“Doesn’t bother me,” I say.
“I can see that, too.” He sighs, and it’s a sound I recognize. Disappointment.
I must have achieved a new standard of disappointing, if full-time party animal and part-time roommate Cyrus Eaton thinks I’m underachieving.
“Look, have you talked to…” he trails off as my phone begins to buzz on the coffee table. “Your phone is ringing.”
“I hear it.”
“Are you going to answer it?” he asks.
“Nah. It does that a lot. Nobody I want to talk to.” I shift away from him, considering a nap.
The phone stops ringing, but then I hear Cyrus say, “Hello? Yeah, hold on.”
I roll over and glare at him. So much for my nap.
“It’s Francie,” he says, holding it out to me.
It’s too late to pretend that I’m gone, and he knows it. Cyrus is putting me on the spot. So much for being the cool roommate who’s never here. Now he’s definitely sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.
I jump off my bed and swipe the phone from him. “Hey.”
“Sterling!” Francie’s voice is a curious mix of relief and annoyance. “I’ve been calling you for a week.”
I can picture her standing in her small, outdated kitchen with its shabby, seventies wallpaper and notched cabinets. She’s probably leaning against the beige fridge, tapping her foot. I’d seen her do that a million times on the phone with whatever bill collector was on her ass that month. Now she’s busy tracking me down.
“Sorry. Been busy. Classes and stuff.”
Cyrus shakes his head at the lie and wanders into his side of our small closet. It’s about the only thing he comes around for: a fresh change of clothes. He spends the rest of his time bouncing between random beds and rooms at his family hotel. This place is just his oversized suitcase. I can’t remember the last time he actually slept here.
“I bet you’re busy,” she says. I think she hopes this will prompt more conversation.
“Yep.” I, on the other hand, prefer to keep our chat as short as possible.
“I’ve been thinking,” Francie says, and a warning bell goes off in my head.
In my experience, it’s never a good thing when a woman says she’s been thinking. “Yeah?”
“I’m going to drive down for Thanksgiving!” she says excitedly. There’s a pause. “Sterling? Did you hear me?”
I think I’m supposed to jump up and down, but the idea of Francie coming to Valmont opens a pit in my stomach. “Sure, whatever.”
“Unless you don’t want me to…”
Great. Now I’m hurting her feelings. I do my best to drum up some enthusiasm, but the result is a lackluster: “No, it’s cool.”
“Will your roommate be around?” she asks.
I glance over to the closet Cyrus is still rummaging around in. “Doubtful.”
“Then I can sleep on your couch. This is going to be fun. I can’t wait to see what you’ve been up to and meet your friends.”
She’s going to be pretty disappointed on both counts.
“Yeah, can’t wait.” We say goodbye. She promises to email me details later this week, and I hang up the phone. “Fuck.”
“Something wrong with your m…Francie?” Cyrus corrects himself. He pokes his head out from the closet, eyebrow raised.
“She’s coming for Thanksgiving,” I say flatly.
“And you aren’t happy about that.” He steps out and studies me. “I thought you were dreading leaving her alone.”
“I was, but that doesn’t mean I want my foster mom bunking with me for half a week.” I scope out the floor, my eyes landing on a bottle of cheap rum that’s still half-full. Jackpot. I grab it and unscrew the lid.
“She’s going to stay here?” Cyrus asks.
“Is that a problem?” My response comes out a bit more ferociously than I intended. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
I don’t know why he’d give a shit. He’s never here anyway.
“Not for me, but…” He glances around the room.
I follow his lead. My clothes are strewn around the floor, there’s a box with a half-eaten pizza next to the couch. I don’t even bother trying to count the empty bottles.
“Maybe she should stay in a hotel,” he suggests.
“This is going to come as a shock to you, but not all of us have a big vault of gold at our disposal,” I say.
If I know Francie, she’s using all her extra money to drive down here. Two one-thousand-mile trips in one year is too much of a strain to expect her to have anything left over for a luxury like a cheap motel. Why did I say yes when she asked if it was okay?
“You’re a bit of a dick,” Cyrus says.
I shrug. Who cares what he thinks? Being nice didn’t work out for me. It’s how I wound up here. Being a dick is easier, and it comes naturally. “So what?”
Cyrus rolls his eyes. “I own a hotel.”
There’s no way I’m asking him for help.
“Use my family’s suite. We’ll be out of town anyway.”
“Nope.”
“Why do you make it so hard for people to like you?” Cyrus asks. “Look, think about it. In the meantime, do you want to come to a party? It looks like you could use something to drink.”
I’m not sure if he’s mocking me or if he’s serious. I glance down at the nearly empty rum bottle. It hardly matters since he’s right. I might not be willing to accept his help when it comes to Francie, but I’ll take him up on free booze. It will save me the time of finding a party on my own, and any party Cyrus is going to is sure to have top shelf stuff.
“What time?”
“Around eight.” He runs his eyes up and down me. “That gives you time to take a shower.”
“What are you saying?” I ask.
“You stink, Ford.” He kicks a wadded t-shirt near his feet to mine. “And find something clean to wear.”
Tomorrow, I need to deal with Francie’s visit. I’ll get my shit together then. Tonight? I might as well escape.
Adair
Present Day
So maybe I’m obsessing. Chances are, the locked drawer has a few expired credit cards, maybe an old checkbook, and, if I’m lucky, a bottle of whiskey stashed in it — probably nothing more. But that’s the thing about growing up in a house built from smoke and mirrors: I’m always looking for the solution to the mystery, always trying to understand why.
Why my mother married my father? Why she stayed with a man that cheated and lied? Why he had to rule over all of us with an iron fist? Why? Why? Why? I’m always full of more questions, and there are never answers in sight. If there’s even a possibility that the answer to one of those questions is in that locked drawer, then I have to find it.
It helps that it’s a distraction from Sterling, too, because it turns out that I’m not very good at wallowing. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand the lingering, raw sensation of tears in my throat. I can’t stand the self-recrimination. I can’t stand not knowing which one of us to be more angry at: him or me. I just want to feel anything else, and right now, obsessive curiosity is winning out. Tying the robe tighter, I abandon my room service and grab my keycard. Stepping into the hall, I walk right into a man heading the opposite direction.