5. Theron

5

THERON

DISTRACTION - MONTELL FISH

"It's not that bad," are the first words out of Theo's mouth. She's turned up on my doorstep like she so often does—in her uniform of athleisure wear, a slouchy beanie to cover her bedhead hair and the largest size of coffee the local Java King offers. She slurps down some of the coffee as she pays another glance over her shoulder at the damage. "You're such a drama queen, Theron."

"And you're such a slob. Ever heard of pants? Real pants?"

"The kind with no stretch? That shame me every time I gain a pound? I don't need that kind of negativity in my life. So sue me."

"I would, but all I'd win in the judgment would be poorly knitted slouchy hats and your Java King stamp card."

"Hey, I'm two more stamps away from a free sixteen ounce," she says, shouldering past me in the doorway. She shrugs off her windbreaker jacket and kicks off her scuffed-up sneakers.

I'm like a vacuum, picking up the discarded items in her wake .

Theo and I have always been polar opposites. She's a people-loving, thrill-seeking cat lady who survives off iced coffee and takeout, while I'm the rigid, sullen, borderline hermit older brother who would be perfectly satisfied if I never had to interact with the general public again.

"Well?" she prompts once she reaches my immaculate kitchen. Theo, being Theo, scans the gleaming, crumb-less space and shakes her head almost as if in disappointment.

I fold her jacket over the top of a barstool and rush to set down a coaster for her melting iced coffee. "Well… what?"

"Well, what did you do about it?"

"One day, Theo, you'll learn to speak in full, coherent sentences."

"Don't be a dick!" she snaps, chucking her fuzzy rabbit foot keyring at me.

The severed floof ball of a foot smacks into my chest before dropping to the ground and rolling under the barstool. I raise both brows at her to her eye roll.

"You know what I mean—what are you going to do about batshit fucking cray cray Alex Forest keying up your car?" she asks. "Are you taking that lying down?"

"Alex Forest? The lady from Fatal Attraction ?"

"Theron, this is serious. It starts with keying cars. Then it's fifty gazillion texts and voice messages. Then, next thing you know, you're returning home to Atty's severed head."

"A bit of a stretch, don't you think?"

"You say that now. But a girl crazy enough to key the shit out of your car is crazy enough to chop your dog's head off."

"Five minutes ago you said it wasn't that bad… remember?"

"Sarcasm, bro. Language of the millennial. Remember? "

"Veronica's harmless."

"And that's why she keyed your car," Theo says. "The bitch knows she can get away with it. You want me to confront her?"

"Stay away from the situation. The absolute last thing I need is for my kid sister to fight my battles."

"Say the word and I will. Anyway, why aren't you dressed? Have you forgotten what today is?"

"Today is Sunday, Theo. Which means I'll be doing my grocery shopping, laundry, and other chores about the house. I'll cook dinner and then settle in the den by six with a good book."

"Sounds thrilling. Sometimes I forget you're forty-two, not eighty-two," she says dryly.

"Forty-one. I won't be forty-two until October thirty-first."

"Otherwise known as Halloween. But you won't actually spend the day pretending you're eighty, bro. Because you already promised to come with me to the art festival!"

"When was this?"

"Weeks ago. Remember… Atty was sick and you needed me to run home to take him to the vet 'cuz you were stuck in a meeting?"

The disgruntled glare I shoot her makes her laugh. "The last time I accompanied you to one of your things, you met up with some greasy-haired stoner named Doobie. Unironically ."

Theo places her hands on her wide hips, never mirroring our stern and authoritative mother more than in this moment. It tracks, considering they're both wavy-haired brunettes with smattered freckles. The difference being, Theo goes out of her way to be the antithesis to everything Mom stands for …

"Theron Thurman Adler, put some damn clothes on—ones with no stretch—and grab the keys to your fucked up, keyed BMW. We're swinging by the art festival."

"Is this the part where I say, ‘yes mother'?"

"This is the part where you live a little. For once. Don't you have students that'll be there?"

"All the more reason not to go."

Theo narrows her eyes, her chin setting.

I sigh, throwing in the proverbial towel. If I go along with Theo's idea, I can bide my time for the inevitable moment something new and shiny steals her attention. Then she'll wander off, and I can get the hell out of dodge and go do things I really should be doing on a Sunday.

Boring things. Mundane things.

Things like carefully selecting produce at the grocery store and settling down with a new book and some brandy.

It's as I head upstairs to change that I come across the crumpled note from the other day in class. It had been tucked under the flyer Nyssa Oliver had given me. I hadn't even read it until after she left the room with her oafish boyfriend.

It had earned the slightest tremor of amusement inside me.

Now, as I come across the note, I'm drawn to the delicate loops and svelte lines of her penmanship. Picking up the piece of vellum stock paper, I unfurl it 'til I'm able to reread the note in its entirety:

A wise man once said you only get one chance at making a first impression. That wise man never heard of bribing someone with their favorite caffeinated beverage. Hope this makes up for it. :)

Miss Oliver

My lips twitch in much the same manner as the other day when she'd delivered the peppermint mocha to my classroom.

…and just like the other day, I can't bring myself to discard the crumpled note. Instead I set it back down, completely unfurled, on top of my dresser drawers, and then move onto changing into real clothes.

Something without stretch.

Twenty-six minutes, forty-eight seconds into the art festival, Theo does what Theo does best. She spots an old friend from her Castlebury U days and chases them down like a dog fetching its newest toy.

"Emma!" she yells. "Emma… it's me, Theo!"

Without the slightest second thought, she's off. Theo shoulders her way through the crowd of curious passersby, on a spontaneous quest to find the girl named Emma. I hang back, both hands tucked into the pockets of my pants, and watch my baby sister disappear like some magic trick.

After thirty-eight years of sharing the earth with her, it's no surprise at all.

Theodora Adler was always one of the more popular girls at school. Around the neighborhood. In our family .

Then there was her dark, scowling, brooding older brother that kept his nose in a book and couldn't make pleasant conversation if his life depended on it.

I'd taken pride in that fact. I still do, so many years later.

Which is why, as I set off at a casual stroll down the center lane of the crowded art festival, I'm fine being alone.

Others browse on the arm of their partner or in the middle of animated chatter with their closest friend. Families wander by pushing strollers where drowsy toddlers nod off.

Everyone everywhere needs someone.

But not me.

Because I'm a proud lone wolf who gave up on the concept of real love many years ago.

That's what my family never understood. The students at school and colleagues at work. Veronica .

She thought it was personal that I was distant and aloof. In reality, she simply didn't understand the inner workings of the man she claimed she loved enough to marry. Breaking things off with her is the smartest decision I've made in years.

A quality paint job can always fix the scratch marks on my BMW XI. A small price to pay to be rid of Veronica's curse for good.

My parents weren't happy about the breakup—they hoped our relationship would finally lead to giving them grandchildren—but I couldn't care less. They can make as many snide comments as they want.

Veronica and I are over for good.

The autumnal wind blows through the art festival in a cool wave. Leaves scatter across the ground, crunching under many pairs of wandering feet. If not for the baseball cap I've put on, my hair would look as much of a tousled mess as the people around me .

But while festival goers seem indifferent to the blustery weather, the artists who have put their work on display guard their pieces with their lives.

As I pass through, quietly observing as much as I'm judging, a painter rushes to keep her watercolor canvas from flying off its easel. Never mind that her work is unremarkable—her brush strokes are amateur and uneven and fruit bowls are always derivative. Poor girl, she loses the battle against the wind as her uninspired fruit bowl crashes to the ground and the canvas bends in half, smeared by mud.

The next section of artists happens to be my least favorite type of art that exists: pop art.

I walk through the lazy displays of technicolor vectors and feel like I'd rather gouge my eyes out than look at anymore.

How long is socially acceptable to hang around before leaving the person you came with? Should I even care when Theo's probably forgotten all about me?

I was her ride, but she's always been a people person. Maybe this Emma she wanted to talk with so badly can give her a ride home.

I'm on the verge of about-facing in the direction of my car when I hear my name in the distance.

"Professor Adler?!"

Nyssa's stretching her arm in the air, on tiptoe in an attempt to stand out among the crowd. Little does she realize she already does—while half of them match Theo's uniform of endlessly stretchy athleisure wear, the other half look like burnouts who got dressed in the dark, donning wrinkled flannel and ripped jeans.

I'd expect nothing more out of college students and the adults willing to attend the art festival they've put on .

And then there's Nyssa.

She's put-together like she's been put-together the other handful of times I've seen her. A beret sits atop the springy curls which frame her face, and her eyes light up as she sees I've noticed her. She's in a simple black and mauve dress with buttons and tiny flowers that's loose enough to be casual yet still somehow hints at her curves underneath.

As I make it closer, I realize the tiny flowers are dahlias.

Perfect for autumn. Perfect for the feminine and polished look she has while still being uniquely her .

Seconds pass and I'm still lost in thought, digesting every observable detail about her. The bright smile she's given me begins to dim, and she slowly lowers her arm as if realizing her mistake.

Her message.

Her chance at a second first impression.

The hope's fading. Something indescribable clicks inside of me and I take a couple steps forward, closer toward her booth.

"Miss Oliver," I say, nodding. "I'd say I'm surprised to see you here, but you are the one who mentioned the festival to me."

"And you've decided to come check out the art." She clears her throat, likely sensing the eager lilt to her voice. She tries again in a slightly lower register. "I mean, if that's why you're here. We did set up in the middle of downtown."

My shoulders lift in a shrug, hands still deep in my pockets, using the opportunity for a glance around the festival. "I'm not sure if I'd call it my decision. More so one that was made for me. I'm accompanying someone who really wanted to attend."

"Dragged here by a friend. That seems to happen a lot here. "

"Not a friend."

"Girlfriend? Sorry, is it strange that I said that? It's none of my business."

"Also not a girlfriend," I cut in quickly. I've become acutely aware of every move I make. How I've drifted closer and closer to her booth with every word exchanged. "My sister. She's around here somewhere."

"That's… strangely endearing." Nyssa's smile returns in its bright, perfect-toothed glory, even lighting her eyes a golden brown. Then she seems to realize what I have, that we've gotten sidetracked, and she flinches, gesturing to the sculpture on her right. "What do you think? It's one of the pieces I've showcased for the festival."

My brows draw together. I take yet another step closer. "You did this?"

"Painstakingly," she answers with a soft laugh. "It took me three weeks, two days, and one sleepless night, but I finished in time. I call it Touch of a Lover ."

I'm caught in a situation I rarely find myself in—without a single word readily available. I've bridged the rest of the gap between Nyssa's booth and where I had stood, coming within a few inches for an up-close study.

The sculpture's well done.

That much is immediately clear. The expertise is everywhere, from the smooth, polished finish to the delicate lines of its very design.

Two human hands curled toward each other. One slender and smaller. The other larger and almost overpowering. Each with their own human sensibilities caught in clay form. Eyeing the rounded knuckles in the larger hand juxtaposed against the sharper, oval-shaped nails on the smaller hand, it's hard not to be impressed.

I marvel how Nyssa took the time to etch so many details right down to the uniquely human lines on the inside of their palms.

But while the hands curl toward each other, fingers close to grazing, there's a distinct coldness to the sculpture. Some sort of distance she's communicating here, like two lovers yearning for closeness while being denied.

The elusiveness that sometimes comes with being so hopelessly in love…

I come to my senses with a hard blink against a sharp gust of wind, checking out of my rambling thoughts. Checking back into the moment where I find Nyssa watching me, wearing an expression that can only be described as uncertain.

She bites her bottom lip as if preparing for my brutal critique. As a student in my class, she'd know better than most that it's what I'm capable of.

"It's good," I say finally. "It's actually… very impressive."

"You think so?! I wasn't sure if it was too on-the-nose."

"Not at all."

"It's supposed to portray the duality of love," she explains. "Physical touch but also… the emotional aspect of what it means to be touched by a lover."

"And sometimes how that love can be so close but so far," I finish for her.

She nods. "Physically. Emotionally."

"It's great work. I'm sure most experts would agree. Though, admittedly, I'm no expert myself."

"It means a lot anyway. But you seem to know about sculpture. I wouldn't have pegged you as an art enthusiast."

"There's a joke there somewhere. What field do people who failed out of art school pursue?"

"Law," she laughs.

"Would that be the case for you? "

She shakes her head so that her tight curls bounce. "Oh… no. Art school was never even an option."

"You would be good enough. More than good enough."

"Babe!" calls Samson Wicker suddenly. The brawny blond lumbers through the crowd with his heavy footsteps and letterman jacket like we're not in the middle of a conversation.

As he shoulders his way into the small space Nyssa and I have created for ourselves, her smile loses its luster. It becomes more pained than anything.

"Samson," she sputters. "What are you doing here?"

"Being a good boyfriend like you complained about. You know you're always nagging me… saying I don't show up to your stuff," he says gruffly. "When do you go on break from this thing anyway? Let's go do something fun."

"You're kidding, right? I can't leave my art booth unmanned."

"So, uh, have this guy watch it. You can do that, right, Professor?" The oaf acknowledges me for the first time, flashing a toothy grin.

Tension screws shut my jaw. Normally, I'm able to censor emotion from bleeding into my expression. Now is not one of those times—my glare darkens as it zeros in on Samson Wicker and Samson Wicker alone.

Hot irritation rises from the inside. Boiling and white hot.

It must come across clear as day, because even an idiot like him catches on.

His grin falters and he turns to Nyssa instead. "I'm sure you can get somebody else. I saw Macey around here somewhere. Or Katie…"

"I'm not leaving my booth," she snaps, folding her arms. "So if you really do want to spend time with me, you'll have to stay here with me. You know, like a good, supportive boyfriend would."

He blows out a sigh, his sour expression lacking subtlety. "Fifteen, twenty minutes tops, babe. That's the best I can do. I've got practice later."

It takes me several more seconds to talk myself down from the ledge. The heat that has spread fast like a raging fire recedes, cooling off for the usual withdrawn, aloof mask I wear. I clear my throat to force their attention while ignoring the oaf and focusing on Nyssa.

"I should get going. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon, Miss Oliver."

Nyssa frowns like she wishes to protest, though she remains silent.

It would be useless for me to try to make sense of Nyssa's reaction as I turn and walk off. Yet I do so anyway, as I cross through the crowded festival and make my way to my car. For a minute or two to come, I sit behind the wheel and mull over the look she'd given me. The kind of look that said she wished I could stay. She wanted our conversation to continue.

Before doucheface interrupted.

How could that oaf be her boyfriend when she could barely stand his presence?

The negative energy seemed mutual; he could hardly stand being around her either. Had he even paid any mind to the sculpture she had on display? Did he take time to notice her artwork? Did he even give any thought to the meaning behind it?

Of course not. Oafs like Wicker rarely do. It's part of what makes them douches.

I've long wondered why women like Nyssa put up with men like Samson Wicker. Knocking on forty-two's door, I'm no closer to understanding than when I was twenty-two. It must be some type of allure. Some draw to bad boys, as cliché as it sounds.

On that note, I shove aside any more thoughts on the matter, turning on my BMW with a press of a button. Finally, a chance to do what I really want on a Sunday…

"You left me!" Theo cries out five hours later. "How could you just leave without saying anything?"

I raise both brows at her as she pulls open the passenger's side door and slides in. "Did you forget you wandered off without a word? Emma, Emma, over here!"

"I haven't seen her in three years. Can you believe she got divorced and moved back to Castlebury to start over? She's working admin at the police station and told me she's into men… and women nowadays."

"How fascinating," I say sarcastically. "But I had no intention of spending my entire Sunday at some university art festival."

Theo sighs, clicking on her seatbelt. "You're insufferable. Why do I put up with you again?"

"It probably has something to do with that pesky blood relation."

"Oh. Right. That. Are we sure we're related? Maybe I got switched at birth."

"Wishful thinking on your part," I say, turning the wheel to pull away from the curb. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

Theo launches into how she's spent her afternoon, telling me all about catching up with her college friend Emma. I'm only halfway listening as I drive us back to my house where her apple-green Volkswagen Beetle's parked.

Apparently, she spent the entire time wandering the art festival with Emma. They dined on finger foods available from the vendors present at the event and drank copious amounts of iced coffee. They had originally been making plans to attend a show at a local dive bar but decided against it due to the stormy weather.

Fat raindrops speckle the windshield as I brake for a red light. The breezy, sunlit autumn weather from earlier in the day has long since faded. Thick clouds and chilling winds have taken its place, with streetlights popping on and most people rushing home.

The red light turns green. My foot presses down on the gas as we pass another block, and then a woman walking fast down the street captures my attention. She's immediately familiar with her button-up dress and springy curls.

Nyssa Oliver, walking home in the rain. I almost slam on the brakes.

Almost hook a U-turn in the middle of the road.

As my BMW drifts further down the road, my eyes flick to the rearview mirror and I watch her slip out of sight.

A sensation like sinking stones hits my stomach. I check the rearview several more times on the drive home as if expecting Nyssa to suddenly reappear.

But she never does. She's miles behind, at the mercy of the impending rainstorm.

"Thanks for being a decent brother and coming back to pick me up. I know how inconvenient it was for you to stop in the middle of your evening reading," Theo says. She's unclicked her seatbelt and begun gathering the knickknacks she bought at the festival.

I blink and realize I've pulled into my driveway. I drove the rest of the way home without even recognizing that I had.

"Did I have any choice?" I ask, my words coming slower than usual. "You would've called Mom and tattled on me if I hadn't."

Theo whacks me one last time with the paper bag she's clutching and then wishes me good night. I stay behind the wheel as she slips behind hers, twisting on her headlights and carefully backing out of the driveway.

She waves goodbye yet again before she finally drives off. I give a nod, counting the seconds until she's rounded the street corner.

White noise roars in my ears. My heart beats faster, my pulse elevating. I'm not sure what comes over me other than to describe it as the rush spontaneity brings. In a rare turn of events, I make a snap decision. I go against habit and shift gears into reverse.

Backing out of my driveway, I turn in the same direction I've come from—the same route that'll take me back to the art festival, and hopefully, the street where I'd seen Nyssa Oliver walking home in the rain…