I yank the door open as Anders yells, “Bex! Wait! I want to be friends! Be my friend!” His voice sounds a bit hysterical as the door slams shut behind me.
Gabe
What if you came back to Sassafras?
I contemplate what that would look like, taking another swig of whiskey. The clock catches my eye and fuck, it’s only 10 a.m.
Yeah… maybe.
It’s been a week since I told Bex that I didn’t want to be friends with her. Which came out all wrong. Of course I want to be friends with her, but I also want to be so much more. I don’t want to be just friends with Bex.
But instead of voicing that like a normal human being, I told her that I didn’t want to be friends with her. The look on her face made me feel like someone was trying to cut my heart out with a spork. Agonizing in a way that you know won’t stop anytime soon. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.
I keep trying to talk to her, but I can tell she’s avoiding me, and it feels like we’ve taken ten steps back.
My buzzing phone drags me out of the thought spiral I've been revisiting all week.
The flashing screen shows an incoming call from Erik Olsson, because I’m not close enough with my dad for it to be something witty like Daddio or endearing like Papa Olsson. I’ve never been particularly witty or endearing with my father.
I don’t want to answer but I’m already in a shit mood, so talking to Father Dearest can’t make things much worse.
I swipe and raise the phone to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Anders. I need to get a head count for this gala your mother is hosting. Will you be there?”
“What is this gala for again?” Alice and Erik Olsson are New York elite. My mom has hosted all kinds of functions over the years, as was expected of her. She was raised by traditional parents with old money—I think marrying my dad, someone from new money and the first man she found outside of the social circles she was raised in, was her way of rebelling. It backfired spectacularly.
“Fuck if I know. Probably special kids or some shit.”
Special kids or some shit. Lovely way of phrasing the charity that Mom has poured herself into for almost my entire life.
Alice Olsson is not exactly warm and friendly, but she has put a lot of work into the Kids in the City Foundation that works to provide resources to families with special needs in New York City. I’ve spent a lot of time volunteering there over the years. It started as a way to prove my worth to my parents but I ended up truly falling in love with a lot of the kids and families.
I often wonder if my mom spent so much time caring for other families that she forgot to care about me. That or she couldn’t stand to be around my dad for very long and I just got abandoned in the process. Either way, I don’t exactly blame her, but I have had to set some firm boundaries in place when it comes to my parents.
“Anders. Are you there? Stop dicking around and pay attention to the conversation. You always were the worst about that—never listened to anything I said.” Probably because he never said anything of value.
I debate hanging up then and there, but instead I use some grounding techniques I’ve been working on with my therapist.
What can I feel? Carpet feels soft beneath my feet.
What can I hear? Music coming from Gabe’s room.
What can I taste? Peppermint toothpaste still lingering in my mouth.
What can I smell? Chinese takeout wafting from the kitchen table.
What can I see? The wall scuff from the time Gabe thought it would be fun to try rollerblading inside.
Taking a final deep breath, I reply, “Yes, I’m here. And yes, I’ll be at the gala for Kids in the City. A charity that you probably should have learned the name of by now.”
“Don’t smartass me,” he threatens, slurring his words just a bit. “I have no idea where I went wrong with you. My parents raised me to have some respect for adults. To grow up, get a respectable job.” Here we go.
“You defied me every step of the way. Tried to sign you up for the best club sports and you join up with the prissy bitches in feelings class. Tried to get you to go to my alma mater for undergrad and you head to Podunk, Massachusetts. Tried to get you to pull your head out of your ass and go back to school for an MBA after you failed at audition after audition, and instead, you ran back to Hawthorne for more fucking feelings classes. Are you at least bringing a date for your mother’s gala? Or, let me guess, the flavor of the week is sick of your drunk, unaccomplished ass?”
It’s not even worth telling my father that I actually enjoy living in a small town, that an MBA would get me absolutely nowhere that I want to be, or that I stopped drinking almost two years ago, so it would be hard for my ass to be drunk right now. I bet his is, though.