“No, not like that.” He laughs. “What if other people didn’t like the life you chose,” he asks.
“Since when do you care what other people think?” she asks, looking up at him curiously.
“It’s not about me. It’s about you,” he says quietly.
“It’s hard to answer that question. I like my life. I’m not rich or famous or anything, but I’m happy,” she says seriously. She stares off over the lake and his gaze follow hers.
“You make me happy,” she says quietly taking his hand. I feel a smile spread across my face.
“If things ever got hard, would just being with me make you happy?” he asks her and she frowns.
“I’m not here for the expensive restaurants and fancy cars,” she jokes before kissing him on the cheek, and he laughs.
“If you lost your job and became a hobo that had to ask for money on corners, I’d still love you,” she says, squeezing his hand.
He laughs. “You’d live in a cardboard box with me?”
“No, but I’m sure after I graduate I could afford a two bedroom place for us,” she jokes.
“What if I were sick? Would you take care of me?” he asks her.
“Are you sick, Cal?” She asks seriously.
“No. These are just rhetorical questions,” he tells her, and relief washes over her.
“I’d be the best nurse you ever had,” she says.
“You wouldn’t bail on me if things got rough or hard,” he asks, and she starts to giggle.
“Is this your way of telling me we’re going to have rough hard sex on the hood of your car?” She giggles.
“Is that all you want from me, Ms. Brooks? I’m deeply offended.” He chuckles and realizes she’s a little too drunk to have a conversation like this.
She slides off the hood of the car and stands in front of him. It’s warm out, the breeze from the water blows her hair. She steps out of her shoes, kicks them away, then reaches underneath her dress and slips off her underwear. She saunters back over to the car and climbs on his lap, takes the handkerchief out of his pocket and replaces it with her underwear.
“I’m going to have to find out what champagne that was,” he says as she undoes his pants…
“Christopher,” Jenna’s voice jolts me back to reality.
This one at least.
“Are you okay?” she asks, her hand on my cheek.
I nod. “Was I out here long?” I ask, worried that I’d been standing here like a zombie for I don’t know how long.
“Like ten minutes,” she says. “What’s wrong?” she asks nervously.
“Do I look like something’s wrong?” I respond.
“I wouldn’t have asked if you seemed fine,” she says, taking my hand and leading me towards the car. I feel guilty about holding her hand, the same hands that were just all over Lauren, not literally, but I swear I can still feel the heat of her skin.
We get in the car. I know I’m quiet. There are so many thoughts running through my head. What Cal said to Dex about keeping secrets for him, I wish I knew what those secrets were. With Dexter, it could range from something small to something big. I try to forget the emotions that coursed through me when he was with Lauren. I felt how sincere he was when he said he needed her.
I think back to when my mom was sick and the slump I was in, how I felt dead inside, like I was in mourning. Now, I think part of that was, because he lost Lauren. We were both in mourning, lost and dying inside. I shake that thought because that makes him too real. That makes me see him as a person and not a selfish asshole, something other than the villain.
I glance over at Jenna.
“You look tired,” she says quietly and I nod.
“Did she help you pick out what you wore tonight?” Her words hang awkwardly in the air.
“Yeah,” I admit, and she lets out a deep breath, her hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.
“My mom was asleep...” I start to explain.
“It looked nice, but it’s not you,” she interrupts me. I loosen the tie and take it off.
We don’t say much else for the rest of the ride. When she pulls in front of my house, I lean over to kiss her and she gives me a quick peck on the lips before I get out of the car.
“FYI, I don’t want her picking out your ties, your shirts, what you eat or the name of our future children!” she says, her anger increasing with each syllable.
“You’re right. I’m sorry, Jenna,” I say, and she looks away from me.
“God, how could you be so insensitive?”
“I didn’t think it was a big deal. I wanted to look nice at the party for you!” My excuse sounds pathetic, even to me.
“You’re not my arm candy! I wouldn’t have cared if you showed up wearing stripes and polka dots. Nothing that you do with her is ever going to make me happy unless you’re telling me she’s signing the divorce papers.” She hits the button to unlock the doors, cueing me to make my exit.
“This is the last argument I want to have about her, Chris. I am so serious,” she says as I get out of the car. I don’t say I’m sorry because that’ll make things worse. The best thing I can do is give her time.
I know I was wrong. What makes me feel worse is that I wanted Lauren’s help.
I planned on talking to Jenna about what I remembered but that’s a really bad idea now. I can’t talk to my parents and I don’t trust any of the doctors I’ve ever seen. I want to talk to Lauren about it but that doesn’t seem like the best idea either.
I decide to text Lisa instead and ask her to meet me tomorrow. I make my way into the house. My dad’s at the table with a cup of coffee and a newspaper.
“How was the fundraiser?” he asks, and I groan. I decide to check the fridge to see if there’s any leftovers I can take upstairs to finish off before bed.
“You want to have a seat, son?” he says in a tone that implies I’m not about to enjoy this conversation. I begrudgingly take a seat.
“I’m sure you’re aware your mother and I have disagreed on the issue of Lauren staying here,” he says quietly, and I nod. I heard them earlier; it was a lot more than just a disagreement.
“I think it’s best if you established some type of boundaries between the two of you,” he says genuinely, and I have to stop myself from laughing. Sometimes I swear he thinks I’m a kid.
“You’re not serious are you?” I am not having this conversation with him tonight.
“I’m very serious, Chris. When you first started therapy, your doctors told us about certain things that could possibly cause…” He sighs.
“Cause what?” I ask him more forcefully.
“Cal to come back,” he says bluntly. “The official word is trigger.” He sighs and I feel my face harden.
“Certain things that, for whatever reason, cause him to resurface.” He lets out a deep sigh. I shake my head. I really need to find a doctor ASAP because there’s so much I don’t know about this. Triggers. I think of the instances where I’ve started to remember things when he was in control, and wonder what caused them. The good thing is, it didn’t trigger him to come back. They are just memories. I look at my dad and try to bury my anger and frustration. It’s getting harder and harder to do that and I don’t know why. I’ve forgiven him for everything that has happened but whenever he starts to speak to me, I instantly feel bitter. I hate that. My dad is my best friend… or he was. Now it’s hard to tolerate being with him for longer than a couple of minutes.