Page 5 of Who's that Girl?
~
By that evening, I still haven’t heard from Claire. I’ve texted and called. I’ve explained that I called Drew and capitulated and apologized, and the ball is rolling on the show. He’s got guys coming over to the farmhouse to take pictures tomorrow.
I can’t believe I’ve agreed to be on some sort of reality show, but here we are.
I owe Claire. I owe her so much. And she won’t talk to me. I text and text and text, but she doesn’t reply. The phone just rings when I try to call.
Maybe she just needs … time?
I’ll give her another night. Try again tomorrow.
I can see from her Twitter that she’s alive, at least. So there’s nothing to worry about exactly, nothing physical anyway, and she’s obviously at the hotel, like Gray said, which is good. I need to work on my apology.
Flowers? A gift of some kind?
No. That’s stupid. Not Claire’s style at all.
I try to go to sleep, but I can’t stop thinking about it, about what to do.
Our bed is cold and wide without her in it.
~
I dream about Claire. Not Claire now — not my wife — and not even Claire from high school, my girlfriend. I dream about Claire from before. I dream about the first time.
What did she say the other night, when everything hit the fan? That I’d only wanted her because Jake, my crappy little weasel of a half-brother, had shown interest in her on that dumb field trip?
Wrong.
I did see Jake sniffing around her on that trip all those years ago, and it did piss me off, but only because I was already in love with her. I’d been thinking about her for years. Ever since the first time we met, which I’m only realizing now … she has no memory of.
She thinks the bus ride — the field trip — is the first time we ever talked.
She couldn’t be more wrong.
~
I open my eyes to the sound of Mac yelling.
“Get up, lazy. Up and at them. Up and at them!” He’s using that stupid voice he does. That Arnold Schwarzenegger voice. He thinks it’s hilarious. It isn’t.
Jake bursts through the door and jumps directly on to my bed, his knees coming down hard on my stomach, knocking the wind out of me. I groan and curl into a ball.
“We’re going to get a Christmas tree!” Jake shouts in my face.
“You could have said that without trying to kill me,” I respond.
The kid merely shrugs.
The truth is, he’s not all that excited about a Christmas tree. Jake’s always been indifferent about our tree — an ancient artificial one that Marla keeps in the attic. He doesn’t even care about decorating it. What Jake is really excited about is having an excuse to be excited, because it means having an excuse to behave like an absolute brat.
He’ll be able to mask all sorts of crappy behavior — like deliberately jumping on my stomach, absolutely intending (hoping) to hurt me — by pretending he’s just excited. Over-excitement will hide a multitude of Jake’s sins. And he’s already taking advantage.
Jake is still a little kid — and I know I should be nicer to him, but he’s just … impossible. Spoiled. He came out of the womb expecting everyone to cater to him, and we do. My mother does. His father, Mac, does. Even I do. But there’s something off about him. There always has been. He’s never grateful. And he’s mean.
Jake’s got mom’s black hair, and a strange, sardonic smile. Again, he’s little. Not even ten years old. It’s creepy.
“Up up up, First Man,” he says, laughing in that over-the-top way little kids do at their own jokes, even when they aren’t very funny. First Man is his latest mocking nickname for me. I hate it, but Jake is smart. There’s nothing inherently insulting about it. Nothing I can latch on to that explains why I hate it so much. Adam. First Man. It makes sense. What’s the big deal, right?
