Page 50 of Ella Gets the D
A quarter-life crisis six years late.
I step back and face the windows overlooking the backyard. Ella stands in the same spot on the dance floor. My feet angle toward the door to go to her until I force myself to reroute. “Goodnight, Mother.”
Her nose wrinkles at my abrupt change in attitude, but I don’t stick around for her to discover the source of my departure.
Claire Brooke would shit a dignified brick if the runway ever cleared to be with El. If I allowed myself to act on desires that have yet to fade. I have my own doubts about attaching myself to her life, which comes with two kids, but for different reasons than I expected.
Status isn’t a prerequisite for me, but it is for my mother. Her shortlist for my future wife is a Tetris game of eligible women, all from refined families, and she moves them around until one lasts long enough to cancel the other out.
Nothing has happened yet, but if there’s one thing my mother is, it’s dedicated.
Two were here tonight, conveniently hours apart to hide any hint of competition. I couldn’t remember them if I had to pickthem out of a lineup. Ella kept my attention in her grasp without an ounce of effort.
A roar of laughter booms from the family room. I turn the corner to see my father on the rug with his head back, tears in his eyes, and not a care in the world. My mother will have his neck for the wrinkles in his Italian linen suit, but if Langston Brooke dies tonight, he’ll die a happy man with three kids suffocating him in tickles.
Duke, Jackson, and Haile scream in delight before my father curls his arms around them with the voice of a swamp monster. What the press would pay to see him on his hands and knees crawling between the coffee table and sofa with children on his back.
Late-night card games to the soundtrack of his favorite jazz musicians were the extent of our interactions on the days he’d work late in his study, which was more often than not. My father loves me and Morgan, but all work and no play made him the success he is today.
Millions in the bank at the sacrifice of memories with his children.
What he lacked in our childhood, he makes up for with the affection he shows Duke and his bonus grandchildren.
“Hey, son!” When he’s not in go mode, my father is the most chill person. “You heading out?”
“Yeah. Going to Swigs for a bit.”
He nods with a smile. “Tell Nate we said hi. I’ll see you in the office on Tuesday. Have a good night.”
Duke peels himself off his grandfather and runs to me with his arms stretched behind him like Naruto. “Goodnight, Uncle,” he says in Japanese.
I wrap a hand around his head to pull him in. “Oyasumi.“ I press a kiss to his forehead.
Jackson’s gaze shifts between us. He might be quiet around people he doesn’t know, but he wears his emotions on his face. Right now, it’s longing with a bit of curiosity.
“How about we practice Japanese on Thursday?” I ask Jackson. “Duke can teach you some phrases.”
At that, my nephew runs back to his friend with an energy that incites a shy smile from my new house buddy. Jackson nods, and the two set off on their next adventure.
“Bye, Julie.” My heart squeezes at Haile’s words. She looks up at me with light brown eyes and a smile too big for her heart-shaped face.
I drop to my haunches and take in Ella’s mini me. “If you call me Julie, it’s only fair I give you a nickname. What about…” I touch my chin like I’m deep in thought. “Haile Bear?”
“Like a Care Bear!” She gives me a hug and yells, “Bye!” to take off after Duke and her brother.
I need to get out of here.
“So when’s the big day?”
I focus on the glass in front of me and not my former friend about to laugh in my face for the third time tonight. Condensation drips down the tumbler to the concrete slab I helped pick out when he opened Swigs five years ago.
I sigh. “Have I told you to fuck off yet?”
Nate lifts a cuff on his gray cardigan to peek at his watch and grins. “Not in the last forty-seven minutes.”
My visit started with me dropping off a plate of ribs since he missed the barbecue. That’s what friends do for each other. Instead of a thank you, I got a Dr. Phil session after Nate took one look at my face. He should psychoanalyze why he’s wearing a cardigan with a beanie in May. Not my life.
“Still in denial?” His hands move across his workstation to craft a complex mojito for a woman at the end of the bar. Muddled mint and strawberries rest in homemade simple syrup with fresh lime slices, club soda, rum, and crushed ice from a machine he spent a thousand on to give his cocktails the perfect texture. “Excuse me.”
