To Hell With Your New Shit

It was barely nine o’clock in the morning, and already I could feel the heat of the sun blazing on my shoulders. I was digging up weeds from the garden on the side of my parents’ house. Normally, my mother was the one to enjoy ripping up dandelions and throwing them into a wheelbarrow, but I offered to step in for her on my time off from tour while she took care of my sick grandmother. I didn’t mind, really. Sometimes, if I got too hot or too tired, I would just lie in the grass and stare up at the planes crossing the big, open sky. Sometimes, I hoped she was in one of those planes.

I heard a door open somewhere near me, but it didn’t sound like the screen door to my house. I picked myself up off the ground and wandered to the edge of the Thompson’s driveway, figuring I ought to say hello to Mr. or Mrs. Thompson on their way out. But what I was greeted with was not what I expected.

The first glimpse of her that I got was a shiny, black pump clacking onto the front porch. My heart stopped, but she didn’t notice me. I let out a sharp breath of air as I watched her make her way to her mother’s car. I couldn’t just stand here without saying anything, could I? But what should I say, I thought to myself. Part of me, the part that had forgotten about that night, just wanted to grab her, hold her, and never let her go again. The other part of me, the part that was still suffering from a bruised heart, wanted to yell at her, scream at her, tell her how much she had hurt me. I couldn’t control what I was about to say, that much was clear.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t little miss Lindsay Thompson, back from the big ol’ city. Tell me, does everyone really never sleep there?” I called, just loud enough to hear me, before she could open the car door. She stood still for a moment, her figure frozen in its narrow black skirt and fitted blouse, before hesitantly turning to face me.

“I don’t think you’re exactly one to speak so condescendingly on such a subject,” she finally responded, her eyes squinting at me.

“At least I happen to come back every month or two,” I said, fighting back. “I’m not really the type to skip out of town for three years without coming back.”

“Yes, well, I’m sorry I’ve been working my ass off at a real job to pay for an extensive education, Mister Rockstar.”

“Such harsh words from such a pretty lady!” I said quickly. “And what is this attire we have here? Off to another grueling day at the office, my dear?” That first part of me was struggling to bubble to the surface, to stop me from ruining something that was already dead.

“Oh, don’t I just wish I had the time and leisure to dress down and plant a garden like you!” I didn’t respond right away, as I wondered if she knew the reason for my ratty clothes and dirt-smudged skin. She wouldn’t have said that if she knew, would she?

“Yeah, well, maybe that’s what you need for a while after all those busy days in –“ I started, figuring that even New York City couldn’t turn her into that cold-hearted of a girl, before I was cut off by my mother’s voice.

“John, sweetheart, have you got – Oh! Is that our lovely Lindsay Thompson with you?” I watched as my mother made her way down the front steps and to the Thompson’s driveway. She looked so happy – beyond happy, actually – to see Lindsay. I felt a twinge of jealousy. Why couldn’t I have gone back to her like that, so simply and happily?

“Oh, Lindsay, it’s been so long since we’ve seen you around here!” She insisted.

“Far too long, Mrs. O’Callaghan,” Lindsay agreed with a nod, reaching to embrace my mother in a hug.

“Oh, you two must be so happy to see each other! You’re so lucky you’re home this week while John is, aren’t you?” She asked, taking Lindsay’s hands in her own. No, I scoffed to myself. “John has been such a good boy these past few days, helping me around the house while I take care of my mother. She’s been so ill, you know.”

I watched as the expression on Lindsay’s face shifted from excitement to dread. She hadn’t known, I thought to myself, relieved. I stared into the distance, fixing my gaze on a mailbox two doors down, not wanting to look at her.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. O’Callaghan. I hadn’t heard that from anyone. Really, if there’s anything I can do, please let me know,” I heard Lindsay speak earnestly.

“Oh, Lindsay, you were always such a sweet girl,” my mom responded. “I really do appreciate your offer, though I’m not sure any more can be done. For now you two should just spend some time together, you haven’t seen each other in so long!” I looked just in time to see my mother’s gaze shift between Lindsay and I, although I wish it hadn’t. With that, she scurried back inside, evidently forgetting whatever it was that she had originally planned on asking me.

“I’m really sorry about your Gram,” Lindsay spoke quietly. At first, I just wanted to wrap my arms around her and tell her it was OK, that at least she was here now. But the bitter part got the best of me, and scowled at her.

“Yeah, I’m sure you are,” I said harshly, deciding that now was a good time to get back to my weeding.

“John, really, I am,” She insisted. It was so hard not to believe her. “If I had known, I would have… I would have –“

“You would have what?” I interrupted, suddenly genuinely upset with her. “Hopped on a plane at a moment’s notice? Flown back here and magically made everything better? Why? Would you have done the same thing for every bad thing that happened in my life had you known about them? Because if you planned on doing that, Lindsay,” I said, practically feeling the anger boiling under the surface of my skin, “you would have flown back here the very damn second that your plane touched down in New York.”

No sooner was the last word out of my mouth than I was angrily pushing the wheelbarrow back towards my mother’s compost pile in the back yard. My senses tugged at my head, willing it to turn around. By the time I finally brought myself to look back, Lindsay was in her mother’s car, speeding down the quiet street.

I ditched the wheelbarrow next to the compost, not even bothering to empty it, and collapsed onto the grass. I let my hands run over the green blades as my eyes shuddered closed and I slowly fell asleep.

Hours later, I woke up to see my father towering above me, and I noticed that the sun was hanging much lower in the sky than it had been earlier.

“What time is it?” I asked with a yawn.

“It’s four o’clock,” my dad said. “Your mother wanted me to come out here and tell you to take a shower and get ready.

“Get ready?” I asked, sitting up and brushing dirt off of myself. “For what?”

“It’s Monday,” he said. I stared at him blankly for a moment before he decided to continue. “We’re going to dinner at the Thompsons’.” I scratched my head and squinted up at my dad.

“I really don’t think that’s a great idea,” I told him. When he didn’t respond, I continued. “Lindsay’s back, and we got in an argument this morning, Dad. I really don’t think I can face her. I messed things up more than they already were.”

“Son,” my dad said, taking a seat next to me on the shaded grass, “you’re not going to fix anything by avoiding her. Now, I don’t know what happened between the two of you, seeing as one day you were best friends and the next she’s gone and you never mention her, but I say that the friendship the two of you had is one that isn’t easily broken.”

I sat cross-legged, pulling blades of green grass out of the ground. Sure, my dad was right; our friendship wasn’t one that could have been easily broken. But there was nothing easy or simple about the way it was broken. It had ended abruptly and had resulted in at least one broken heart.

“You don’t understand, Dad,” I groaned, throwing the collection of grass that I had picked into the air.

“No, John, I guess I don’t, especially since you won’t tell me anything about it. But I bet that going to dinner tonight can only help your chances of understanding it yourself.” With that, he stood up and walked back into the house. Why do parents have to know everything?

An hour later, I was showered, dressed, and standing in front of my mirror, trying to fix my hair. I had looked different the last time Lindsay had seen me, three years ago. What did she think of my shorter hair, I wondered. Did I look older? Did I look better? Worse? Did any of this even matter? Seeing as how all we did today was argue, I wasn’t so sure if my looks, whether good or bad, would make any difference in the way she saw me. I still didn’t even know why she acted so hostile towards me. Wasn’t I the one who deserved to be upset?

An hour later, soft knock sounded on my door, and in the reflection of my mirror I could see my mother stick her head into my room.

“Are you almost ready?” She asked, stepping in and looking over my clothes. She seemed satisfied enough and didn’t make any comments.

“Yeah, yeah, my hair just won’t cooperate.” She let out a soft chuckle before saying anything to me.

“You know, John, you’ve never taken more than twenty minutes to get ready for anything.”

“Yeah… So?” I asked, turning to face her after finally getting a piece of my hair to stick down.

“Well, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying a little too hard to impress someone who already likes you.”

I scoffed inwardly. I’d been trying to impress Lindsay ever since the first day I saw her, when she was peeking out of her second-story window on move-in day and I had tried all of my hardest scooter tricks. For a moment, I wish I could have gone back in time and told my eight-year-old self not to bother. It wasn’t worth the scraped knee.

“I’m not trying to impress anyone,” I lied to my mother. “Let’s go.”

Not five minutes later, my parents and I were being ushered into the Thompsons’ comfortable, familiar kitchen.

“I think Lindsay’s just taking a nap, she should be down momentarily,” Mrs. Thompson informed us. My parents grinned delightedly, and I forced a small, lopsided smile.

After ten minutes had passed, Lindsay still had not arrived, and I found myself leaning against the kitchen counter, occasionally taking sips from a glass of water. I could feel my breathing becoming unsteady and my stomach flipped with nervousness. I hated this feeling, this feeling that just made me want to run away from here. I wasn’t paying attention to our parents’ conversation, until Mr. Thompson spoke up.

“Ah, there you are, Lindsay! We were wondering when you would join us,” he called to the entrance way of the kitchen. I turned my head slowly, unwillingly, to where he was looking. If my breathing had been irregular a moment ago, my lungs were now desperate for air. I could feel my heart pounding as though it would tear through my skin, through my clothes, at any moment. My hands started feeling clammy. I forgot about that damn piece of hair that wouldn’t cooperate earlier. The only thing I could do in that moment was try to stop myself from breaking down.

Her blue eyes were wide and startled. Her straight, brown hair was ruffled in various spots. Her denim shorts left so much of her lean, tan legs exposed that I could feel my eyes traveling ever-so-slowly over the image of her standing in the doorway, framed by light from the setting sun. I painstakingly averted my eyes from her, but could still feel hers boring into me.

“I, uh – I have to go change!” She exclaimed, tripping and stumbling over her words, and her feet, as she hurriedly made her way to her room. I couldn’t breathe, and I hoped no one noticed.

Lindsay, to my surprise, returned moments later, this time wearing a pale yellow sundress. She had brushed her hair, too, although I hadn’t entirely minded her previous, disheveled look. I blinked suddenly, as if doing so would erase these thoughts from my mind. That bitter half of me started to emerge as soon as Lindsay breezed past me and made her way to the dining room table.

“Darling, aren’t you going to say hello to John?” Her mother wondered. Lindsay looked at me, eyes narrow.

“Hello, John,” she said curtly, a tough, resistant smile tugging at the corners of her lips. I didn’t respond until my mother kicked me in the foot.

“Hi, Lindsay,” I responded just as tersely.

“Well,” Mrs. Thompson exclaimed, breaking the awkward tension, “Let’s eat, shall we?”

We all took our seats, the ones we sat in every time we’d had dinner with the Thompsons since so very soon after we had moved in. It had eventually become tradition to dine in each other’s homes every other Monday evening. Until three years ago, Monday had been my favorite day of the week. Today was turning out to be one of the least favorite days of my life.

Under the glaring daggers of my mother’s eyes, I pulled out Lindsay’s chair for her, for which she politely thanked me. I sat down in the chair next to her, our arms nearly touching, and shoved a napkin onto my lap.

All throughout dinner, every time our elbows bumped, or nearly so, I felt a wave of electricity that felt like it was slowly killing me. After we ate, Lindsay immediately excused herself to her bedroom.

“John,” Mrs. Thompson addressed me moments after Lindsay had departed, “Is everything okay between the two of you?” Taken aback by her blunt inquisition, I cleared my throat and scrambled to think of a response.

“Uh, yeah, we’re cool,” I stuttered. “It’s, uh, just been hard to keep in contact a lot lately, you know?” I pursed my lips nervously, hoping my lame response was good enough. Before I could be interrogated any further, I stole a glance at the time and excused myself.

“I’m so sorry to leave,” I began, “ but I have plans to meet with someone in a bit.” My parents nodded and I all but sprinted towards the front door. It took all of the will power I had not to peer up at Lindsay’s bedroom window as I crossed our adjacent lawns to my truck.