"Lucas, I don't-" She starts and stops, taking a breath, a panicked look in her eyes. He knows it's serious when she actually uses his name.
"You'll be fine," he pleads. "You won my mom over."
"She's not your dad. And I already knew her."
"Everyone will be there for dinner. He's not staying here long; he'll be back in Texas after the weekend's up," Lucas says as he holds her hands. He's rubbing his thumbs over the skin of her palms and hopes he's allaying her fears (she knows he is).
She sighs. "Promise you won't leave my side?"
He smiles. "Promise."
/
She notices the change immediately. The change in his house that is. Lucas' house is always warm; his mother is always comforting and sweet as pumpkin pie. The sun seems to shine a little brighter and the rooms feel a little warmer than anywhere else she's ever been (except Riley's house—they're pretty even). It's not a house, but a home.
Today, this isn't the case. Mrs. Friar is puttering around, moving too fast for comfort and strung tight as a wire. The dining room table is not homey, but adorned in delicate china with sharp edges and unforgiving angles. The blinds are down and the curtains are drawn. The tension in the air is as suffocating and Maya is suddenly regretting her decision to come.
Lucas, seeing her tense, squeezes her hand. "Start the countdown?"
"How long?"
"I doubt he'll stay more than an hour or two." She sees the pained look on his face and gently kisses his cheek. It's not something she does often; she is still learning to initiate things in the realm of relationships (love, but she's not going to say it first).
"Come on, Huckleberry. Let's get this over with."
He cracks a smile and soon enough Riley and Farkle are knocking on the door. "We brought pie," Riley smiles, bubbly and almost unaware of the anxiety present on both Lucas and Maya's faces.
"Oh, good, pie is good." Mrs. Friar runs by the door, graciously accepting the dessert. She keeps moving, muttering, but is otherwise pleasant.
"So, when does your dad get here?" Farkle asks, taking off his coat and offering his arm for Riley's. Almost instantly a series of knocks are heard, the rhythm uniform, loud, distinct.
"Five on the dot. He's never one to be late," Mrs. Friar chuckles without humor, wiping her hands on her apron. Opening the door, she steps aside for her husband to enter.
"Didn't I tell you we need a doorbell." Apparently there isn't time for pleasantries.
"I know you said that. I haven't had time-"
"Then hire someone," Mr. Friar says, pulling off his gloves and sitting them on the entryway table.
Mrs. Friar declines to answer, only purses her lips and gestures to Lucas. "Don't you want to greet your son."
"Ah, yes." Mr. Friar looks over to Lucas, but only seems to take note of the three surrounding him, particularly the blonde attached to his son's side. "Who are they?"
"Robert-"
"Son." It's a statement, not a question.
"They're my friends, sir." Lucas wraps his arm more tightly around Maya's waist. "This is Farkle, Riley, and Maya," he says, turning to each of them individually.
"They're staying for dinner?"
"Yes." His father raises his eyebrows. "Yes, sir…if that's okay with you." Lucas' voice is trembling slightly; Maya realizes that he is more than a little agitated. She knows this is hard for him; they're not too different, him and her. Not in the family department anyway.
Mr. Friar looks at the children and heaves a sigh. "I suppose."
Sensing the awkwardness, Mrs. Friar claps her hands, a smile pasted on her face. "Well then. Why don't we all sit down. Dinner will be ready any moment." She watches them nod in consent. "Maya, would you like to help me with the drinks?"
Startled by the invitation (Mrs. Friar never let guests help in the kitchen—manners!—even when Maya offers), Maya reluctantly moved out of Lucas' grasp. "Sure." Maya follows Lucas' mother into the kitchen, noticing once again that this room is just as high-end as the rest of the house, and opens the cabinet that holds the glasses.
"No, sweetie." Mrs. Friar points to a cabinet typically unopened. "The china."
"Oh," is Maya's only response.
"He likes them better." Maya didn't need to ask who he was.
"Fancy stuff."
"Yeah, well. Robert likes prestige," Mrs. Friar sighs. "Never understood it. He wanted to use them even when Lucas was a baby. Didn't care for the sippy cups and such." Maya looks over to see Mrs. Friar wringing a dishtowel.
"Iced tea?" Maya asks as she places the last glass on the marble countertop.
"No, dear. Water for us and some scotch for Lucas' father." Maya nods, leaving one glass empty for Robert at Mrs. Friar's request. "I'll get his," she says.
"Do you need help with anything else?"
"That's all." Mrs. Friar waves her hand, gently urging Maya back into the dining room. "Just," she pauses. "Don't let him get to you." She gives the girl one last sad smile before moving to take the brisket out of the oven. Maya leaves the kitchen, carefully balancing the drinks in her hand, knowing she'll have to make a second trip. She's not surprised at Mrs. Friar's request—she's always one to care—but she doesn't find it comforting. Maya's heard the stories from Lucas. Of his father's obsession with money, the business he practically runs, the way he never calls or comes to visit. The way he speaks down to Lucas' mom, the way his father needs things to go his way, the consequences one faces if they don't comply with his wishes. But she's never heard Mrs. Friar speak about her husband. The way she speaks about it reminds her of the unsettling nature of this entire situation. Somehow Mrs. Friar's concern makes this dinner more real; suddenly it's not her and Lucas and one of their late night conversations. It's real. It's happening. And no one is okay.
When she sets the last of the glasses at the proper place settings, Maya takes her seat beside Lucas. He turns to her and he looks anxious, but no worse for wear. She's questioning, but soon enough her question is answered.
"Your parents must be proud." Mr. Friar nods at Riley, his version of a smile Maya guesses.
"They are, sir," Farkle chimes in, beaming at Riley as she blushes.
"I love them very much," Riley says. "I'm lucky to have them."
"You seem like a lovely girl, Riley." Mr. Friar takes a sip of his drink. Maya smiles at her best friend's pink cheeks.
"Thank you, Mr. Friar."
"Polite too." He turns to Lucas. "Why can't you date a girl like her?" Everyone is stunned to silence, only saved by Mrs. Friar placing the food on the table. He must notice the silence, Maya thinks. However, Mr. Friar only grabs the dish of mashed potatoes and ladles some onto his plate.
The silence stretches on as everyone makes their plate, but all except Mr. Friar have lost most of their appetite. "You know, dad, Maya's art is being featured in the spring exhibit." Lucas smiles at her fondly. She knows what he's trying to do. But doesn't he see? His father does not make friends with riff-raff like her.
Mr. Friar might have grunted. "A worthless hobby."
Maya hears Riley choke on her bite and Lucas tighten his grip on her thigh, no longer rubbing soothing patterns as he was when she first sat down. "Robert-" Mrs. Friar begins.
"Nancy, how can you let him do this?" He turns to look at his wife. "Do you want him to ruin his life?" Mrs. Friar is silent, but Maya sees her trying to formulate a response; she's too afraid though—afraid of the man she's supposed to love. Mr. Friar then turns to Lucas. "Why are you doing this, son?" His words are angry, jagged like the knife he still wields in his hand. "There is a nice girl two feet away from you and you let her sit there, alone." He resumes cutting his meat. Glancing up once more, he sets his sights on Maya. "And you. Why are you so intent on breaking him?" He motions to Lucas.
"Please stop," Riley whispers, her voice low and dangerous.
"Sir-" Lucas squeezes his eyes shut, only to open them with rage.
"No, I did not ask for your input," Mr. Friar continues as if he was uninterrupted. He turns to Maya. "Why are you doing this to my family?"
She doesn't wait for him to continue. Or for the words to start flowing from Lucas' mouth (she hears his intake of breath, his readying for battle). She doesn't stop moving when Riley calls for her. When Farkle slams his silverware on the table once and for all. She flinches when Nancy tries to reach for her arm (a comforting gesture she doesn't need right now…can't need right now). She's moving toward the door, leaving the apartment without her coat, her friends, her dignity. She breaks things. She makes things messy and complicated and just plain painful. She doesn't deserve him. Or her friends. Or those who have come to her aid in the past. She's a fire out of control, about to burn down the lives of everyone around her. Why had she let herself think anything different?
She can't leave though. Her house is thirty minutes away (if she walks) and her purse is inside (good-bye subway). Not to mention her dress only reaches slightly above her knee (she bought it for tonight, a good impression she said) and the wispy material of the sleeves won't combat the pelting, winter rain. Funny how the rain that once soothed her, now traps her. So instead of leaving, she sinks down to the tiled floor, allowing her head to rest against the unforgiving wood of their front door.
"You have no right to speak to her like that!" It's Lucas' voice (she's sure of it), loud enough to carry into the empty hallway.
"She is not someone you should be associating yourself with. Now sit down and apologize for how you are behaving. That is not an appropriate tone."
"It is when you insult someone I love." Her breath catches at his words. Doesn't he know that he can't love someone like her?
"You don't know what love is. You're too young."
She thinks she hears a fist slam onto the table, glasses rattling at the sudden impact. "I know that I care about her. That I think about her all the time. That I want her to be safe, and happy, and taken care of. I know that she makes me see things I never saw before. That her art is real. That she's raw because she's been hurt so many times. I know that I never want to see her cry. That I love when she makes fun of me." He pauses, his words lightening with every word. "And that's more than you can say for what you feel about me. Your son." Silence. "I love her. And you can't hurt someone I love."
His footsteps seem closer now; she hears the shuffle of fabric as he assumingly gathers their winter wear. Maya hears the turn of the doorknob and his intake of breath at the sight of her. Crumpled and shaking and breathing too heavily for it to be considered normal. She feels him drop to his knees and wrap his arms around her tiny frame.
"Please don't love me." Her words are soft (and heartbroken, but she hopes he can't tell).
"I can't go back," he says, kissing her forehead softly.
"You'll get hurt."
"Leaving is worse."
"I'm broken," she cries. "I'll cut you too deep."
"I'm broken too." He pushes her golden locks out of her eyes. "We can be broken together."
"We're messed up."
"Then we've been messed up for a year." He chuckles. "I think we're doing alright."
She leans into his chest, taking in his scent. "We're crazy, aren't we?" Her red-rimmed eyes peer up at him as a watery smile begins to form.
"We're not crazy; we're a masterpiece. An insane, confusing, intoxicating masterpiece."
"Have I ever told you that you're a sap?"
"Once or twice." He tilts her chin up. "Did I ever tell you, I think you're pretty great."
She doesn't answer. He doesn't expect it. He knows she can't say the words. Or say enough to accept his. But they have tomorrow. And the next day. The next year. And the year after that. He knows her heart. She's right. They've already cut each other too deep. The only difference is that it wasn't made in anger and doesn't dwell in pain. They've dug their claws into each other's souls and cut until they were interwoven to the point of inseparability. They cut each other to make them see that they were whole all along. (And if the world can't see that, the world will never know what pure love is.)