Page 27 of Wasted On Us

“No!” I rush to dispel her concerns. “I actually got posted at this doggie daycare and all of the dogs there are so cute, even this gremlin of a toy poodle named Mister Friskies who might be my archnemesis. It’s really great. They have this huge pool and… Okay. Sorry. Focusing. I couldn’t work there because, yeah, obviously, it’s Salvador’s dealership and everything but—”

“Oh, my god.” She raises her voice ever so slightly, which is akin to a yell from my stoic sister. “Did you do something with Salvador García? I guess he is a bit of a silver fox, but he’s notthathard to resist. Did you call him Daddy while he spanked you over his knee?”

I spit a mouthful of coffee back into my mug.

“Ensley! No! Gross!” Taking a deep breath, I steady myself before admitting to the huge mistake that’s dominated my life for the last week, bracing for whatever her reaction might be. “I… I’ve kind of been seeing his son. Not seriously, though.”

“How? Why? When?” Three questions in a row is a lot for my sister, especially with them being monosyllabic. She’s stressed, and it’s showing. “And don’t say it’s not serious because you’ve only been with one other guy! Adding one more to your minuscule body count is a huge deal!”

“I accidentally rear-ended him because I was texting and then he made me eat a steak and get tipsy on an entire bottle of wine, and then later, he gave me a loaner car that died so a baseball team had to push it out of an intersection, and we had tiramisu, and his ex-girlfriend at the dealership was really upset with me, and he fixed my car and bought me coffee and tofu and then I hooked up with him… twice.”

There is a very long pause from the other end of the line, followed by a sigh.

“Eden. I love you, but you are the single worst storyteller I have ever had the displeasure of trying to follow from one thought to the next. Start over. Please. And be coherent this time. I mean… unless you slept with the baseball team, too, they’re irrelevant. Unless they were cute. Were they cute?”

“Totally swoonworthy. Every last one of them.” Then I tell her my story again, slower this time and with a lot more connective tissue. “...and he was so nice, and I felt so safe, and I just wanted to know what it would feel like to be normal for once, you know? I just kept thinking about how I’m going to be living at home soon and won’t be able to do anything or see anyone without the grating third degree. For once, I saw something I wanted and I grabbed it with both hands without thinking about Dad’s disappointed look.”

But now that’s all I can think about.

I hate regret.

“Agreed. There is no fun while living with the parents. They are the fun police. The wreckers of anything that might even beconsideredas fun. Ask me. I know. And Elowyn will back me up.”

Her assertion feels awfully specific, and I make a mental note to bring it up again later, when we aren’t discussing my impending doom. “I thought maybe they’d have loosened up some.”

“In that neighborhood?”

“Too fancy,” I agree. I miss our old house, the quaint ranch-style one with the above-ground pool and the tree fort. As soon as Elowyn left for college, our parents washed their hands of it and traded up for a mini-mansion in one of those gated communities that watches your every move, complete with rent-a-cops at the security hut and an overzealous neighborhood watch. They felt like they were finally successful, living the American dream. I thought it had no personality. Whatever. Not my mortgage. And I guess a woman who can’t even absorb a rent hike has no room to judge or opine about it anyway.

“Definitely. And there’s the HOA. The board watches and gets pissy about strange cars being parked outside all night. So… behave. Do not give Dad low-hanging fruit.”

“When have I ever been a problem?” Between Ensley always achieving and Elowyn always needing that extra bit of hand-holding, I’ve never been on anyone’s radar. “I’m the forgotten middle child, remember?”

“I forget…” Ensley trails off sarcastically. “We are still on for tomorrow, yes? I will swing by with the rental truck at 9:30 if that works for you.”

I confirm, casting a sad glance at my boxed-up apartment. I genuinely liked it here. Being forced to leave feels like a chapter of my life is ending when I wasn’t yet ready to turn the page.

*****

True to her word and strict adherence to punctuality, Ensley arrives at my building with the rental truck at a quarter after nine. Mom shows up ten minutes later, followed by Elowyn and her fiancé Weston, and Banjo, Weston’s long-time friend and father figure who worked with him before he set up his new business. The gruff older man and I had a bit of a moment the day Weston and my sister moved in together, and I enjoy talking to him. He seems to get me better than most. Between the six of us, we have the truck loaded up in no time, and I take one final sweep of the place before locking up and taking my keys down to the main office, saying goodbye to my freedom for the indefinite future.

I feel like I just took three giant steps backward.

Just driving into my parents’ neighborhood feels stifling. I have to stop at the gate and answer all kinds of questions from a surly security guard, side-eyeing my cheap used car as I sign in on the clipboard and give her my parents’ full names and address. By the time she makes me hand over my driver’s license so she can take down the number, I’m so thoroughly dehumanized by the experience that I’d get out and do jumping jacks if she asked.

I’m almost surprised she didn’t demand a full cavity search.

Then there’s the long drive down the winding road, past the clubhouse, and the pool, and the tennis courts, and the golf course. All of them are surrounded by signs prohibiting just about everything, from dogs to children to music to food to any kind of fun or relaxation at all. I feel like my parents used to be more open to enjoying life. Maybe not cool, but normal human beings. This makes them seem like automatons out of Stepford Wives. And now I’m going to have to live among them.

When I’m the one everyone always sees as different.

Maybe it’s just paranoia setting in, but I can feel the eyes of their neighbors settling on my car as I climb out in their driveway, deciding that it and my tangerine-colored sundress are a poor fit in their manicured, colorless world. Then Elowyn is rushing down the driveway, wrapping me in a hug so strong she almost topples me over, and Mom comes out of the house with mimosas, waving me toward the backyard—and I start to entertain the idea that everything might turn out okay. At least, as okay as it can be, under the circumstances.

My furniture and most of my belongings are going to stay in the garage for the time being while I stay in one of the guest rooms, so it isn’t too much of an ordeal to get it all off of the truck and plunked down out of the way. I just have to take two suitcases full of clothes and toiletries into the house, and I can consider myself moved in.

The whirlwind of activity, of too-bright smiles and forced cheer, begins to wear on me, the nervous tension knotting in my stomach. But amidst the commotion, Banjo, the gruff, kind-hearted soul, spots me. His perceptive gaze lingers for a moment before he steps toward me, nodding subtly in the direction of a quieter corner of the yard.

“There’s a spot by that big maple tree,” he says, his hoarse voice surprisingly gentle. “Might offer some peace and quiet.”

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