“Listen to me,” she says firmly, taking my face in her hands. “You are every bit as sexy and bitchin’ as Emerson Sawyer. He’d be lucky to have you, Abby.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I insist. “He’s the badass, gorgeous lacrosse star, I’m the weird, short, artsy girl. If this were a teen movie, maybe we’d stand a chance. But I know my place on the food chain. Guys like Emerson don’t go for girls like me.”
“Oh please,” Riley moans, rolling her eyes, “In a few months’ time, we’re all gonna be out in the real world. You could take your high-waisted shorts and dark lipstick-wearing self to any major city and be an ‘it girl’ in three second flat. The rest of these assholes will have already peaked in high school, so count your blessings that you’re a weirdo now.”
“Thanks? I think?” I laugh, “Really, Ri. You always know how to cheer me up.”
“Damn straight I do,” she says, tossing her black curls over her shoulder. “That’s what best friends are for—assuring you that boning your maybe-someday-stepbrother is totally chill as long as your dad doesn’t put a ring on it first.”
I shake my head as Riley laughs, pulling back onto the road with the radio blasting.
I try my best to keep Riley’s words of encouragement close to my heart as the silence between me and Emerson continues on. You’d think we were locked in a nuclear arms race, for how cold things have become between us. I catch glimpses of him at school, and have the unfortunate experience of watching Courtney try to stick her tongue down his throat on more than one occasion. But as the days until my eighteenth birthday tick away, the silent treatment goes on.
A few days before my grand entrance into adulthood, I arrive home from school irritated and disgruntled. The stress of college applications and AP course work coupled with the ongoing radio silence between me and Emerson has me way on edge. So the very last thing I want to see when I walk in front door of my home is Dad and Deborah, making out like a couple of teenagers against the kitchen island.
“Jesus,” I mutter, starting for my room, “Is everybody getting some action around here besides me?”
“Oh! Abby!” Deborah giggles from the kitchen, “Good. You’re home.”
“Hi Dad. Hi Deb,” I mutter gloomily, standing at the foot of the stairs. “I’m just gonna head up to my room and get some studying in—”
“Nooo, come on. Come chat with us first!” Deb insists, bustling out into the foyer to apprehend me.
Though Emerson and I are the same age, Deborah is about ten years my dad’s junior. Truth be told, she looks even younger than her biological age. Her voluminous platinum blonde hair is always arranged in luscious curls, her makeup applied perfectly. This stands to reason, given that she works as a freelance makeup artist, mostly doing weddings and the like. She’s way taller than I am, especially given her penchant for wearing three-inch heels. And, I have to admit, the lady’s got a killer rack. Between the tits and her habit of wearing loud neon colors, it’s no wonder that my dad took notice of her. My question is, what does she see in him?
I wouldn’t say that my father is unattractive. He’s just very...unremarkable. He was quite the looker as a younger man, but my mom Sandy was the real beauty. Their wedding pictures look like something out of a movie. I inherited my mom’s facial features, but missed out on her vibrant red hair and hourglass curves. Can’t pick and choose what you inherit from your parents, I guess. And you certainly don’t get to choose who your parents are in the first place.
“It’s been ages since we’ve had a good talk,” Deb gushes, plunking me down at the kitchen table. “Tell me everything. How’s school? Any boyfriends? Spill, girl!”
I glance over at my father, silently begging him not to make me engage in small talk with his girlfriend. But he just grins at the two of us like we’re some big, happy family. As grating as Deb can be, I haven’t seen my dad smile like this in years. It’s the least I can do to muscle through some mindless chatter.
“Well,” I begin, “I dunno...”
The sound of the front door opening is my saving grace. I look over my shoulder and see Emerson stride across the threshold, making a beeline for his room. But Deborah has other plans, and rushes out to greet him with a squeal.
“Not so fast!” she cries, seizing her son by the arm. “It’s not every day that I can manage to snag you and Abby for a chat. Come on! We’re having family time!”
“Are you high or something?” Emerson grumbles. I can tell by his inflection that it’s an honest question. I wonder what it must have been like for him, growing up with a single mom who had substance abuse issues. My dad’s drinking didn’t get bad until Mom passed away, and by then I was already fourteen. But from what I understand, Deb’s drinking has been going on for most of Emerson’s life. My heart twists painfully just thinking about what a rough go he must have had. No wonder he’s got more defense strategies than The Pentagon.
“This is so wonderful,” Deb goes on, forcing Emerson into a chair across the table from me. We immediately avert our eyes, looking anywhere but at each other. The uncomfortable silence between us is deafening in this enclosed space. What I wouldn’t give for a trap door or an ejection seat right now.
“While we’ve got you both here,” my dad finally cuts in, wrapping an arm around Deb’s waist. “We should talk about your birthdays this weekend.”
“Birthdays?” Emerson asks, his brow furrowing.
“As in plural?” I add, looking up at my dad.
“Sure! Haven’t you guys figured it out yet?” Dad laughs, “Your birthdays are only one day apart! Abby’s is May 4th, and Emerson’s is May 3rd.”
A satisfied grin spreads across Emerson’s face as he leans back in his chair. For the first time since that night at the party, he swings his gaze directly my way.
“Look at that,” he says, keeping those blue eyes locked on mine. “I am your big brother after all.”
“Oh, that’s so precious!” Deb swoons. “I’m so glad you two are feeling more like family. That makes me so, so happy. What should we do to celebrate your eighteenth birthdays? Bowling? The movies?”
“I was gonna buy a shit load of porn, cigarettes, and scratch off lottery tickets and have myself a private party,” Emerson says bluntly. “You all are more than welcome to join in. Though things might get a little...awkward.”