Relatively Honest (15 page)

“That’s awkward.” He dropped the pen into a mug on his desk. “Want to go out for ice cream? You look like you could use ice cream.”

My head sagged, and I buried both hands in my hair. “Why are you being nice to me? You should hate me. Come on, I’m despicable. Yell at me, would you? Tell me I’m a terrible person and I don’t deserve her. Somebody should.”

“Mate, this ain’t going to end pretty. I am not interested in making it worse for you.”

I closed my eyes. “Great.”

A minute later I heard Sinter smirk. “You’re lucky I’m drawn to things that are sick and weird. Makes it so I can actually still like you.”

“Well, thanks for that.”

“Don’t want ice cream?”

“No. Not hungry. Thank you.”

“By the way…” I heard him open a desk drawer and dig through it. Something lightweight landed on my knee. I opened my eyes. It was a broken black shoelace. “In future,” he said, “tie that on the door handle.”

“My parents
are coming to tomorrow’s performance,” I said, into Julie’s wig. We had met for an intermission cuddle in the cool air behind the theater.

“Oh. That’ll be nice,” she said.

“They’ll want to say hello to you. I reminded them you were my favorite cabbie.”

“Okay.” She held me tighter, resting only her temple on my shoulder to keep from smearing her stage makeup.

I ran my hands down her back. I could always feel her ribs and spine so distinctly through the tight silky gowns they put her into, then below her waist I couldn’t feel anything but billows of cloth. “Remember,” I added, “no hint of anything romantic. Patrick works for them. Or used to, anyway.”

“I know.” It was her pseudo-patient, indignant voice, used to respond to remarkably stupid statements.

“I’m just nervous.” I moved my face back and forth so the end of my false mustache brushed her wig. “I’m not used to being clandestine.” Same word Mum had used, to the private investigator on the phone. Same reason, too.

“Hope they like it,” Julie said.

“Why would they like it?” I asked, thinking she meant
being clandestine
.

She lifted her head and gave me the look that went along with the voice. “Because it’s a good play, maybe?”

“Oh. The play. Yes. I’m sure they will.”

At least Julie’s parents wouldn’t be there the same night. They had already come on opening weekend. I hadn’t been aware of it until after the fact; Julie hadn’t introduced us. Good at being clandestine was my cousin.

Mum and Dad arrived Saturday afternoon and came to the dorm to get the tickets from me. They shook hands with Sinter, who was looking respectable and artistic now with his smooth ponytail and basic black clothing, and insisted on taking us both out to dinner.

I could barely eat. They didn’t know Sinter knew about Julie being my cousin, so they didn’t refer to her that way. They also didn’t know Sinter was soft on her, and of course I didn’t mention that either. But they did keep bringing her up in the context of the play.

“The girl who plays Roxane, then, you say she’s good?” Mum asked us.

I picked crumbs off a dinner roll, and Sinter took up the job of answering. “Very. Yes. Julie’s a great actress.”

Anglophile that he was, Sinter had his elbows on the table by the end of dinner and was rapid-firing questions about London at them. Meanwhile I slumped beside him, nauseated at the smell of Italian sauces, and wondered just how many days, weeks, or months before my love affair came crashing down in flames.

They gave us a ride to the theater. “Break a leg!” Dad called from the car window.

“Damn,” Sinter said as we walked inside. “You get everything. The girls, the looks, the cool parents.”

“We’ll see how ‘cool’ they are once they find out what I’ve been up to with their niece.”

“Whose niece?” said Julie, who was somehow standing right behind me.

“Hah!” I choked, to cover the shock. “Nobody’s. I’m joking around. I’m just being an arse. How are you?”

She stood smiling, bright-eyed and still un-costumed, with her coat over her shoulder. “Fine. Are your parents here?”

“Um – yes. Well, they just dropped us off. But they’ll be here.”

“Great!” She squinted at me. The smile twisted thoughtfully. “You all right?”

“I’m… I ate too much at dinner. That’s all.”

Sinter was nice enough not to mention that in fact I had barely eaten anything at dinner. Quite possibly he hadn’t noticed, though, what with his immersion in the exciting discussion of Britain’s cultural highlights.

“Okay.” She squeezed my arm. “Relax. See you soon.”

I gave up whinging for the evening and shaded instead into unhappy silence. At least that way I wouldn’t make any more idiotic slip-ups. I got through the show somehow – hardest one I had survived yet. I spotted my parents in the third row, beaming at me, the minute I got on stage. All night, everything that happened in the play, I viewed through their eyes. They would be charmed by their niece’s acting and by Sinter’s pathos. They would be proud of their son, captain of the guards. They would be impressed that the University of Oregon housed such a talent as Blaine Rice.

And they would certainly notice that Cyrano and Roxane were cousins. But would they come to any new conclusions because of it, or just think it an interesting coincidence?

Curtain call came and went. The house lights lit up. The theatergoers rose from their seats and surged into the aisles, and soon I was in the crowded back corridor of the theater, greeting my parents. Mum hugged me, laughing. She held a crumpled tissue and dabbed her eyes; Cyrano’s death at the end always affected the women. Dad made fun of my mustache, and pounded me proudly on the back. Sinter approached and found himself with an armful of English mum, telling him how
touching
he had been, while Dad shook Sinter’s hand and winked. Sinter thanked them, then turned to talk to another admirer.

The crowd parted in a chance wave, and I spotted Julie, in her blue gown and golden wig. She caught my eye, and I nodded her forward.

“You remember Julie,” I said to my parents.

“Hello.” Julie smiled. “I’m glad you could come.” She held out her hand.

Mum’s lips trembled. She clasped Julie’s hand in both of her own. “Oh, my dear. You’re so lovely. You were just wonderful.”

“Thank you.”

Mum and Dad gazed in fascination at her; maybe Evelyn’s eyebrows had looked just like that, maybe Evelyn’s chin now resided beneath Julie’s lips? Julie returned the gaze serenely. I, meanwhile, wished to die.
Family bloody reunion. How charming! Someone snap a photo! Oh, that bloke in the back, looking like he’s going to vomit, that’s cousin Daniel.

“Hear you live in Bend,” Dad said to her, in his cheery-tourism-man voice. “Just down the road from us.”

“Yes. I’ve been to Whitecrest a few times. I love it.”

On they went, all small talk. No one said “cousin,” no one said “boyfriend,” no one said “Patrick,” and no one said “Hey, Daniel, you ought to get off with this one, cousin or not!” One way or another, we got through the conversation, and my parents hugged me again and said they had to be off for their late drive back to Sunriver. They each squeezed Julie’s hand one more time and then left.

I sagged against the wall.

“There, now,” Julie said. “Was that so bad?”

Instead of making up a false answer, I drew her close in an embrace. Everyone hugged in the theater; nobody watching would think anything of it. I rested my head on her shoulder. Her arms were the only place I felt safe, and logically the last place I
should
feel safe.

“Can we walk home through the cemetery tonight?” she purred, into my ear.

My hands slid tighter around her. I couldn’t help it. Heat burned away the better part of misery. “Absolutely,” I said.

One week
later, we gave our final performance of
Cyrano de Bergerac
. It was the middle of March, and the start of what they called Dead Week, the week before final exams. The free time Julie and I acquired from losing the play, we filled with studying, and of course with intimacy. But a shadow loomed ahead of me: not just the one cast by exams, nor the one cast by the secret I kept from her. I refer rather to the shadow of “spring break,” the one-week holiday between winter and spring term. Spring break meant Patrick would return from Boston to see his girlfriend.

We never talked about him, Julie and I. But she couldn’t avoid it as that week got closer.

“I’ll have to spend a lot of time with Patrick.” She pressed my hand between hers, as we sat facing one another on her bed one quiet afternoon. She watched her fingers slide along my palm. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to get to Sunriver.”

My tongue produced the brave words. “It’s just one week. I’ll manage.”

She leaned over, kissed my shoulder through the cloth of my shirt, and let herself fall into my lap. I wrapped my arms around her. We huddled like that for a long while, just breathing.

Pulling up in the slush to my parents’ curb in Sunriver on the first day of spring break, I finally understood why people used the phrase “heavy heart.” Something in my chest seemed to physically weigh me down. In the car, before I got out, Julie leaned across the seats and hugged me.

“I’ll miss you,” she said, and in the slant of her eyes and the catch of her voice, I recognized the misery she had faked on stage when saying goodbye to Sinter. But I knew it wasn’t fake now.

I kissed her on each eyelid, so she wouldn’t see me when I answered. “I’ll miss you too. Love you. Bye bye.” And I scrambled out of the car before she could react.

When I picked up my bags and looked back, she waved, and her middle and ring finger bent down to flash me the remaining three. In love and desolation, heart pounding, I watched her drive away. I couldn’t imagine how I had survived two full weeks without her, over winter holidays. One week looked impossible now.

As Sinter’s roommate I hadn’t needed to use instant messaging to contact him before, but at some point he had told me his screen name. On the third day of the holidays, late at night, I logged on and found him.

BramRevelStoker: Hello.

DiSintergration: Hello yourself. How’s the “holidays”?

BramRevelStoker: Fucking awful. You?

DiSintergration: Similar. Want to trade parents? I like yours better.

BramRevelStoker: Mate, I’d trade you my entire gene pool if I could. Would solve a fuckload of my problems.

DiSintergration: What’s going on?

BramRevelStoker: Nothing new. Julie’s spending all her time with Patrick, so I haven’t seen her. And I hate it and want to murder him.

DiSintergration: Ah. Jealousy’s a bitch.

BramRevelStoker: She emails me sometimes. But no calls. And she never mentions his name. It’s always “we.” “We went shopping.” “We drove over to Redmond.”

DiSintergration: Probably doesn’t want to upset you.

BramRevelStoker: Too bloody late. I’m already going mental. I’m sorry…I have no right to burden you with it. You of all people.

DiSintergration: Burden me all you like. At least it’s interesting.

BramRevelStoker: Weird, you mean. Oh btw…what’s it mean when someone makes an L with their fingers, but leaves the pinky up too?

DiSintergration: “Loser”? Oh, pinky up too…uh, I think that’s “I love you” in sign language. Isn’t it? Combo of I, L, and Y?

BramRevelStoker: Not sure. Thought it might be.

DiSintergration: Could have been both, of course. “I love you, loser.”

BramRevelStoker: That would be fitting.

DiSintergration: I take it Julie gave you this signal?

BramRevelStoker: Yeah.

DiSintergration: Well, at least she does love you. That’s something.

BramRevelStoker: Then why the fuck is she with Patrick? Why are they still together?? Argh. And I can’t even ask her, because what can I offer instead? “Hey, drop that fellow and take up with me – your favorite cousin!”

DiSintergration: It’s like I said…it’s hard to break up after that much time.

BramRevelStoker: I can’t marry her legally here anyhow. So I shouldn’t bother obsessing. But…arrrrrgh.

DiSintergration: You did work yourself into a tight spot. I must agree.

BramRevelStoker: Maybe I should tell her the whole ugly truth. Then she’d drop me and I’d deserve it and at least the suspense would be over.

DiSintergration: Well, that’s one possibility.

BramRevelStoker: Only I know I won’t. I’ll hang on as long as I can. God, listen to me!! I’ve turned into Miriam!!

DiSintergration: Hardly. Being in love doesn’t automatically make you a clingy ex-girlfriend.

BramRevelStoker: Do you think Julie’s still with Patrick because she doesn’t trust me? Because of the Don Juan thing?

DiSintergration: I guess that could be. Just wanted to have some fun with you, and figured you wouldn’t mind, since you seemed the type.

BramRevelStoker: But then why the “I love you, loser” signal? And why was I stupid enough to say it first?

DiSintergration: Say what first?

BramRevelStoker: When she dropped me off, I kind of told her I loved her. Then ran away in a panic like a 6-year-old. She flashed me the I-L-Y in answer.

DiSintergration: Ah. So it WAS “I love you, loser.”

BramRevelStoker: Probably. Fuck.

DiSintergration: You know, there are weirder couples out there than you two.

BramRevelStoker: I never wanted to be weird. And at least if I was going to be in a weird relationship, I didn’t want it to be “the one.”

DiSintergration: Well, if you want out, I imagine you could have anyone.

BramRevelStoker: Cheers, but I don’t want out. Which is the entire bleedin’ problem.

DiSintergration: To be honest, I don’t think it’s so weird anymore. You guys being related, I mean. It’s not like you’re siblings.

BramRevelStoker: Exactly. But people have such massive mental blocks against it. Even if Julie herself doesn’t, the fact I’ve been hiding it is really pretty awful.

DiSintergration: If you want my advice…

BramRevelStoker: Let’s have it.

DiSintergration: I say tell her the truth. However, I say that with the full admission that if it were me, I would probably keep my mouth shut in terror.

BramRevelStoker: Hm. OK.

DiSintergration: Not much help, huh? I’m usually not.

BramRevelStoker: It helps that you listen to me whinge. Have you any advice on curing mad jealousy?

DiSintergration: Distraction. That’s all I can think of. And time.

BramRevelStoker: Well, distract me, then.

DiSintergration: OK. Here…I’m sending you a song I downloaded earlier tonight. Tell me it wouldn’t be awesome as the soundtrack to an Edgar Allan Poe story.

“Is Julie driving you back to university, then?” Mum asked, toward the end of spring break.

“Yes.” I was sitting at the kitchen table, with coffee and a section of the newspaper, while she put away plates from the dishwasher. “She’s coming tomorrow.”

Mum dabbed water off the top of a glass. “Lovely. It’s very good of her.”