Can't Go Home (Oasis Waterfall) (21 page)

Once we clean the entire kitchen, dry the floor, and pour ourselves some iced teas, we join my parents on the porch. We’re still soaking wet, but still giggly from the childish fun. My skirt is sticking to my legs; my mascara’s dripping down my cheeks. I’m a mess. Dre, on the other hand, has the sexy wet look nailed. Of course.

“Dre honey, you don’t want to sit around in wet pants,” my mom says. “Katie, you have old clothes upstairs to go put on yourself. Give Dre some old shorts or pants of your father’s and put his pants and shirt in the dryer.”

“Ruby, it’s fine. They’ll dry in no time in this heat,” Dre argues.

“Nonsense! I’m a borderline hoarder. I’ve got pants from when Thomas was your age in the sewing room closet. Ya just never know when you’re gonna need things,” she states, looking at my father.

“See Thomas, I knew those pants would come in handy someday.” My father rolls his eyes at my mother, continuing to read the local section of the newspaper. “Katie, take him upstairs to change.”

“Sure thing, I’d love to get him out of those pants,” I joke. My dad lowers the paper, glaring at me. “Kidding. Just kidding Dad!” I walk to the door and say, “Not borderline Mom, full-blown hoarder.”

“Am not,” my mother calls after us.

“Are, too,” my father and I yell together.

Upstairs, I find a pair of pants for Dre and some clothes for me to change into. As he’s changing, and I’m unabashedly staring at every ripple of his muscles, Dre says, “I don’t know when I’ve had a better time, Pebbles.”

“Being at my parents’ house is a good time for you? Dude, you need to get out more,” I laugh, throwing my pillow at him.

“I’m serious; lately I’ve been searching for what ‘normal’ is, and I’ve finally found it,” Dre says, buttoning my dad’s old pants. He looks ridiculous and sexy, all at the same time.

“Is that a compliment, because it certainly doesn’t sound like it?” I ask.

“It’s probably the highest compliment I could give you,” Dre says, sitting down next to me.

“Nah, I’m thinking ‘Kathryn, you are the sexiest, smartest, funniest, and most gorgeous woman on the planet’ seems a little more flattering than ‘hey I like you; you’re normal,” I say, grinning at him.

Dre grabs me and kisses me, hungrily. I marvel at how easily our tongues twirl around each other. His arms envelop me, holding me tightly and securely against him. Our hearts pound together, nearly beating the same rhythm and tempo.

After he breaks the kiss, he stares at me and says, “Kathryn, I … I …”

“What Dre? Tell me,” I say, noticing how serious his eyes are.

“I want to tell you—” He looks down and then back up at me. “Ummm … that … why do … yeah, why do girls bite their lower lips after a spectacular kiss like that?”

“That’s your question?”

“Yeah, I’ve always … ummm … wondered that,” he says, looking away from me. I know he’s lying, but I promised myself that I wouldn’t pry. I even promised him.

“I guess for me, it’s because I can still taste you on my lips. I can lick and taste you all over again,” I confess. “But that’s just me, I can’t speak for other girls.”

“That’s so fucking hot,” he says, pinning me down on my bed, kissing me again. Things heat up pretty quickly as Dre tastes and nibbles on my neck and chest, working his way lower.

My mom calls from the steps, “Katie, bring down Dre’s pants and shirt, I’ll put them in the dryer.”

“Sure thing, Mom!” I call, sitting up. “You stay here. I’ll be back.”

After quickly kissing him again, I grab his pants and shirt and head downstairs. I hand my mom his clothes and head for the steps.

“Katie! Here!” My mom hands me Dre’s wallet and a folded paper. “I told you to always check the pockets before washing and drying anything.”

“Right. Sorry Mom,” I say, rolling my eyes, wishing we were heading back tonight. No matter how old you get, parents never stop treating you like a child.

When I get upstairs, Dre’s in the bathroom. I plop down on my bed, staring at the paper in my hand. I want to be the type of girl who isn’t even intrigued or curious by holding the folded paper in my hand. I want to be trusting in Dre and secure in myself. I want to recognize how defected it would make my character if I were to peek at the paper. I want to be all of those things, but I’m not.

I open the paper; seeing that it’s a letter, my stomach falls. I know that I should fold it back up, not read it, and forget that I ever saw it, giving it back to Dre before I read one word of it. I should, but I don’t. I read:

I can’t catch my breath. My heart is racing. Who is Piper? Why is she saying that she wants him to come home? Home? She loves him. Does he love her? I can feel the tears pooling in my eyes. I don’t want to cry. I won’t cry. I knew I shouldn’t let my heart play in this game. Every time I let it play, it always wants to win. It never does. My heart always loses in the end. I read the letter again, hoping that this time there are more answers in the five lines of tortuous betrayal. There are no answers—just lies, pain, and tears. Always left with pain and tears.

Dre walks in the room and stops abruptly when he sees the letter in my hand. I hand it to him and say, “My mom emptied your pockets before drying your pants.”

Smiling painfully, he says, “Yeah, thanks.” Taking the letter from me, I can hear his breathing quicken.

“Dre,” I say, making him look at me. His eyes are pained; he’s dreading the next question as much as I am. I take a deep breath, letting the tears fall, before saying, “Who’s Piper?”

He looks away, shakes his head, and sighs. “Nobody Kathryn. Just someone from my past.”

Dre looks into my eyes. I stare at him closely, watching the tears pool in the corners of his eyes. We both know he’s lying.

In a movie or book, you’re always aware of when the end is coming, but in real life, nobody ever gives you the hint, the foreshadowed event that the end is near. For the first time in my life, I can see Dre, recognize the look, and understand that this is it. This is the end; the lie is too big for both of us.

I wanted to tell her. Kathryn needed to know the truth, but everything was going so well, too well. I knew I wasn’t destined for this kind of happiness, for this kind of bliss. When she told her parents that we decided to drive home tonight and not worry about the morning traffic, I knew it was over. You can only lie to someone for so long before it’s been too long and too much.

I offered to drive, but she wouldn’t let me. She said that she just wanted to get home and forget the entire day. It felt like someone was standing on my lungs; I couldn’t breathe. Kathryn wanted to forget the same day that was one of the greatest days of my life. It was unfair. I hated being a coward; I’d planned to tell her everything. I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t look at her, admit the truth, and watch her choose to leave me—not being able to handle the lies I’ve told. Not being able to stomach the truth of who I really am. Instead, I’m just letting her walk away, without the knowledge she deserves.

“Dre,” she says, turning down her road, “where can I drop you off?”

Looking out the window, I just say, “I’ll walk from your apartment—I need some air.”

Kathryn parallel-parks in a spot a block from her apartment. Killing the eginge, she turns to look at me and says, “You can’t be someone you want to be if you don’t admit who you once were.”

“Pebbles, I can’t—”

“Don’t call—”

Kathryn’s phone alerts her to a text message, distracting her from her words. She looks down at her phone and shakes her head, frowning at the words she’s reading. I don’t even have to ask her what’s wrong. Kathryn flicks her wrist at me, allowing me to read the words on her phone.

THEE-ADORABLE:
(My gut-wrenches at the name and how it’s programmed into her phone.)
I thought you’d like to know that there are no records anywhere of a Dre Donley attending Brown. Maybe you should reconsider your recent decisions.

Kathryn must’ve told Theodore more about me the night he proposed. But she came to me, found me at The Oasis, and explained everything to me. Last night, she’d chosen me and right now, she can’t even look at me. I did this. I knew I should’ve left her alone. She’s too good for this, for me, for anything I could give her.

Kathryn throws her phone on the counsel, and looks away as the pain flashes in her eyes. “If you’re not going to start talking, then just get out Dre,” she says with her hands firmly gripping the steering wheel.

“I want to tell you,” I say.

“But what?” she snaps. “There’s a ‘but’, right Dre? God forbid you tell me the truth about anything. I’m not doing this. If you don’t trust me, can’t trust me, then there’s no point,” she says, shaking her head. “Just … just … go.”

“I just want—”

“The truth Dre, that’s all I want,” Kathryn states. “If whatever you’re about to say isn’t true, then don’t even bother.”

Kathryn’s right. I shouldn’t bother. There’s no way she’ll look at me the same. Her eyes won’t light up and crinkle in the corners when she laughs, or her hand won’t casually caress my arm after I tell her everything, and she knows the truth—all of it. There’s no way Kathryn’ll ever see me the same again; nobody could look past who I am and the lies I’ve told. I don’t deserve her, and she definitely doesn’t deserve to be put through any more of my shit.

I put my one hand on the car door’s handle and the other on her cheek. Kathryn doesn’t flinch or move away. I trace her jaw with my thumb, and her eyes flutter, closing slowly. I want her to turn in to my hand, move closer to me. She takes a deep breath, frowns, and backs away from my hand. My heart falls.

Opening the door, I start to get out, but stop and turn. “Pebbles,” she looks at me, “I fell in love with you and that’s the only truth you should know.”

I learned early on in my life that I couldn’t always be who I wanted to be. Back when I was six or seven-years-old, I’m not sure which, I learned quickly that people’s opinions and viewpoints of you mattered not only to you, but to your fucking family and friends as well. Although it was all very harmless, it was eye-opening and disappointing to say the least, teaching me the sad truths of growing up and being accepted.

We were at the Halloween costume store. I was always considered the “clown” of the family, making people laugh, doing things out of the ordinary. Picking out our Halloween costumes, I asked my parents many times if it mattered what I chose. Naturally, they told me that I could be whatever I wanted. Whatever I wanted, God damn it. They left out the “as long as we approve.”

I remember being so excited about my choice, knowing how much it would make people laugh. All I wanted to do was make people fucking laugh, be the center of attention, and have a good time. That’s it. That’s all I wanted—back then. My parents were in the other aisle, looking at costumes for my older brother. Giggling, I chose my costume, put it on, looked in the mirror, and nearly died from laughter. It was hysterical; I loved it. I couldn’t wait to show my parents.

I turned the corner in my shiny, sparkly mermaid costume, and my parents went fucking ballistic. My father started yelling obscenities about “not raising a goddamn fruit.” My mother marched me to the back of the store, pulling each part of the costume off of me, bitching about how I’d upset my father and how awful it was to see me in such outlandish and embarrassing attire.

At home that night, my parents lectured me about appearances and public behavior, explaining that under no circumstances was I ever to do something so mortifying and damaging again. After my mother left the room, my father continued to tell me that he wasn’t “raising a fucking fairy” and that he’d “beat that fucking fruity shit right out of me.” At the time, I remembered thinking that I didn’t want to be a fairy, but a mermaid instead. I knew better than to correct him.

It was years later when I finally understood what he meant. I was six-years-old, and only wanted to wear a costume for Halloween that made people laugh. I wasn’t (nor am I now) gay, bi, or even a little curious. And who the Hell would care if I was? They were my parents. Weren’t they supposed to love me for me, no matter what?