On Friday afternoon, I stood in my steamy-hot bathroom, fully wrapped in my pink robe. I combed the tangles out of my long hair, lathered body milk on my smooth legs, and dabbed perfume on my pulse points. Slowly, I opened the door and found Rob waiting in the hallway. His arms were folded across his chest, and he wore his best dimpled grin. “Hmm, what’s that smell?”
“Clean,” I returned quickly and with a slight smile. “It’s something new I’m trying. You like it?”
He stepped forward and lifted an eyebrow. “Yeah, I love it.” But it was the way his voice dropped when he said “love” and the expression that made me feel uncomfortable.
“Um, I should get dressed,” I said, closing the bedroom door behind me. I entered my closet and ran my fingers along the row of dresses, examining the colors, patterns, and fabrics of every occasion. I didn’t know what to wear to Grandpa Callahan’s seventieth birthday party. Desperately, I wanted to slip back into a pair of boxers and an oversized running T-shirt, but I promised him I would attend. I selected an Easter dress from a few years ago. It was a blue floral, ankle length, and tied in the back. I grabbed a hair clip from the bottom drawer of my jewelry box and drew my hair off my face. I examined myself in the mirror, noticing my eyes, which were sunken and swollen and embellished with purplish grey circles under them. I heaved out a heavy sigh, crossed the room, and opened the door. Rob was waiting, still smiling. “Wow,” he paused. “You look beautiful.”
I stared back at him. “Wow,” I paused. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Quickly, I brushed past him and bolted down the stairs, heading out the garage and stepping into fresh air and sunlight for the first time in almost a week. I felt like a prisoner being let out of solitary confinement, and still squinting, I walked over to his bright yellow Jeep. I leaned against it, feeling the hot metal through my thin cotton dress, and with folded arms, I waited for him.
Rob approached me. “You’re right, Chloe. I am a terrible liar, and that is why I have always told you the truth.” He opened the door for me, and I climbed inside. “And the truth is: you will always be beautiful to me.” He closed the door, and while he walked around the front of the Jeep, I mumbled, “Yeah, right.”
He got in, started the engine, and backed down the driveway. “We need to run a few errands for the party tonight.” He reached over, switching the radio station to one with music. “But it shouldn’t take too long.”
My eyes remained on my hands, which were clasped tightly in my lap. I felt uncomfortable outside the house; the natural light seemed too bright, and the streets seemed too busy. I wanted to be in my own room, where I controlled the light and could crawl safely under the covers.
“Perfect day, isn’t it?” He drove past the gatehouse and waved at Clyde. “My mom’s planning to set up some tables on the patio. She figured we’d want to go swimming.”
“I don’t want to go swimming.”
“That’s okay. We don’t have to.”
“But you still can.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” I countered.
“Listen.” His voice was gentle, and he placed a hand lightly on mine. I stared at his hand as it invaded my personal space. “All I care about is being with you tonight.”
“Why? Because I’m so much fun to be around?”
The light turned red, and he turned toward me. “You’re hurting, and you need time to heal. I’m not expecting you to be yourself yet.”
“So you expect less from me? Like a teacher does with her special-needs kids? What am I? Relationship-challenged?”
The light turned green, and he proceeded through the intersection. “Why don’t we talk about something else then?”
“Like what, Rob?” I asked sardonically, since he had spent the last five days focused on that one particular topic.
“I don’t really know anymore.” His voice was strained as he veered into the right lane and pulled into a bank parking lot. He cut the engine and faced me. He took a deep breath and spoke, “Maybe we can’t talk about anything else because we’re both thinking about the same thing, and until you deal with what happened to you, then things will be like this between us.”
“Like what, Rob?” I repeated angrily. The whole time my gaze was out the passenger-side window, watching as a mother unloaded her children from a minivan.
“Are you even listening to me?”
“Yeah,” I retorted. “You said blah, blah, blah, blah…”
He started the engine, looped around the building, and began backtracking down Riverside Drive.
I glanced at him. “Where are we going now?”
“We,” he emphasized, “are going nowhere.” And with that said, he sped back to my house and zipped up my driveway. He was simmering mad as I reached for the door handle.
“Listen, I didn’t feel like going to the party anyway,” I admitted.
“That’s nice, Chlo, but what am I supposed to tell my family?”
“Tell them I’m still sick.”
“I’m tired of covering for you…tired of all your lies.”
“Why? Everybody lies.” He said nothing, and I took it as my cue to continue. “Think about your life, Rob. You have a biological father, but you don’t even know who he is.” I looked over at him; his eyes narrowed into slits, daring me to continue. “And years ago, when you found out that Dr. Dave adopted you, you had lots of questions for your mom. You wanted to know what your real dad looked like, and if he loved baseball too. You wanted to know if you had any half-brothers or sisters, and if you would ever meet any of them. And I still remember what your mom told you. I remember because I was sitting there at the kitchen table, wondering the same things as you. And she said you would be better off if you didn’t know. I believed her then, but I don’t anymore. It was all a lie.” He remained in silence as I pressed on, “And the whole thing still bothers you. That’s why you never talk about it. Even with me.”
“Actually, I don’t care who he is.”
“Really?” Our eyes met, and I tossed back, “Now, who’s the one lying?”
He held up a hand. “Please don’t say anything else.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t feel like talking about it.”
I pulled on the door handle. “Now, you know how I feel.”
“Wait a second.” I froze, but didn’t turn around. “You brought that up just to prove a point, didn’t you?”
I opened the door, letting the humidity creep inside the air-conditioned Jeep.
“Answer me, Chloe,” he demanded in a voice that I hadn’t heard in fifteen years of knowing him.
“Yes,” I whispered back and slipped off the seat, but before I closed the door behind me, I heard him utter a nasty name under his breath. It was more than just the harsh tone and the word he chose. It was everything; but most of all, it was the realization that a part of him hated me. And that hatred was like an incurable cancer, and with each passing day, it would spread, eating the love between us, and very slowly, and very painfully, our entire relationship, a friendship of many years and weeks of something more, would eventually die.
****