He lives in a loft.
Okay, I'll admit, it stuns me. This place is massive. I'm not talking like a mansion or anything, but it's really big. It has a foyer and two bathrooms; not to mention a huge, spacious living room with amazing furniture (and a random A Chorus Line poster against a wall) and an organ.
He takes me to a guest room where there is nothing but a bed and some blankets. "Here," he says, gesturing with his cane. "Set up your stuff in here."
There are three rooms (that I saw anyway) and the ceilings are high and everything looks so damn pretty. This is coming from a girl who lived in a trailer her whole life, a few towns away. It was only about an hour drive. I wonder if my mom knew he lived in Princeton . . .
I remember her sobbingly asking for a little bit of cash a few months ago over the phone. I wonder if it was him. But how could a partying druggie afford all this? Maybe he sold drugs. I hope not, because that would make life difficult for me. Unlike my mother, I've never done any sort of drugs (except for prescriptions drugs the doctor gave me when I was sick) or drank alcohol. I've never had sex, either. My mom raised me as a Christian and she didn't want me going down the same path as she did.
Maybe I should have gone to school more.
This is horrible, but I've got a problem with attending school. In high school, I barely went to class. I still managed to get A's and B's, but college is a little different. I aced all the tests, but a lot of my professors grade on attendance too, whereas in high school they never seemed to care. Then again, the teachers probably hated it when I did show. I have a problem with mouthing off. College professors seemed to find it funny, or they just ignored me. High school teachers tended to argue and send me to detention.
I feel guilty for screwing up my second semester in college. I just got so tired, you know? Getting up early, taking the bus (we couldn't afford a second car) and having to listen to hoity-toity condescending snobs who think they know everything about everything just because their daddies paid off their tuition? I thought it would be a cakewalk, like the first semester, but I had teachers who actually graded on participation . . . Which I might have known about had I shown up . . .
I'm not stupid. I'm actually pretty smart. I just . . . I don't know. I really don't know.
"Sometimes, Jaid, you're just so damn lazy I don't know what to do with you! I've worked my ass off every day and you just fail college because what? You were too tired to go? Wanted to go watch movies? What were you doing instead of going to class?"
"None of your damn business! It's not like I failed on purpose!"
I can't believe the last thing my mom and I did together was fight. I know I shouldn't blame myself for the wreck, but . . . Well, maybe if I hadn't been yelling and arguing she would have paid more attention. Maybe she wouldn't have gotten in a wreck.
The truth was, college was boring, and I thought I could pass without going. I was just taking generals in a stupid community college. So, what had I done instead? Slept in a bit, then hopped on the bus all the way to Princeton, after Eve finished her classes.
Eve is my best friend. We'd gone to school together, but she was one of those kids that actually went and never did anything wrong. She didn't mouth off to teachers or anything like that. She got into Princeton (which was sort of like her dream school--except maybe Julliard. She said she would've liked to go but didn't think she was good enough) and so I spent time with her instead of going to class. She was already out of class though since she took mostly morning classes. She has a brother named Mike, but he's a little older than her (he's twenty-two) and I think he wants to be a veterinarian. He's in school right now (Princeton, like her, which may be why she wanted to attend) and they're both really smart.
People used to think they were twins. They look alike.
But this isn't interesting, is it? I've got more important matters to deal with than my best friend and her brother and why I failed college.
I start unpacking, but not because I like to clean or decorate or anything. It's because, well . . . It's either that or going out there with him.
We didn't talk the whole ride. He listened to music, and I stared out of the window and let some tears drop.
I put my Bible away, and I finger my cross necklace uncomfortably. I say a prayer or two as I clean, asking God to help me get along with my biological father although I don't really see this happening in the near future. Or ever.
It doesn't take long for me to get everything unpacked. I don't have a bookshelf or a dresser, so I put my shirts in the closet with my wire hangers I packed, but keep my pants and skirts in the box. I keep my books in the box too. In fact, almost everything stays in the box, except for my Bible and some of my artwork. I put up some of my pictures along my wall; I used to want to be an artist. I'm actually really good at drawing so I don't know why I didn't pursue that more.
When I leave my room, he's watching TV. It looks like two girls are making out on-screen. It's muted.
"Um, what are you watching?"
"My entire life being crushed and withering away into nothing. You?"
"Was that a reference to me moving in? Because you didn't have to offer me a place."
"The L Word," he answers belatedly.
I get a little anxious when I see the images on-screen. I finger my cross necklace. He's an Atheist--or at least he was when my mother knew him--so it makes sense he's not uncomfortable watching gay girls. "Anything else on?" I ask.
"Nothing I wanna watch. Come on and sit down next to ol' pappy and watch some quasi-pornographic lesbian drama. Don't worry--it's muted. You won't have to hear them bitch."
The idea of watching a show about gay women (did he say porn?) makes me queasy, so I shake my head, even though I'm behind the couch and he can't see me. "Uh yeah I think I'm gonna pass. So what now?"
"Whaddaya mean, what now?"
"Well I live with you now, don't I? So . . . what now?" Before he can say anything, I hear the door opening. I hear the shuffling of someone taking of a coat; keys jangling. "Does someone else live here?" I ask.
"House?" I hear a man call from the foyer. I hadn't expected to hear a man's voice. "Is someone here?"
"My long lost daughter," he calls.
"Oh, very funny, House," the man calls back, and I can tell he's being sarcastic. I stay in my spot, unsure of what to say or how to react. Why is a man coming into this house? Why does a man possibly live with my father? Maybe they're just friends. Or maybe they were brothers. Eve and Mike live together.
The man walks into the living room and he stops and stares at me. I'm standing behind the couch, behind my father. House. I'm supposed to call him House. Right. I tug on my necklace harder. "Uh . . . Hey?"
"Like I said, long lost daughter," House says.
The man blinks again. He's taller than I am, and broad shouldered, and doesn't really look like House at all so they're probably not brothers. He looks younger than House. The brown sweater vest is over a white button-up and what looks like a yellow tie, and he's wearing khakis. He's got dark brown eyes and short-cropped brown hair. I clear my throat; he's actually really sort of adorable.
"You . . . have his eyes," he sputters, looks to the floor, and rubs his neck. He glances at the back of House's head. I shift uncomfortably. This is awkward. "Um, House? Care to explain?"
"Sometimes, Wilson, when a man and a woman find each other attractive, they take off all their clothes and--"
"I meant, what is she doing in the loft? What's going on? House, I think I deserve to know--this is my loft."
"Our loft."
"Oh my God," I gasp. "Please tell me you're brothers."
"Only in the Philadelphia sense," House retorts.
"House!" Wilson (I think that's what House called him) snaps. "No, we're not brothers. House, did something hap--"
"Are you gay?" I demand, clutching my cross necklace, and the idea of living with two fathers--two gay fathers--makes me uneasy, and I wonder if Eve and Mike can afford me living with them.
"Wha--n-no, we're not--we're just--uh-no, we're friends," Wilson (I think) points out, blinking at me. "Why is that every person in this apartment thinks we're--"
"Probably because you like musicals and such. Anyway, that's my daughter. Hope you two get along 'cause she just moved in. I can now claim her on my taxes."
I feel strangely guilty for having my first reaction towards them possibly being gay. Even if they were it wouldn't be right of me to move out and in with Eve and Mike. I clear my throat. "Sorry," I say, as an apology for having that . . . unsatisfactory reaction.
"You're not the first who's assumed," Wilson says, looking at House's head, and completely misunderstanding what I'd meant but oh well, he gave me an out so I don't need to explain further. "I would have liked a warning, House."
"Consider this your warning, then," House responds.
Wilson sighs and then smiles at me convincingly, like he's genuinely happy to see me. He reaches forward to shake my hand. I blink and his expression falter, but then I grab his hand. "I'm James Wilson," he introduces.
His hand is warm and the perfect amount of grip--someone who has shaken a lot of hands, then. I try to match his grip so I don't crush his hand and also so it's not weak. "Um, Jaid Mayberry."
So this is his loft, then? That's what he said. So maybe he's the one who pays for everything.
We let go of each other's hands. I notice there's only two feet of space in between us; it sounds like a lot, but really, it isn't. Not when you're standing next to someone you don't know. I take a step back and blink at him. He smiles. "So, how'd . . . you and House, er . . . meet?" He furrows his eyebrows and rubs the back of his neck, like maybe he thinks what he said was stupid.
"Her mom kicked the bucket." Wow. Harsh.
"House! That was uncalled for."
I clench my jaw and feel burning in my eyes.
"Well she did die."
I'm gone without even remembering walking off. I'm in my room (guest room; whatever) and I'm slamming the door shut. In fact, it's the sound of it hitting the doorframe loudly that makes me realize I've left.
It's all too much suddenly. All of it. My mom dying in my arms, covered in blood, because of me; some stranger who I'm now living with is my father; and now I'm kicked out of college because I didn't show? I'm such an idiot! How is that everything can happen all at once? All of this bad shit had to happen now?
There are a few knocks on my door and I wipe away my tears. I hate it when people see me cry. "Who is it?"
There's no answer. I swallow the lump in my throat.
"Um, who is it?"
"It's uh . . ." I don't know their voices enough to tell them apart so it could be either of them. "James," he finishes. "May I come in?"
I don't know him. I don't know . . . House. I don't really want to talk to anyone, but . . . Well, if I sit around an mope all day and refuse to talk, I'll never know them and I sort of have to, right? I mean, my mother pushed House away (for good reason) so it's not like he drop-kicked her to the curb and left. It's not his fault.
Well it is in a roundabout way since he did drugs and all that, but . . .
That's not James' fault.
"Yeah, sure."
The door opens and even though I'm not looking at him but at the opposite wall and he hasn't said anything, I suddenly regret it and wish I could I would've told him to bug off or something.
"Jaid?" He doesn't ask me to turn around. I flinch, expecting him to touch my shoulder, but he doesn't. "I have no way of knowing what you're going through; I've never dealt with a family member's . . . death. And what House said . . . Well. It was uncalled for. I just . . . Are you okay?"
Not really, no. How can I be okay? My life is spiralling into shit.
I'm clutching my necklace so hard it's starting to hurt my palm.
"I'm fine," I say dully, staring at my wall, my vision blurry.
"Death is a very difficult thing to process; especially when you're so young. To have something so . . . Important brushed aside . . . I can understand if you feel angry."
"My mom is dead," I tell him, my words heavy.
This time I do feel his shoulder on my arm; soft and tentative. He doesn't say anything; like maybe he's testing the waters. "House . . . He doesn't like emotional topics. Since you're going to be here for awhile, you should probably know that."
Well, nobody really likes emotional topics, do they? Most people suffer through them; tolerate them. I know I get uncomfortable when someone starts crying or bitching about their life. But to seriously just . .. Act like, oh, well, whatever? That's just . . . screwed up.
I take a step forward and away from him so he's not touching my shoulder anymore.
"I'm . . . done discussing this," I tell him.
He doesn't say anything, but a second later I hear my door shut, and I stand there, staring at my new room in my new house.
It doesn't make me feel grateful or happy, like it probably should. I just feel lost.