I'm Marrying The Asshole of My School?

As it turns out, Eric was an amazing artist.
I was sitting on one of the spinning metal stools next to him as he painted a beautiful winter landscape in his airy kitchen. His eyebrows were furrowed in deep concentration as he blended a hint of blue into the powdery snow. The brush strokes he made were so gentle and light, that I had to look twice at him to remember I was with a guy. When we had gotten out of school today, he asked me to come over (cough- he literally dragged me to his house with me protesting the entire time- cough) and soon after we were inside we were arguing about something I can’t quite recall but I know it was something stupid like always. Oh, wait, it was about me taking my shoes off in the house. Sheesh, he was a very neat person; and I’m saying this lightly. Everything was fresh and clean and spiffy.
“I’m just waiting for someone to pop out and yell at me because I did some thing wrong,” I had said to him as I placed my backpack near the stairs, “Like the Clean Patrol or something.”
All Eric did was scowl at me and than brought me into the kitchen, where at one side were his easel and a canvas that was half done with the landscape. On the floor was tarp so as not to get any paint on the marble. I had gotten myself a strawberry poptart and was currently chewing on it as I watched him. All around me were sketches and drawings of some of the most random things; a flower, a pot, shoes, a walkman, CD cases, rumpled jeans on a floor, and an outline of a person’s head (obviously not done). There were litters of pencils, crayons, markers, charcoal and blending paper that was wrapped up to resemble a pencil. It was odd to come from such a clean place, to a really disarrayed one. Most of the kitchen was extremely clean but off to one side, in like a small open room was where he worked. From here, you could see his big backyard and the cat snooping around trying to catch a Canary while it was washing itself in the birdbath.
“When did you start this?” I asked him around my mouthful of poptart-y goodness.
“A week ago,” He muttered, his voice sounding lost and distant like he was actually in the painting itself, reminding me of that movie I saw with Robin Williams in it called What Dreams May Come. “I’m almost done.”
I nodded and looked over at his fridge where a ton of papers and pictures were magnetized on the front by smiling fruit. One picture caught my eye and I hopped off the stool to check it out closely. It was a little Eric, shabby hair in his face as a huge smile was forever planted on him. His arms were wrapped around the waist of a young woman who looked so much like him in a lot of ways. Same eyes, hair, face structure. Her short blonde hair was pulled up in a ponytail and it was flying in the wind just like Eric’s. They both wore clothes that seemed like it was made for the winter; coats, scarves, and jeans but there was no snow on the grass. The only indication of the weather in the picture was a lone tree that had red and orange leaves meaning it was fall.
“My mother,” A voice that had me jumping a couple of feet in the air, said from behind me.
I turned around and saw Eric leaning against the island in the middle of the kitchen. His expression was dark and closed. Judging by the look he gave me, it seemed he didn’t like his mom or something along those lines. And yet, in the picture he looked so carefree and happy just to be around her. I said the one thing I could, “She’s pretty.”
Lame I know, but I didn’t know what to say! Eric’s jaw clenched noticeably not once, or twice, but three times before he spoke, “Yeah.”
I knew he wanted to say more but before I could ask, he turned on his heels and went back to his easel. My eyebrows furrowed together; so not only Rowen has a bad past but it seems Eric does too. Seems way too cliché; like it needs to be in a book or story kind of cliché. But obviously, this isn’t a story. This is real life I’m dealing with. Rawr, Rowen’s problems on one shoulder and soon Eric’s will be on the other. I hunkered down on the stool again and watched him finish the painting with two black silhouettes that seemed like they were either dancing or holding each other.
Being here in the comfortably awkward silence had me thinking back to my younger years when I was about Tristan’s age. Which reminded me; he’s been acting a little weird around me the past few days, like he was mad or something. I scratched my brain, thinking of what I might have done. He was fine Friday, but when I got home on Saturday evening he was upset with me and still is even though it’s Tuesday.
And than it hit me like a sack of potatoes when Eric said one simple little question.
“How was the elementary school’s play?”
Shit, I forgot about Tristan’s play! No wonder he’s been mad at me. I pulled out my wallet and lo and behold, there was the ticket where I put it after I got into school that morning. I looked up at Eric with an “oh-shit” look and he furrowed his eyebrows, “What? Is there something on my face? My teeth?”
Typical arrogant jerk, “No smart boy, I forgot about the play.”
“So? It’s just a play?” He shrugged his shoulders, “It’s not like it’s important.”
“It is when your little brother is the lead role and you promised him you’d be there,” I let my head fall in my hands and I gave a frustrated sigh.
Eric said, “Well, why don’t you make it up to him?”
“How? He’d never forgive me,” I wailed into my palms.
“Why don’t we think of something? Let’s think of this as a married couple for once.”
I looked up at him with a raised eyebrow like I was saying “this coming from the guy who protested to being in the same space as me?”
“What? I can be nice, if I wanted,” He harrumphed.
“I guess,” I said warily, leaning a bit away from him and more towards the counter.
“Okay so, say you and I are working constantly and have no time for our son, Tristan. We promise him we’ll be there for his play but we don’t go because we’re wrapped up in work. What do we do to make it up to him?”
I thought about it for a few minutes, “Apologize profusely?”
“Well there’s that, but maybe explain things to him besides saying “sorry” over and over would be better?”
“True,” I sat up, “Also, maybe paying attention to him and not focused on work as much would also be helpful.”
He grinned, “Mhm, so why don’t we head over to your house and talk to him about it.”
“All right,” I got up, throwing away the poptart wrapping in the garbage, “But, one question?”
“What,” He said while getting my bag as I slipped my feet into my shoes and tying them up.
“Do we have to act like a married couple during this?”
The one word that could have set me off on him so easily but I didn’t act on it because I was too busy worrying about Tristan:
“Ew.”
All I did, and be proud of me people, was give him a dirty look and walk out the door with my stuff.

I WALKED OUT INTO the sunshine as a cool wind blew by, picking up my hair and waving it about my face. Eric walked past me, bumping into my shoulder. He turned, “Watch where you’re going and would you hurry your fat ass up?”
I narrowed my eyes and took in deep breaths as I counted backwards from ten. Oh, he’s really testing my patience. And my right fist. Eric smirked like the little smart ass that he was, and than continued down the sidewalk, not waiting for me to catch up to him. Well then good, who wants to walk with a creep like that? So I ended up walking about ten feet behind him…even though we were going to MY house and he probably didn’t know how to get there.
This turned out to be true; he decided to go left up Mill St. while I went right, and that just led me up to my doorstep.
“Honey, you’re home early from Eric’s,” Mom came in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on the apron around her waist, “What happened?”
“We had a fight, he went to wrong way,” I smiled, but stopped when Mom furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. Sighing, I explained everything to her quickly.
“Oh I see,” She nodded and than motioned to the second floor, “I’d go check on Tristan if I were you.”
“Yeah,” I took the stairs two at a time, “See you at dinner.”
The hallway was quiet as I trudged over to Tristan’s door. I sucked in a deep breath and knocked.
“Come in,” I heard him mutter through the door.
I turned the knob and walked in, “Hey Tristan.”
He was sitting on the ground, playing a video game, totally engrossed. But when he heard my voice, he stopped and looked at me, “What do you want?”
I came in more, closing the door and sat down next to him, “Tristan, I came in to apologize. I was so wrapped up in my horrible teenaged life to remember about your play. I feel really crappy and I’m a bad older sister.”
He fiddled with the game controller for a minute. “You promised me, Izzy,” He looked up at me with his big doe eyes shimmering with unshed tears, “You never break your promises!”
“I know, I know,” I pulled him into my arms and tucked his head under my chin, “I’m so sorry, I never meant to hurt you. I forgot about the play and the whole thing with Eric and Rowen…I know I can never say anything that’ll make you forgive me.”
Let me recap for a minute; remember when Rowen came over in the middle of the night and stayed? Well, imagine the shock and surprise when Mom came in to wake me up for school the next morning to find Rowen spooned against me under the covers. I’m just gonna say that she hit the roof and was angrier than a rabid bulldog…until we told what had happened. So she’s letting him stay with us for the time being (“on the couch!”). Speaking of which, he’s probably getting his stuff from his house right now.
“I forgive you Izzy,” Tristan muttered into my neck, “I could never be mad at you.”
I smiled and hugged him tightly, than stuck up an idea, “Hey, how about you put on your costume and do the play in the living room. Mom, Jack, Rowen and I will all watch.”
He grinned and nodded, “Okay!”
“But you’re gonna have to wait until everyone gets here and has dinner.”
“All right,” Tristan said, happily.