The Best of Enemies (26 page)

I touch his knee briefly.
“Not to interrupt, but did you ever actually graduate?”

“Yeah.
With a 3.85, not that anyone believes me.
The family was going through some stuff back then, so I didn’t want ’em all having to come out to Cali just to see me in a cap and gown.
Should have, though, ’cause I’ve never heard the end of it.”

“What was your major?”

“Chemical engineering.
That’s why I’m a great mixologist.”

I’m surprised to hear this.
Last I knew he was majoring in General Studies.
“I had no idea!
Quite impressive.”

He waves me off.
“Eh, it’s not.
Originally I wanted to be a chemical engineer so I could make my own drugs.
Didn’t.
But could have.”

We both laugh.
“I miss being twenty-two,” I admit.

Bobby sighs.
“Yeah, but I’m perpetually twenty-two and that’s no great shakes, either.
That’s why Trip dying hit me so hard.
Makes me wonder if I didn’t miss something in my life of no house, no kids, no big job, no obligations.”

I take another sip of my Jordan Almond.
“Houses and obligations and jobs are overrated.”

Bobby tilts his head and looks at me.
I’d forgotten he has the same multicolor-eye thing as Jack.
The gold and green and blue all swirl together in a crazy tapestry of color.
“How so?”

Bobby was always good people, and this conversation reconfirms it.
He’s so guileless and without judgment or agenda that I find myself opening up to him, letting the real Kitty shine through all the exaggerated PTO President, SecretSquash, Super Mom veneers.

“Consider yourself lucky that you didn’t get sucked into the matrix, Bob.
Growing up on these towns along the lake, well, you know.
You get what it was like here.
We had expectations of what our lives should be like as adults.
We’re the first generation who hasn’t actually done better than their parents and that’s . . .
hard to swallow.”
I wad up more napkin bits as I make this admission.

He looks at me intently.
“Hard to swallow how?”

“For example, my husband and I didn’t want the crummy little bungalow in our price range.
We wanted the nice five-bedroom place like our folks had.
Actually, better than our folks had.
Felt like we deserved it because it’s what everyone else has.
So we overextended ourselves in order to keep up with our peer group and now I live in constant fear that it’s all going to come crashing down.”

I glance down at the growing pile of shards on the floor.

“Whoa,” I say lightly, trying to lessen the impact of the truth I’ve just spoken.
“Not sure I’ve ever said any of that out loud.
This drink must contain truth serum or something.”

What’s going on with me?
I haven’t even shared these thoughts with Betsy.
Why am I comfortable enough to say this now?
Is it that Bobby’s basically a big kid, so he feels nonthreatening?

Bobby’s still intent on speaking seriously.
“So you don’t own your stuff.
Your stuff owns you?”

“Exactly.”
As we talk, I can feel my chest start to loosen, like my lungs aren’t being pinched in a vise quite so firmly.
“You have to keep up around here or you’ll be a social pariah.
God forbid you don’t have the best car or house or washer and dryer.”

His eyes grow wide and I notice that tiny splotch of gray on the lowest part of his right iris.
He used to call it his “paint spill.”
“You don’t really compete over washing machines, right?
That’s nuts.”

I nod, remembering how much traction I gained when everyone saw my laundry room for the first time.
“Believe it.
Everything’s so competitive, even parenting.
No,
especially
parenting.
I mean, we go into debt to make sure our Littles have the right backpack, the right shoes, the right jeans, because if they don’t, they’ll be bullied.”

Bobby finally removes his tie and shoves it in his pocket, the end flap still sticking out.
The effect is that of his shirt blowing a raspberry.
Did I not totally call it?
“That sucks.
I think we had it easier growing up.”

“My God, yes, because we didn’t have the online component.
Our bad behavior never ended up on Reddit or BuzzFeed or YouTube.
Thing is, the nature of bullying has changed, too.
Your kid isn’t safe anywhere.
Used to be if someone didn’t like you at school, you go home, they can’t reach you.
With social media, your kid can be harassed twenty-four-seven, across a dozen different platforms.
The flip side is your child might
be
the bully, and a whole lot of parents are too involved trying to make enough money to buy the right backpack, shoes, and jeans to be around to keep that behavior in check.”

I think about Brooke’s daughter, Avery, who’s already showing signs of turning Mean Girl.
I worry for Kassie.

Listening intently, Bobby nods.
“And then there’s the whole privacy thing, right?”

I drain my drink and fight the urge to lick the froth off the sides of the glass.
“What do you mean?”

“I meet people all the time when I’m tending bar.
People talk to me like I’m a priest or hairdresser or something.
Having a whole bar between us makes them feel safe.
So they tell me about their lives.
Most folks out there are well meaning, but they’re not content with just making sure their kids have needs met.
They gotta put it all online.
I know, because they show me their Facebook pages.”

I swallow, my throat suddenly very dry.

He goes on.
“Like, it’s not enough to bring their kids to meet Mickey Mouse at Disneyland.
They have to take a billion pictures, put ’em all over the Internet, and rub the vacation in everyone’s faces.
I gotta wonder, at what point does the trip stop being about you and your family and start being about showing off to the rest of your timeline?
It’s weird.
That’s why I don’t do social media.
Not my thing.
Mostly I use the Internet for Skype and checking snow reports.
I do like where they put captions on pictures of cats, too.
My favorite is the one where the cat’s in a suit, all,
‘I should buy a boat.’
He’s holding a newspaper.
Cracks me up.”

I clear my throat.
“Bobby, you know I have an online presence.”

“Yeah, but you post about vegetables and stuff, right?
You’re not making documentaries of yourself, selling your life off to the highest bidder, one picture at a time.
You wouldn’t plaster your veggie site with shots of your kids because there are too many pervs out there living in their mom’s basement.”
He stops himself.
“Wait . . .
shit.
I currently live in a basement.
You know what I mean.”

I’m afraid I do know what he means.

Bobby’s addressed a topic that I’ve preferred not to examine too closely.
I was vehement about never publishing photos of the Littles online.
But then I made this amazing fondant-covered Cowboy and Indian carrot cake for Kord’s tenth birthday and he was so cute in his fringed leather vest and ten-gallon hat that I broke my own rule and posted the shot.
My page views jumped exponentially, so once in a while after that, I’d let through the occasional snapshot until it became a regular thing.

I’ll be honest—I didn’t hate the positive feedback.
I liked having people recognize my labors and tell me I was good at something.
Parenting is so hard sometimes, so thankless, that it’s nice to have the effort appreciated.

While I’d never, ever embarrass the Littles by sharing their potty training stories or showing them, say, having a bath, I wonder if I haven’t done them a disservice by allowing my pride to overrule my better judgment and letting their images be seen at all?

Or is just being referred to as a “Little” in and of itself fodder for bullies?

By turning SecretSquash into more of a lifestyle blog, I’ve definitely improved our day-to-day existence.
Yet in so doing, I wonder if I’ve sold out somehow.
Is it possible that Dr.
K has grown distant because I’ve been too busy trying to document a perfect life, rather than actually live it?

Considering this possibility gives me a shooting pain in my temples.
I press down on the area with my fingertips to see if that relieves some of the pressure.

“You okay?”
Bobby asks.

I’m done spilling my guts for now, so instead of explaining, I say, “Changes in the weather can make my head ache.”

He stands, ready to spring into action, as always the gentleman.
“Want me to find an aspirin for you?”

I grab my abandoned wineglass, gesturing for him to sit.
“I’ll try this medicine first.”
This time, the wine doesn’t taste so bitter.

“Good call.”

We sit quietly, each of us working on our respective drinks.

Bobby breaks the silence that has yet to grow awkward.
“I’m proud of you and Jack.
If there ever was a time to put your differences behind you, today’s that day.”

I nod, saying nothing about our horrible scene on the sidewalk.
But we got past it, and that’s what’s important.
Bobby lowers his voice and moves in closer as though he’s about to confide in me, but I don’t feel tense like I did that time Trip hit on me.
Instead, I feel comforted and familiar, pleased that he wants to reveal some small, private truth.

Bobby says, “I gotta be honest—you and Jack are a lot alike.”

I snort into the chardonnay.
“We couldn’t be more different,” I argue.

“I’ve always said it and you never agree, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.
You have problems because you’re both really strong willed, you know?
You’re both so sure you’re in the right that you likely come away from situations with wildly different perspectives.
You say black, she says white, and then you fight to the death over something that’s actually gray.
You ought to compare notes someday.
I bet what you think you hear is way different from what’s actually said, and vice versa.
Come to terms with that and you two might be friends yet.”
He drains his beer and sets the glass on the coffee table.
A waiter immediately squires away the empty.

“I need one of those guys at my house,” I quip in lieu of telling him why he’s deluded.
He’s too nice for me to argue with now.
Before I can say anything else, Bobby glances down at my watch.

“Whoa, is that the time?
We’ve gotta get going soon.
Dinner in the city with the fam!
Gotta motor.
Good seeing you again, Kitty.
Take care of yourself.”

“And I should take care of Betsy, too,” I say.

“And of yourself,” he repeats.
“Catch you on the flippity-flop.”

He leaves and I’m left alone with the sound of the rain, which isn’t loud enough to drown out my thoughts.
I feel like I’ve just been on a therapist’s couch for an hour, full of new information and insights demanding my attention, whether or not I want to deal with them.

Jack was very close with her brother Bobby when we lived together, but she never gave him enough credit.
She didn’t value his kind of intelligence.
She never grasped that there’s more to being smart than using SAT words.
I remember once when we were with him over October break, she was telling him about something in the news and it was clear he needed a second to process.
He asked her a question to clarify and she got frustrated and snapped, “I can explain it to you, but I can’t understand it for you.”
The look on his face—so hurt.
He laughed and shook it off, but I could tell he was bothered.

Whether it was his intention or not, Bobby brought up an awful lot of what’s not quite right in my life.
I realize I have some areas to address once Dr.
K comes home.
We can’t continue on our current course and we need to figure out how to navigate.

Maybe Trip wasn’t the only one on the cusp of making changes.

Crap.

While sitting here with Bobby, I forgot about the whole
thing
for a second.