‘Are you married, Devon?’ my mum asks, not holding back the punches, the minute my dad takes a bite of his food. Why did my dad need to eat too? I look over at him and he casts me an apologetic look as he munches on a small tree of broccoli. I give him a side smile to tell him it’s OK. I wasn’t exactly expecting us to manage a whole evening without my mum talking.
Devon neatly places his knife and fork on his clean plate. ‘That was delicious, thank you.’ He says politely. I look from D to my mum and by the small twitch in her right eye I can see she’s trying with all her might not to smile at the very gentlemanly way Devon is acting. It’s a far cry from our rushing to get away from the dinner table and talking with our mouths full when we were kids. But being children and not knowing any better back then was not a worthy excuse according to my mum.
‘I’m not married, no, Mrs Davis.’ Devon barely gets his words out before my mum starts her barrage of questions.
‘And why not? Is marriage not your cup of tea? At your age do you not think it’s wise to be thinking of settling down or is marriage too much of a responsibility?’ She keeps her voice in a neutral tone and doesn’t take her eyes off Devon, finishing her inquest with a soft and innocent smile. I feel Devon shift a little in his seat, but my eyes are on my mother while I try and figure out what to say to her. Normally, I’d simply shrug off her embarrassing and patronising questions. I know deep, deep, deep down that she means well and wants what’s best for everyone. She simply doesn’t understand that what’s best for someone might not be what she thinks is best, but it’s not coming from a place of ill intent.
The room is silent. My mouth is so dry I feel as if I’ve just eaten chalk and not a lovely steak dinner and no words are forming in my brain to defend Devon. My mum’s questions play over in my mind and I find that my intrigue has piqued.
*
‘Do you think we’ll always be best friends?’ Devon asks. He’s sitting in the corner of my bedroom on my Spider-Man bean bag; it’s more his Spider-Man bean bag really as that’s where he always sits.
I jump up and race to the bottom drawer of my dresser, awkwardly trying to pull out the layers of A4 paper that are held together with colourful paperclips and ribbon that make up our book, with my bandaged hands. Each page clearly depicts our superhero costumes: what they will look like, where we will keep them in our mansion ready for an emergency. I’ve also drawn a room that’s filled with paper and crayons and one of those big tables where you see adults drawing storyboards on for movies – kind of like those little booklets the teachers have us make at school. I want a big space for one of them so I can write books and comics when I’m not saving the world.
Devon’s pages show the garage we will need to keep our magic cars and he put in a movie room and stage so he can act and do shows, kind of like the ones we do at school. He’s good at them. I like to be at the back, but Devon isn’t scared of standing at the front and having lots of lines. It’s all here on these pages: our plan for when we grow up together, side by side.
‘Of course we will, dummy,’ I reply. ‘It’s going to be so fun living together; you can have all the hamsters you want,’ I say bouncing on my knees and nudging Devon to flip to a clean page.
‘Do you think it will be like our parents?’ Devon asks, turning the pages to get to an empty one.
‘Yeah, I guess so,’ I say nonchalantly, getting distracted by all the bright colours.
‘I’d like that,’ D replies, picking up a crayon with a smile on his face. I attempt to draw but it’s difficult with both my hands being in casts.
‘But with none of the gross kissing stuff they do,’ I add, sticking out my tongue to make a “yuck” sound as I try to add an ice-cream parlour to our dream home.
*
Devon straightens up in his chair, glances down at the tablecloth before clearing his throat. ‘I’d love to get married and settle down. Err, I guess I just haven’t found the right girl yet.’ Devon’s voice remains polite and he looks at my mum when answering. I find myself watching him as he speaks, his voice sounding different, more serious than I’m used to hearing, sweet even.
‘Don’t worry, lad, some things are just right under your nose…’ my dad starts but is interrupted by my mum who stands up with some speed and clears her throat.
‘Who’s ready for dessert? Dear, can you help me clear the plates?’ She gives my dad a pointed glare. My brows furrow at my dad’s choice of words. Did he know something about Devon’s love life that I didn’t? I’m not aware of them having been in touch over the years.
The chair next to me creaks as Devon leans back and rakes a hand through his dark hair. When I turn to look at him, he’s already looking at me with a contemplative expression on his face.
‘What about you, Scar?’ he asks, fiddling with the edge of his napkin. I cross one leg under the other and twist myself so I can see him better.
‘What about me?’ I ask, unfurrowing my brows, a little yawn escaping my lips. I forgot how tired being in the kitchen all afternoon can make me in addition to dinner with my mother. I cover my mouth with my puffy sleeve before resting my elbow on my chair’s back and leaning my head against my hand.
‘You ever thought about getting married?’ Devon copies my stance, twisting around so he’s fully facing me. For a moment I get lost in his chocolate button eyes and feel as though I would be happy staring into them forever. They send a warmth through my body and a tingle up my spine, giving me a sense of home and exciting newness all at once. My head lolls to the side, feeling heavy; my side parting making my long fringe fall across my eye. Devon reaches out ever so casually and tucks it behind my ear and it’s extremely difficult to deny the way my body reacts to his touch. That electricity floods my veins once again.
‘What? You mean like us getting married?’ The question was meant to come out teasing and playful, instead it comes out wistful and a little husky; the words lingering in the air when neither of us laugh it off.
‘Why so serious?’ My dad’s voice and prompt laughter cause Devon and I to snap back around in our seats. Devon being the better actor of the two of us immediately starts laughing and congratulating my dad for that classic while I force a chuckle and busy myself helping my mum dish out dessert.
The rest of the evening goes by smoothly, mostly because I spend it shovelling Eton mess in my mouth and Devon concentrates on keeping the conversation with my dad flowing while occasionally sending a quick compliment my mum’s way about the food. There’s no more talk of marriage and surprisingly no more interrogating questions or snide comments from my mum; it’s quite pleasant. I wonder if my dad had words with her in the kitchen.
We say our goodbyes and reach my front door in a comfortable silence. My eyes are growing steadily weary; my bed calling my name. I unlock the door and we both step inside, peeling off our layers and making all the typical shivering sounds a person makes when stepping out of the icy air and into central heating, before we make a beeline for the couch and flop down upon it. The tension in my shoulders relaxes and I breathe out the anxiety of the evening, feeling free to be myself in my own space. I lean forward and check on Ed and see his little tail wagging in his cave. He always sleeps with his tail sticking out. Knowing he’s there makes me relax. I lean back and rest my head against a cushion.