond marrying rich and having a beauty pageant daughter, which she got in Michael’s daughter Amanda. Two of his three kids are off at costly colleges and Amanda’s still at ‘home,’ but much less than me. She’s got a social life.

  Before walking through the old wooden door, I yank my tangled mess of hair into a ponytail, for the thousandth time wondering if I should dye it again. Dyeing it pink was initially intended to piss off mom and Michael, which totally worked in the moment, but the affect has worn off and now I want to renew my subscription. They left me alone because they figured I was going through my ‘rebellious phase’ and didn’t want to deal with it.

  I sigh and push the door open, grab my stained black apron from a hook behind the counter, and tell the current barista my shift’s starting. He leaves happily and attaches by the lips to a girl with loads of piercings on the other side of the store. Totally against the staff code of conduct, but whatever. Then I bring Trent a black coffee (which I have to pay for) and he goes back home.

  While tying the apron behind my neck, I glance around the front room to examine who’s showed up today. The usual Saturday morning crop loiters and I love to watch them. In the corner by the front window: flunking philosophy majors from state college discussing and bickering over the frailty of humanity who drink coffee ‘black, like my soul.’ On the barstools, away from distractions: aspiring novelists/actresses/singer-songwriters wishing they could afford better than our smallest size and flogging their guts out for minimum wage seven days a week. And, finally, the bane of my existence dispersed in groups and hogging the comfy chairs: rowdy teenagers who think they know how to work the machines and demand their drinks (generally something iced with whipped cream and absolutely zero coffee) be remade if they aren’t happy. This is the cast of my weekend job. After school three times a week I work the country club because ‘Michael pulled too many strings for me not to bother.’

  Hopefully, since the weekend’s barely started, there’ll be fewer of the last group and more of the second. Quiet, content customers who tip generously despite a lack of money are the best. As I’m observing the crowd, my eyes fall on a boy who could be with the obnoxious teenagers or the philosophical collegiate, if he were associating with anyone else. His face is nuzzled comfortably against the pages of a thick book I can’t quite see the title of. And he hasn’t ordered anything.

  I sigh heavily. My manager’s on duty, prowling somewhere I can’t see, and she’ll expect me to get him out or make him pay. She thinks it’s loitering to let someone have a place to sit when the weather’s decent. If it’s raining, there’s nothing she can do.

  Across the room, I lock eyes with Tracy the Manager from Hell and she nods in the guy’s direction.

  Luckily, before I have to venture into an awkward social encounter with someone my age, a tiny Asian lady comes up to the counter and tries to order hot chocolate. For the next few minutes I attempt to explain that hot chocolate is a seasonal drink we start selling in late November. But she’s not having it.

  “Can you please stop being difficult and just make me a hot chocolate?”

  “Miss, I promise you, if you come back in fifty days, I will happily make you a hot chocolate but until then, you need to order something else.”

  “No no. I came in here specifically to get something for my ailing son…”

  This such nonsense goes on until Tracy comes over to save me. Her braces obstruct the way she speaks in a fantastical way as she instructs, “Go take care of broody boy over there. Been trying to get rid of him since we opened. I’ve got this.”

  I nod reluctantly and head over to where the guy sits, legs crossed over one another, pressed into the corner of the back walls. As I slowly approach, I take him in more fully.

  He’s on the floor, oddly enough, and has been given a wide berth of eight or so feet all around. It’s clear he’s new in town from the way everyone’s avoiding him. Most of the people living in Lightfoot are ancient families with expertly primped hair and huge houses. Spray tans and fake nails and bleached hair and designer clothes abound here, but not on this guy. He’s not the usual clean cut white guy from Twin Rivers. It’s impossible to pinpoint his ethnicity, there are so many possibilities. Skin the color of toffee, almond eyes flitting across the pages of his book. God, he’s weird looking. Like no guy I’ve ever seen before in real life or even in magazines. He’s even got on a leather jacket over a faded shirt, contrasting sharply to the pastel polos of almost every guy in the shop. After being surrounded by the cookie-cutter built boys of the country club for years, his lanky shape and strange looks are an almost welcome reprieve. I’d be intrigued if he weren’t loitering during my shift.

  “Hey.” My voice is a squeak so I give it another go, this time more forcefully.

  The boy peeks at me briefly then gradually drops the book to his lap. “What’s up?”

  “Listen,” I sigh, “I’m only saying this because my manager is really anal and will fire me if I don’t, but you need to order something or I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  He shrugs as if completely uncaring about the whole affair. “I don’t have the money on me.”

  I get the impression he doesn’t have spending money anywhere, much less in his pockets. Not wanting to get rid of the only mildly interesting person I’ve seen in years, I say quietly, “On the house.”

  His brown eyes, precisely the color of sweet tea on a blistering afternoon, pop wide open and he smiles broadly in a way most guys our age wouldn’t be caught dead. Better not show any kindness or they might see beyond the overly-gelled exterior. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah,” I laugh. I’m enjoying this. “Why not? What’ll you have, then?”

  “Whatever’s your favorite.” The guy’s smile is ridiculously wide and not in the least bit flirtatious. Being a teenage girl surrounding by entitled douchewads, the friendliness without expected benefits is encouraging. I’ve only got one proper friend, but maybe I can find another outside the circle of rich country clubbers.

  “Name for the cup?” Of course, I’m supposed to routinely ask this question, but I’m also an expert in subversive interrogation and question, by which I will get the mystery boy’s name.

  He ponders this for a moment before saying, “Jay Garrick.”

  “Nice try.” I smirk, happy to catch him. “Your real name, please.”

  He returns my chuckle with one of his own, “How’d you know?”

  “Jay Garrick? Name of the original Flash. I’m impressed.”

  “As am I. Nobody around here appreciates classic nineteen forties comics, although I should’ve guessed you were different with the, ah,
hair.” His eyes drift over me like he’s seeing me from head to toe for the first time.

  I roll my eyes. “Name for the cup, and possibly an explanation for why you don’t want me to know your real one?”

  “Rhett Tressler, and it was mainly a test to see if you have the right to wear that shirt.” The newly christened Rhett beams and gestures to my Wolverine tee. “Glad to see I was wrong about you.”

  “You don’t even know my name, unfortunately for you.” It’s hard not to be flirtatious with him. It just bubbles out of me. Which is strange, considering I have the relational experience of a socially awkward baby koala (and am about as attractive to the opposite sex as one).

  “I’ll figure it out. Give me five minutes.”

  When I stand straight to make his caramel macchiato (that being my favorite drink), Rhett follows suit. He tucks the small book into the back pocket of his black jeans and trails directly behind me. As I go through the memorized steps behind the counter – steam milk, grind espresso beans, drizzle caramel – my perfect stepsister walks in with her conniving bunch of bitches. One of her very few pastimes, which include getting fake tans and bleaching her hair to death, is harassing me during my shifts. Here at Ebony’s is better than at Twin Rivers, but it’s still an undeniably gruesome situation.

  I try not to look at Rhett, praying internally he’ll leave before Amanda and the Goons converge, while I hand over the caramel macchiato.

  “Coffee girl?” Amanda’s BFF since, like, forever, Rachel Brannigan, sashays up to my work station and snaps her finger in my face. “I’ll have a…” She smirks, glances curiously at Rhett, then glares while reciting what I’d call her usual at this point. “Large one pump caramel, one pump white mocha, two scoops vanilla bean powder, extra ice frappuccino with two shots poured over the top with caramel drizzle under and on top of the whipped cream, double cupped. Thanks!”

  “Aren’t you worried that’ll make you fat?” I pause for affect. “Actually, I guess it’s too late for that.”