Drift (Lengths) Page 11

  Secondly, I have other things to do. Like follow-up on my inquiry about my suspension. I have reading to do for class.

  I will also have to work double hard to not obsess over Isaac now that I’ll have another evening inhaling the smell of his skin, feeling the heat radiate off his body, and looking into his eyes over and over—waiting for something to happen, no matter how bad an idea I thought it might be if something actually ever did.

  It’s uncanny how many times I’ve jumped into bad ideas with both feet.

  Third, I honestly haven’t been on a board since I was an undergrad. True, I was amazing then. And I do pilates and yoga regularly, so I have a really strong core but…

  “We should be on teams,” Isaac says. I watch Deo and Cohen meet eyes and smirk when Isaac takes a sip of his wine.

  Those egotistical little assholes!

  I logically know they’re grown men, but I swear, no matter how old they get, I see them with their spotty first moustaches, backwards caps, smattered acne, and torn-up Billabong shirts whenever they’re together. They always did think they were such hot shit, and apparently still do. It’s past time for someone to take them down a serious peg or two.

  “We should be,” I agree, the thought of competition making my blood surge the way it always does. “And we should sweeten this whole deal. How about we get a little wager going?”

  Isaac smiles at me and nods. “I like this idea. What would we wager?”

  “The winners have to pay for a dinner out?” I suggest.

  “Lame!” Deo and Cohen yell in unison.

  They are like identical braying jackasses.

  “Tattoo wager,” Deo grins and Cohen’s eyebrows shoot up.

  My brother always was the more conservative dunce, so I’m not sure if his worried look should worry me or if it’s just typical Cohen being wary of Deo’s insanity.

  “What the hell is a tattoo wager?” I ask, half-afraid of the answer.

  “Winner gets to pick a tattoo for the loser. And pick where.” Deo crosses his arms in triumph.

  I roll my eyes. “Sorry, Deo. Some of us have careers in the professional sector. Mermaid portraits of your wife might be fine in a surf shop, but I can’t go around with a Minotaur on my bicep when I’m representing a client in a courtroom. No offense, Whit.”

  “None taken.” Whit tugs on Deo’s sleeve, a severe frown creasing her brow. “Babe, a surf contest is fine. But Lydia is going to beat your ass, and I’m putting my foot down. I refuse to take a chance on you getting another mythological creatures with my face tattooed somewhere random. I really can’t deal with the thought of me as a unicorn on your neck or a gnome on your ass. You need a different wager.”

  “I’ve got it.” Cohen snaps his fingers and we all look over. He opens his mouth, then snaps it shut again, looking gray around the gills. What could make him more freaked out than a tattoo wager? He clears his throat. “Cece’s Yom Kippur performance. She’s begging for volunteers.”

  “No!” Deo cries. Only it comes out in slow motion and the one syllable word accordions into fifteen drawn-out, agonizing syllables.

  Isaac looks at me, alarmed. “Yom Kippur performance? Will Cece be—”

  I let out a long, sad sigh. Because, stupid as Deo can be, the way he screamed at the table was exactly the way I screamed in the privacy of my brain.

  “Naked?” I whisper to Isaac. “No. Are you Jewish?”

  “I’m Roman Catholic,” he whispers back. “You are Jewish?”

  I nod. “And Yom Kippur is our holiest holiday. It’s a day of atonement, and our rabbi is very…eclectic. Anyway, he lets my sister do this, er, presentation every year. Usually with the help of her community theater friends. And he loves it when we all get involved.”

  Deo has his hands over his face and is dragging his fingers down, distorting his features. “Why? Why does Cece do this to us? Like Yom Kippur isn’t depressing enough!”

  “Deo,” Whit hisses. “Yom Kippur is the Sabbath of Sabbaths! Please stop whining like a child. Not every holiday can be Hanukkah.”

  Deo runs his fingers through his hair frantically. “I get that it can’t always be dreidels and chocolate gelt, but does it have to be so negative? Yom Kippur just bums me out. Do I have to fast this year?” he asks my brother, like Cohen’s some great Hebrew leader.

  Snort!

  “Dude,” Cohen says, shaking his head. “As we repeat every single year, you don’t have to do anything. You’re. Not. Jewish.” He says the words slowly, Whit pats Deo’s back, and I try so hard not to roll my eyes again.

  “How can you say that, man? I mean, yes, my foreskin is technically intact, but my heart beats in Hebrew.” Deo presses a hand to his offended heart to emphasize the point for our benefit. “Rabbi Haas was at my wedding! Do you have a clue how upset he’d be if I just didn’t show up? Who else is gonna bother to bring him a nice bottle of Yarden for after the fast?” Deo glowers at my brother.

  Isaac gawks at Deo, his face slack with surprise. “You’re not Jewish?”

  “No. Are you?” Deo asks sulkily. Thank everything holy Isaac isn’t Jewish. I think Deo sees Judaism as some super cool club he can’t be part of, and he’s always meaner to newcomers who already have the magic ‘in.’

  I mean, he cried so hard when Cohen started Hebrew school, Rabbi Haas just let him tag along. Cohen was pissed because Deo was supposed to join Boy Scouts and learn how to make a fire from sticks, then teach him. Instead they sat learning their Aleph-Bet, Cohen frowning, Deo grinning like he’d won the Israeli lottery.

  “I’m not. I’m Catholic. If you don’t practice, why are you worried about the holiday?” Isaac asks.

  Deo scoffs like Isaac is missing something.

  Because, clearly, it’s ridiculous to be confused about how a grown man only pretending to be Jewish would feel like he had to fast and attend services for a holy day he clearly can’t stand.

  “Because if my family is going to temple on Yom Kippur, I’ve got to be there too,” he says stubbornly, his logic so faulty, it’s painful. “But I’m not dressing in a black sheet and wailing like some damn banshee this year,” he says, pointing at Cohen. “We better win this thing.”

  “Damn straight. I hear Cece has some interpretive dance planned,” Cohen says grimly.

  Deo drops his head down on the table and moans.

  Isaac can’t get over the whole crazy situation. “Are you Jewish?” he asks Whit.

  She runs her fingers through Deo’s shaggy hair and shakes her head with a saint’s smile. I don’t know how someone as practical as Whit manages to put up with someone as insane as Deo.

  “I’m an atheist. But I love going to temple. I guess…my parents raised me Lutheran, so I went to church a lot as a kid with my brother Wake. But going to temple with the Rodriguezes is pretty much the only time I’ve felt any kind of connection with any spirituality. I’m not saying I believe. But I do enjoy. And I have so much respect for their congregation and Rabbi Haas. It’s just such a good group of people.” Whit dips her head back over her wineglass.

  She’s got to be pretty damn tipsy. She’s never usually so open about things like feelings and religion. But I love what she said.

  “That’s amazing.” Isaac sits back and looks around at all of us, like he can’t quite get a handle on how we fit together. “I mean, my parents had so many friends who came in and out of my life, some of them more constantly than family. But there was never this connection that you all have. I think it’s…” He shakes his head slowly. “I think it’s beautiful.”

  After the way Deo and Cohen snorted over Isaac’s drink choice, I’m prepared to have to flip the table on them when they tease Isaac over this.

  But Deo lifts his head and reaches out to grab Whit’s. He squeezes hard and nods at Isaac. “No truer words, bro. No truer words.”

  His voice is a little rough around the edges, and I get a tiny lump in my throat. It’s nothing. A quick sip of wine washes the scratch away. I do no
tice a few shiny eyes and cleared throats.

  Holy crap. Getting older makes us so damn sappy.

  “Is Cece’s performance that bad?” Maren asks, twisting a napkin through her fingers. “I mean, is it that bad to be a part of it?”

  “No. If you like running around like a lunatic with face paint and silly costumes while all the people in the synagogue try not to laugh at you, it’s actually super cool,” Deo says, then shakes a finger at her. “Oh no. No she didn’t! Shit, she got you, didn’t she?” He looks at Cohen. “You realize your sister knew Maren would be too damn nice to say no.”

  “Damn snake in the grass,” Cohen hisses, his fists bunched.

  I hide a laugh. It doesn’t matter who wins or loses this contest. Cohen is getting a costume and face paint—or whatever the hell Cece dreams up for this—no matter if it kills him. That’s the way he is with Maren. There’s no way in hell he’d let her get up on stage and maybe be embarrassed by our kooky family. Cohen will grind his teeth and take his dose of embarrassment at his wife’s side like a good husband.

  By the time dinner is done and we’ve all sampled Whit’s Aztec bark—perfectly balanced between crisp, slightly bitter chocolate and fiery chilies with a pumpkin seed crunch—the party starts to wind down, with stretches and yawns abounding. Cohen checks his phone and whispers to Maren, who nods.

  “Lydia we were going to head out now,” he says, sounding so obnoxiously parental, I can’t deal with it any more.

  “Go ahead,” I say, not quite ready to say goodbye to Isaac just yet. “I’ll call a car.”

  “That’s crazy,” Cohen says. “We’re right here. We’d be glad to take you home.”

  I half expect him to stomp his foot at me and demand I take a ride in his car. And that ridiculous little outburst makes me realize that my brother is truly a good guy—the best guy. He’s looking out for me, as suffocating as it might be.

  So I smile. I get up and hug him and Maren. And say, “Thank you. Truly. I didn’t want to leave the house, but you guys wouldn’t let up, and now look. I had a fabulous night. But you need to go home. I’m not ready yet.”

  Cohen opens his mouth to say more, but Maren jumps in before he can argue. “No trouble at all, Lydia. We’re so glad you decided to come. C’mon, Cohen. I need to get to bed.” She gives him a sultry look that reveals ‘going to bed’ is nothing but a ruse.

  They leave and Isaac and I help Whit and Deo load the dishwasher and clear off the table. There’s the comfortable silence in the air that comes after eating a delicious meal with friends.

  Funny how, a few weeks ago, I would have laughed at the thought of Whit and Deo as “friends” of mine. Sure, they were tied into my family by long history and love, but I was always so damn standoffish. All that prickle had a lot to do with fear that I’d be the group fuddy-duddy, the too old, too bossy, dork who never fit in. But I wasn’t giving them enough credit. It winds up I’m surrounded by awesome people who love me exactly as I am, stereotyping, closed-off assholishness and all.

  “Thank you so much for the meal,” I say to Whit. We stand awkwardly, because hugging really isn’t her thing or mine. But awkward doesn’t fit this glow I’m luxuriating in. It’s time of both of us to break out of our stupid boxes. “What the hell. Come here,” I say, holding my arms open.

  Whit giggles, and the hug isn’t nearly as robotic as I expected from the two of us. “I’m really glad you came by, Lydia,” she says into my hair. “We should hang more often.”

  “We will,” I tell her, and I’m somehow sure that isn’t an empty promise.

  “Look, I wanna hit the hay as much as the next guy, but I’m so not cool with you calling a car, Lyd. I know it’s fine, but it just feels…I don’t know. Inhospitable? I’m gonna go start my hoopty, and then I’m taking your ass home. Alright?” The beginning of Deo’s speech was all brass and swagger, but I guess he still sees me as the bossy older sister as much as I see him as the goofy brother’s friend.

  “I’d be happy to take you home,” Isaac says, looking at me from hooded eyelids. I want to protest that he looks too tired, but I realize it’s not sleep-deprivation that gives his eyes that look—it’s want.

  And I want right back.

  Nineteen or not—I want.

  Which is not necessarily a feeling you want to cram into a small, confined space for any length of time. But the spice and the wine and his eyes make the decision as easy as it is potentially bad.

  Very bad in the very best way.

  “Thank you, Isaac. I think I’m actually on your way back to campus.” The words come out so cool, like I’m not a trembling mess of desire lit up and ready to consume.

  “Dude,” Deo says, pulling Isaac into a bear hug. “Thank you so much. I’m beat. So beat. Watching Whit do all this dinner party shit always wears my ass out.”

  Isaac laughs softly and Whit just shakes her head and sighs, not even bothering to hide the look of pure adoration she levels at Deo.

  Isaac and I leave them with a last thank you and a Tupperware of Aztec bark in our hands.

  Outside their tiny house, the night is deep. Stars swoop low over our head, as bright as the crash of the waves is loud.

  “I’m afraid I’m parked down by the beach.” He gestures to the little parking lot behind Deo’s surf shack.

  I take a deep, salty breath in. “I think that’s a good thing. It would be a shame to head straight home on a night like this.” I kick my heels off, and Isaac, on cue, takes his shoes off. We start walking, the sugary sand warm and soft under our feet.

  “Your friends are wonderful,” he says, head tilted back to look at the low moon. “Very welcoming.”

  I walk close enough to let the foamy waves suck and curl around my ankles. “They are, right?” I let a laugh whip out, as long and loud as I please. “It’s strange, because I’ve always felt this distance with my siblings and their friends. Like I didn’t fit. But tonight felt right.”

  “I can’t imagine a place where you didn’t fit,” Isaac says. He walks by the driftwood circle Deo and Cohen arranged around their fire pit. I can’t count the number of times I watched the flicker of one of these fires with a beer in one hand and my fingers twined through my boyfriend’s as a teenager.

  “Do you want to sit?” I ask, feeling silly as soon as the words pop out. “Sorry. Stupid. I’m sure you’re tired. Let’s keep walking.”

  He catches my wrist in his hand and tugs me close. “Lydia.” He smiles, shaking his head. “I’d love to sit with you.” He leads me to the makeshift bench, and we settle down comfortably.

  Before I can think about what’s appropriate or how much we can do or where the boundaries between us begin and end, he puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me close to his body, so I’m tucked against him.

  And the fit is as perfect as if we were designed for each other.

  “It’s much better when the fire is lit,” I say as we both gaze into the cool black ash ring.

  “Maybe we could come back sometime.” He runs his fingers over my shoulder gently. “I’d like to do that. With you.” His voice is a soft caress in my ear.

  “I would too.” Right now it feels like it should matter more, how many years there are between us. When I was his age, there was nothing more important to me than finishing class, hopping in my busted Jeep, and heading to the beach to surf, drink, make out, and soak it all in. I don’t remember when it all stopped or why; but it feels like some of the light and happiness just sapped out of my life and never came back. “I used to come here all the time. I feel like I should do that more. But I also feel like that’s stupid. Immature.”

  “What’s immature about coming to the ocean?” he asks. “Being somewhere so beautiful with people you care about, having interesting conversations in the wild? What could possibly mean more than that?”

  “I guess I just grew out of it.” I bite my lip and wonder why as he asks point blank.

  “Why? And what did you grow into instead?” He d
raws the back of his fingers down my arm.

  “I had a boyfriend—” I cut myself off with a laugh. “It always goes back to that, right? How pathetic.”

  “Love isn’t pathetic,” Isaac objects.

  “It wasn’t love,” I sigh. “It was being comfortable. That was it, I guess. Everything I did was kind of comfortable for a while. Nothing bad, but nothing exciting. I fell into this rut. And then, one day, I had enough. I was hungry for something else, so I started taking extra classes to graduate early. And I got this high off doing better than everyone else, maintaining the best GPA, scoring the highest on my bar exam, getting a junior partner position before everyone else did. I got addictive, and that was all I could think about.”

  I want to get up and pace. Even with all the extra time I’ve had to devote to deep thinking since I got laid off, I’ve never really put it all out there for myself. Never analyzed why, exactly, I am where I am. And, more importantly—

  “Are you happy?” Isaac asks, his voice nonjudgmental, his arm warm and strong around me.

  He gives me the courage to let go of that dream I’d been driving toward, a hundred miles an hour since I was barely twenty for a few seconds and really look at it.

  “I…am. Now,” I say slowly. “Here. But I wasn’t. At my job.”

  “Why stay at it, then?” he asks. “Why not move on, find a new passion?”

  I move my head toward his shoulder. He smells delicious, like cologne and spice. I want to be nineteen, too. I want to make out, a beer at my feet, the waves ready for me when I’m done. I want that freedom again so badly.

  So why not?

  A long, slow sigh helps me pull my head out of the clouds and sink back to reality. “I’ve spent years building my career to where it is right now, Isaac. I can’t just shut it all down now. I can’t just walk away.”

  “Why not?” He sits up straighter, turning me toward him, his eyes shining in the glow of the moon. “Why would you ever stay with something that made you unhappy, Lydia?”

  “Because I’m not—” I stop before I say what’s on the tip of my tongue: Because I’m not nineteen anymore.