Love in the Time of Cynicism Page 11

  “Sup, skank, I’ll have your best Affogato.” Needless to say, Sky has walked in, Chaz dangling off her, and ordered what is essentially a shot of espresso poured over a scoop of vanilla ice cream. I do the deed, feeling sick to my stomach at disgracing coffee like this for three dollars plus tip. She squeals, never one to beat around the bush, “I saw you kissing lover boy earlier and may I just say I’m so proud of you coming into my training! FYI, call me any time to cover for you with your mom and Michael if you ever want to stay out late with your poet boyfriend.”

  I laugh, “Thanks, Sky. Your support is always appreciated.”

  “Seriously, thought, I’d bang that like a screen door in a hurricane.”

  “Boyfriend, right here!” Chaz complains, though, knowing Sky, he’s well-used to this behavior.

  “Babe, can you go get us a table upstairs,” she lowers her voice, “where we can be alone.”

  He nods and leaves without another word.

  “Anyway,” Sky groans, tired of having to deal with the constant stresses of being a goddess in the eyes of men everywhere, “that poem he wrote you was seriously romantic.”

  “I know,” I sigh dreamily, thinking not about the poem but what followed.

  Sky takes a spoonful of her ice cream and asks, “What’s it like to have someone adore you the way Rhett does?”

  “Ask Chaz, why don’t you?” I tease, knowing Sky would hate dating someone who actually treasured her. She doesn’t like commitment or emotional attachment. “He seems pretty into you.”

  “Into my ass, more like it. Can’t keep his hands off me for a second.” She leans against the counter, speaking through her ice cream, “I want a guy to sweep me off my feet in the middle of a hallway, a guy who’ll write poems about me and sing to me and love me with his whole heart.”

  “The easiest way to do that is not to date assholes.”

  “Easy for you to day, Del,” she bemoans. “Mr. Right happened to be loitering in here like destiny had the whole thing set up for you. It isn’t that simple for me…” I tune her out while making drinks and selling pastries. Eventually, after explaining the anatomy of every relationship she’ ever been in, she stops and leans over the bar. “Can we talk, like, seriously for a second?”

  “Sure Sky, what’s up?” I ask, already sure I can tell where this is going.

  She looks around briefly and speaks, concern masking her porcelain face. “I didn’t think you were all that serious about Rhett until tonight and I have to ask, as your best friend, are you going to be okay dating someone again? I know you haven’t dated anyone in, what, three years? And we both know how well that turned out.”

  “Sky,” I assure, “Rhett’s nothing like Eric.

  leaves to join Chaz and my shift ends around nine thirty. Rhett’s lounging on one of the brown suede chairs when he sees me and stands up.

  “Are you ready to experience the full glory of 1985 cinema? Your life will change, I guarantee it.”

  I grin. “I’ve never been more thrilled to watch someone else’s favorite movie in my life.”

  “Which reminds me,” he says and tosses an arm around my shoulder as we move toward the door. “Have you decided on your favorites yet.”

  Without missing a beat, I answer, “Cotton candy and the color of the sunlight on the willow tree we sit under after school.

  Surprised by this response, he merely says, “I’m glad I’ve had such a profound effect on you.”

  We’re stopped right before reaching the door by the world-renowned Ebony Vine. “You’re that devilishly handsome Rhett Tressler, right?”

  He removes his arms from my shoulders and gestures to himself. “In the flesh.”

  “And Cordelia Kane, faithful worker, you’re the girl he wrote that poem for?”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  She pauses and places one firm hand on my shoulder and the other on Rhett’s. “Let me say I have never, in my, ah, numerous years as owner of this fine establishment seen the kind of energy the two of you share.” She lets out a full, hearty laugh. “Hell, not even me and my husband look at each other like that. It’s a gift, children. Cherish it. And Rhett, not only are you handsome but you have a mean knack for words, boy. Keep coming here whenever you can because I loved hearing you.”

  Unsure of what to say, Rhett fumbles out, “Thank you. So much. It was an honor meeting you.”

  “Oh I see. You’re tryna get away from old Ebony,” she chortles. “Makes sense; you lovebirds probably have a hot date to get off to.”

  “Not at all,” he argues immediately. “Well, I mean, we do have a date, but talking to you is cool.”

  She smiles at him, her entire gum line and more teeth than I thought a person could have showing in her laugh. “I’ll see you two in a couple weeks, alright? Until then, good luck with whatever you’re up to.”

  With Rhett at a loss for words, I chime in. “Great talking to you again, Ebony. He’ll read at the next one if I have anything to do with it.”

  “Fantastic!” With that, she goes off to commend Tracy on another Job Well Done even though my manager does almost zero work on show nights due to stress.

  Rhett catches my attention once more by positioning his arm comfortably around my waist as we leave the building. “She’s really something, huh?”

  “You could say that.” We reach the back parking lot and I realize something. “You’re going to have to drive me home later.”

  “Oh?” It seems we’re both logistical error here.

  “I drove Amanda’s car here – long story – and she came to pick it up because I told her Sky would give me a ride home.”

  “That’s fine. I mean, it’s not that big of a deal. I’ll drop you off up the street from your house so your parents don’t see or hear my bike, and you can be on your merry way.”

  Not wanting to think about it, I agree and we reach his motorcycle, which I cannot begin to remember the name of. Rhett climbs onto the bike and I arrange myself behind him, this time more than willing to rest my head on his shoulder and rest my hands on his stomach as we roar through the bleeding night lights. Being on the back of a motorcycle is like riding a roller coaster under the stars. Lights smear past and it’s impossible not to stare even as wind smashes against my dry eyes because the sight, the pinks and reds and whites and yellows of street lamps fusing and harmonizing with one another, is more than mesmerizing.

  When we finally stop in front of his house, where every light is still on, I’m dizzily happy to be there under Rhett’s arm, going to watch one of the most iconic movies in cinematic history. We have one final moment together as our footsteps hit the cracking pathway at exactly the same moment. Though neither of us says anything to the other, the quiet is warm and inviting.

  And then the door breaks open and we’re rushed by Rhett’s parents and, shocker, the twins, one near-asleep in both parent’s arms. It’s the quietest I’ve ever seen them as the blonder of the two (Evan?) smiles at me and mumbles, “The alien girl.”

  Susie grins at Rhett and gives him a one-armed hug. “How’d it go, darling? Did you ‘crush it’ as much as we were anticipating?”

  “Absolutely, mom.”

  “I’m so proud of you getting up there and sharing your amazing words with everyone, kiddo.” It’s clear she means it earnestly and it occurs to me briefly that I haven’t had anyone tell me they’re proud of me in a long time. “Sorry we couldn’t have been there.”

  “It’s alright, mom,” Rhett says as we enter the house, which has been cleaned up since I was here a week ago. The boxes are gone and it’s quiet. “I know you’ve got a lot going on.”

  Mr. Tressler jumps in at this juncture with a pointed glance in my direction. “I see you’ve brought our favorite listener home. Isn’t it getting late?”

  “Dad,” Rhett explain emphatically, “Cordelia Kane has never seen The Breakfast Club.”

  He gapes at me. “Then I fully understand the urgency of the situation and apologi
ze for questioning the necessity of this meeting.”

  “Apology accepted. We’ll be in the basement.”

  Mr. Tressler’s eyes narrow. “The basement?”

  Rhett rolls his eyes, seeing his father’s meaning. “There are soon to be six sleeping individuals in this house and I don’t want to keep anyone up with the heart-breakingly honest sounds of one of America’s best films. This is for simple courtesy and nothing else.”

  “Keep him in line, Cordelia,” he says to me with a paternal wink. Susie squeezes my shoulder and they retreat up the stairs.

  “Are you ready for this experience?” He asks seriously, then shakes his head. “Stupid question. You could never be ready.”

  I bite my lower lip and hesitate before saying, “Actually, I was wondering if I could borrow a shirt or something.” I indicate the guilt of the tight sequined top Amanda picked out this morning. “I think I’ve developed some very severe wounds from this shirt and can’t imagine wearing it much longer.”

  Rhett blushes for a reason I don’t quite understand even though my own face is red simply for making the request. After a while, he says, “Absolutely. Be right back.”

  Then he runs quietly up the steps and I’m alone in his living room. No matter how long I’ve known him, being alone in someone else’s house without the person who invited me will never cease to be weird and uncomfortable for me.

  When Rhett returns, a black shirt in hand, I feel the weight of awkwardness leave me. He tosses is to me and says, “That’s from when I was, like, fourteen, so it should fit you.”

  After I change in the bathroom of pre-teen existential crises, though, he’s proven wrong because the shirt is way too big for me but has the redeeming qualities of being significantly more comfortable than the medieval torture device I was wearing previously and smelling like Rhett.

  When I emerge, Rhett grins at me. “Nice. You can keep that, if you want. Suits you better than pink sequins, I’d say.”

  “Thanks,” I reply lightly while tugging at the hem of this shirt, which ends about half-way down my thigh. “I didn’t realize you were this much bigger than me, though. I’m pretty tall and-”

  “You are not tall.” He laughs, “You’re the size of a fairy princess.”

  “I’m five-eight!”

  “And I’m six-three, so that’s not impressive in the slightest.”

  I shake my head. Tall people. “Are we going to do this thing or what?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  He leads me down a set of stairs behind a door I’d assume was a closet and into a basement clearly dominated by the youth of the house. Down the center of the room is a line of duct tape, which obviously separated the space into Rhett’s and the little kids’. One on side of the tape there’s a very impressive pillow and blanket fort erected in the back corner, held up by a ping pong table on one end and four or five chairs on the other. It’s surrounded by a slew of action figures and such. On the other side is a well-organized stack of DVDs that reaches up to my head and a huge black couch in front of a massive old box TV as well as quite a few bean bags. A complex tangle of wires connects various speakers and movie players to the television, held to the wall with a convoluted duct tape rig.

  “You own a lot of movies,” I comment stiffly, unsure of how to proceed.

  As Rhett gets to work pulling out his copy of the movie and turning on the various electronics that need to be plugged in and rewired, he replies, “I guess. I used to skip school a lot and stay home, so I’d watch movies until everyone else came home. My collection is the accumulation of a year’s worth of problem avoidance.”

  I can’t stop the question from coming out. Every moment we’re together, I crave more knowledge about him. From the constant long sleeves to certain lines in his poem, I’m dying to understand who he was relative to who he is now. “Why’d you stay home so much?”

  The TV shrieks on, stopping Rhett from answering. He soothes the TV and fiddles with it until the DVD menu shows up. After hitting play, the first notes of that classic song Don’t You (Forget About Me) start up and he falls back on the couch, then gestures for me to do the same with a broad smile. “Join me and prepare for the wonder of eighties cinema to cleanse your soul.”

  The bright orange names shake over the screen as Rhett sings the words under his breath. Throughout the beginning, he quotes every line quietly, starting right at Saturday, March 24th, 1984 and going through the parents’ speeches in the car. As Judd Nelson’s walking in wearing that ridiculous outfit of his, Rhett explains quietly that Brian’s his favorite character for more reasons than he could say. He makes comments on the characters’ personalities and relationships so often I can’t focus on the movie; while Rhett extols the ‘brutally honest, raw brilliance’ of Brian, Andy, and Allison, he berates Bender and Claire to no end. Rhett abhors how the relationships play out but loves the writing. Frankly, he criticizes the movie to such an extreme extent it’s hard to believe it’s his favorite. It’s a very intense experience, watching The Breakfast Club with Rhett, as he points out metaphorical resonances in every single scene to the point where I start to think that, for him, at least, the movie means something more to him.

  I’ve forgotten the exact details of each person’s story and am surprised to find myself getting sucked in during when they’re sitting around in a circle giving testimonials. My head’s on Rhett’s chest and my eyes are drooping through the stream of agonizing words. His heart beats below my ear, a heavy, constant sounds that calms me. And then, a few minutes after I’ve gone misty-eyed from Andy talking about his asshole parents and how much he hates them, I feel Rhett’s ribcage heave right when Brian begins to cry and says, “So I considered my options, you know?”

  The lines continue and sobs rack thunderously from his chest. I sit up and rest my hand against his chest. Rhett sucks in a trembling breath and apologizes, “Shit, sorry; it’s just this damn movie gets me every time.”

  I can tell beyond a doubt it’s more than that. Not sure what to say, I merely ask, “You want to talk?”

  “Later,” he promises. “For now, let’s finish this movie.”

  Chapter Eight – A Dawn Augur

  I wake up before the sun rises, my head on Rhett’s lap and his arm draped over me. Rhett shifting under me to start the movie again jostles my head enough to wake me and I bolt upright. Crap. The clock over the TV reads 2:14 and I’m in Rhett’s basement.

  “You alright, Sleeping Beauty?” He jokes and leans in closer to me, face barely illuminated by the orangey glow of the television.

  I stare at him, study the features of his tear-stained face. “Are you?”

  He rolls his beautiful eyes at me and replies, “Always. Never been better.”

  “I’m serious.” I give him a small shove on the chest, to which he presses a hand where I hit him and mumbles a sarcastic ouch, Rocky. “We should talk about…whatever. If this is ever going to happen, I need to know more about you. Your past. And I’ll return the favor.”

  He sighs heavily, nods. “I’m only going to agree to this because I want us to work out, alright? So what do you want to hear?”

  I run through the long list of questions I have for him. “Why do you where long sleeves even though we live about as far South as you can go without touching Mexico?”

  “You want complete honesty? Full disclosure?”

  “Exactly.”

  Instead of responding verbally, Rhett stands up and shrugs off the blazer he’s been wearing since the poetry reading. My heart doesn’t race like I thought it would; it pounds against my ribs hard enough I feel like my bones might shatter. He sits down next to me and we face one another as he takes my right hand in his. I follow his motions as he flips over his left wrist to reveal a series of thick vertical scars ranging from raised and white and fading to flat and pink and angry.

  My breath catches in my throat as Rhett guides my fingers over the scars. They’re smooth as my calloused finger tips run over the
ir ridges. I let out breath I’d been holding as my thumb traces them. I can only imagine the kind of garish wounds that caused these, and it makes me shudder.

  “This was me,” he tells me seriously while holding my gaze steadily. “For two years of my life, this is what I chose to do to myself.”

  The image of Rhett, alone and clutching a razorblade over his flawless skin, makes me bite my lip out of anguish. Something falls in my stomach; it’s the opening a deep pit that can only be fixed by knowing he’s okay and doing better.

  I lace my fingers in his and turn his wrist over again. “This isn’t you anymore, Rhett, and what matters to me is that you’re taking care of yourself now.”

  “I know.” He brushes some hair behind my ear and laughs a bit. “I haven’t felt that bad in months, thanks to my genius therapist and a regular cocktail of antidepressants.”

  Completely and totally exhausted but not wanting our first real, personal conversation to end, I return my head to his chest and ask quietly, “How’d it get so bad in the first place?”

  “It’s hard to remember,” he admits with a shrug. “I hated my parents, my family, my teachers, the people I used to call my friends. School was crap and my grades were bad enough to make me stop going altogether.” He sucks in a breath and summarizes his thoughts. “All I know is that six months ago, you could’ve slit my throat and with my last dying breath I would’ve apologized for bleeding on your shirt. That’s how badly I wanted to die. Then we moved away from everything that was bringing me down and things started to brighten up.” I don’t respond for a long time, simply listening to his heart beat under my ear slowing down after the adrenaline rush of telling this to me spiked it. The sound is compelling, relaxing, and I feel myself nodding off until he interrupts my drifting thoughts by asking, “You have anything to say?”