Something’s not right.
Veronica’s parents are acting weird.
When I show up this morning for my weekly Friday morning visit, they don’t have their usual list of tasks for me.
Instead, they invite me in for a cup of coffee and some teacakes.
Veronica’s mom, Sigrid, keeps giving me these nervous looks. And Frank, Veronica’s dad, won’t meet my eyes at all.
I know what to do in these situations, though. I’m the fourth of five brothers—plus our sister Amanda—so six kids. I’ve spent a lifetime learning that if you don’t know what’s going on, you should sit down, shut the fuck up, and open your ears and eyes until you can get the lay of the land. Then, and only then, can you figure out how to fix whatever’s gone wrong. Patch it up. Smooth it over. Peace-make the shit out of it. So I listen.
Sigrid, Frank, and I have been talking about the weather for the last fifteen minutes or so. Admittedly, that is a subject of super close interest to me right now. But still.
“So they’re not making any snow?” Frank says.
“On the lower mountain, a little,” I tell him. “But it’s not like you can make a whole backcountry’s worth of snow if the weather decides to make this the worst snow season in the region’s history.”
“Makes sense,” Frank says.
Both he and Sigrid are in their late seventies, and not in the greatest health. Frank lost a lot of mobility last year after a stroke. He can get around, but mostly with a walker. Sigrid has emphysema, and gets winded with the slightest exertion. So ever since Veronica and I got serious about each other, a few months ago, I’ve been coming over to their house to help out with anything I can—changing light bulbs, fixing minor plumbing issues, cleaning out the garage. It was my idea.
It started when Veronica mentioned that she worried nonstop about her parents staying put in their house, instead of moving into assisted living, and that she’d thought about hiring in-home care, but it was expensive, and her parents were stubborn. They didn’t want her to pay someone to put a safety railing in the bathtub! she told me, getting agitated.
I offered to install the bath bar. No big deal. The Wilder brothers may be outdoorsmen, but we were brought up to repair anything that needs fixing. So there aren’t too many around-the-house issues this handyman can’t tackle.
When I was installing the bath bar, I noticed that the tile needed regrouting, so I took that on. Then Sigrid asked if I could help her post some items for sale and giveaway online, since I’m a photographer. I was pleased to be useful, and didn’t fess up to her that it doesn’t take any special skill—or even my Nikon—to take those photos. And, well—the rest is history. I’m happy to help with repairs, and Sigrid is happy to bake for me.
Bonus: Veronica always thanks me for my efforts with lots of enthusiasm.
“Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do for you guys today?” I ask. As much as I enjoy Frank and Sigrid, I’m so tired of talking about this disaster of a ski season that I’d rather watch The Fault in Our Stars again.
Frank and Sigrid exchange looks. The small ball of unease in my belly turns into a thorny tangle of nettles. This has to be bad. Grim health news from Sigrid’s Monday visit to the pulmonologist maybe. Or Frank had another small stroke—he’s had a series of minor ones since the big one last year.
“Kane,” Sigrid says gently. “We have something to tell you. We hate to be the bearers of bad news.”
Oh, shit. Cancer. Alzheimer’s. Veronica will be crushed. I wonder if she already knows? It’s strange that this news would come from her parents and not from her—but maybe they want me to help cushion the blow. Maybe they want me to be with her when they tell her—so they need to prime me first.
“Veronica wanted to tell you herself. She really did. But she’s not very good if she thinks there’s going to be conflict. She’s—she’s actually terrible at conflict.”
Sigrid and Frank exchange another look, and my brain desperately, and unsuccessfully, tries to keep up with this new twist.
Sigrid sucks in a deep breath. “She really cares about you, Kane. But it’s just not working for her.”
Wait.
Wait a fucking second.
“Are you breaking up with me?” I demand.
No. This is not a thing. Adult women in their thirties do not have their parents break up with their boyfriends for them.
I must be misunderstanding.
But I am not misunderstanding. Sigrid is nodding, her expression tragic, her hand reaching for mine on the table. Covering mine.
“You’re so unbelievably kind, Kane. Everything you’ve done for Veronica. For us. She told us how much you want marriage and kids, how your brothers are starting to pair off and you want that too. She couldn’t bear to see the hurt on your face when she told you.”
I jerk my hand away. “I’m not hurt,” I say—not stopping to think about whether this is true, because self-preservation demands I say it no matter what. “I’m pissed. I’m pissed because who has their parents break up for them? I thought text messages were as low as it got!”
“She didn’t want to break up with you by text,” Sigrid says, in a God-forbid tone.
“Well, right,” I say. “Because that would be a dick move!” I am no longer watching my language, because we have left the reality zone and transported straight to Nopesville.
“Kane,” Sigrid says. She’s trying to be soothing.
I close my eyes.
“Part of why we all thought it would be a good idea for this news to come from us and not from Veronica is that Frank and I want to continue having a relationship with you.”
Her hand creeps over mine again.
“We’ve loved getting to know you, Kane,” Sigrid says. “We’ve loved having your help around the house. We don’t want to lose all that, just because Veronica is looking for someone a little more… driven.”
“Driven,” I repeat.
“Someone who isn’t a ski bum,” Frank supplies, obviously trying to be helpful.
“I’m not a ski bum,” I say, as calmly as I can.
“Well, you do ski for a living,” Sigrid offers.
“I lead ski trips for a living,” I correct.
Sigrid squints at me. “Not this winter so much, though.”
“Because there’s no snow.” It grinds out of my clenched jaw. This is the worst snow winter in the Bend area in recorded history, and the mountain is a patchy mess. We’re talking act-of-God mess.
“Kane.” Sigrid’s voice is super gentle as she reaches across the table and pats my hand again. “You’re the nicest guy Veronica’s ever brought home. You’re thoughtful, handy, kind—you’re basically the boy-next-door we always dreamed she’d fall for.”
Nicest.
Kind.
The boy next door.
How many times have I heard some version of that—as the prelude to or reason for a breakup?
I close my eyes and think about Veronica. She’s very pretty, with long, straight, honey-blond hair, and hazel eyes. She’s medium-height and just the right amount of curvy to feel sturdy under my hands. She likes movies and concerts and mystery novels, and we often order takeout so we can Netflix and chill. The sex is good. Well, decent.
I try to think if there’s anything else I can say about Veronica.
She has a cute dog. Actually, I freaking love that dog.
If I’m being honest with myself, I’d been thinking that if Veronica and I stayed serious and moved in together, I’d get to see the dog a lot more often.
And yes, I’d fantasized about marriage and kids.
Maybe more than I’d fantasized about Veronica herself.
What the hell have I been doing?
What the hell am I doing with my life?
All I know is that it isn’t this.
It can’t possibly have come to this, to my girlfriend’s parents breaking up with me and me feeling worse about the loss of my imaginary kids than the loss of my real live girlfriend.
For a split second I remember Vegas. When I wasn’t the boy next door. When I wasn’t sensible, responsible… or even kind, unless you want to give me credit for making sure the woman with me came first. Which… no. Since making sure both partners get off is the minimum requirement for decent sex, no one should be taking bonus points for it.
My heart rate kicks through the ceiling at the memory.
That sex? That sex wasn’t decent or even good.…
It was mind-blowing.
But that wasn’t you, a voice argues in my head.
Well, maybe I want it to be, I argue back.
What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, the voice retorts.
That doesn’t mean I have to ride this train to bananas town.
“Kane?” Sigrid interrupts my inner monologue.
“Sorry,” I say. “I gotta go. And, um, although I super much appreciate your willingness to friend zone me? I’m gonna take a raincheck on that.”
They look a little confused. Which is understandable. They’re not qualified to break up with their daughter’s boyfriend. It’s not in their skill set. I clarify. “No thank you on the staying friends with you guys. I appreciate the offer. But no thank you.”
Sigrid looks startled. But then her face softens into a sad smile. “We get it, Kane, we do. It’s asking a lot. But we had to try.”
Frank sticks out a hand. Shakes mine.
And, let’s face it, for better or for worse, I am the boy next door. I have some flaws, but being mean isn’t one of them.
“Frank,” I say, shaking back. “If you’re really in a pinch with repair stuff, let me know and I can take a crack at whatever it is.”
And, crossing the kitchen, I tip my coffee down the drain, toss the rest of my teacake into the trash, and—carefully setting my dishes in the sink—let myself out the front door.
I pause on the front stoop, noting a crack in the slate that could become a tripping hazard for Frank and Sigrid.
I’ll come back next week and patch it.
The boy next door has left the building, but you can’t take the boy next door out of the man.
I drag my sorry ass to work, where I’m greeted with chaos. My family runs an outdoor adventuring business—Wilder Adventures. Right now, three of my brothers, plus our co-worker Hanna, my brother Gabe’s wife, Lucy, and my mom, Barb, are heatedly arguing around the table.
“The thing is,” Gabe says sternly—he says pretty much everything sternly, because he’s the big boss and also just bossy—“It’s never as good when they do half and half.”
“I agree,” my mom says. She often backs Gabe’s play, so this isn’t shocking. I think she’s still trying to get back in his good graces after she hired Lucy behind his back to revamp the business he’s basically run since he was fifteen. It was a pretty low blow, sure… but on the other hand, it resulted in him—and us—gaining Lucy, so actually no one is complaining.
“I feel like they always skimp. It’s like if you can’t commit, they punish you by holding back on both.”
“I just feel like no one ever takes my vote seriously,” my youngest brother Easton says.
“Your nickname is Easton the Panty Melter,” Hanna says. “No one can take you seriously.”
In addition to being a close family friend, Hanna’s my partner in the ski trips, and one of my best friends. She’s also Easton’s opposite. Like matter and anti-matter opposites. It still feels miraculous to me every time they’re both in the same room and the universe keeps spinning. Or expanding. Whatever it does. Not a science guy.
I hold a hand up. “Hey, everyone. Can I help here?”
They all turn to look at me, and I swear, their faces all go clear, like I’ve just swept away the stress. Honestly, that is gratifying after the morning I’ve had. Veronica may not appreciate me, but my family definitely does.
“Kane,” Gabe says sternly. See note above on sternly. But the thing about Gabe is, he’s an armored nuclear sub filled with puppies and kittens—terrifying on approach, until you catch sight of the cargo. “See if you can get them to see reason on this. It would be so much better to get three larges with one topping on each pizza than to get six different toppings.”
Oh. Pizza.
Yeah. This is a job for Super Kane, definitely.
“I got this,” I say, holding out a hand. Gabe hands me the notebook and pen he was holding. “But wait—where’s Amanda?”
Usually my only sister, who’s a caterer, makes lunch for us.
“She got called for a last-minute lunch catering job. There was a cancellation and it’s a big company so lots of potential business down the line. And she was short staffed, so she had to be on site.”
“Got it. Pizza orders. Easton.” I start with him, because if someone isn’t feeling heard, it’s a good idea to let them speak first. And no, I’ve never taken any kind of mediation course or anything. My family life is a mediation course.
“Hawaiian.”
I note it. “Hanna.”
“Anything with meat, but fruit on pizza, or touching my half of a pizza, is not okay.” She glares at Easton. He glares back.
“Gabe.”
“Pepperoni.”
“Brody.”
Brody is the Wilder family’s resident bad boy. Or maybe it’s more precise to say he’s our former bad boy, since he’s been heavily reformed since he fell for his fiancée, Rachel.
“Supreme.”
“Mom.”
“Mushroom. But as long as it doesn’t have onions, I’m fine.”
“Lucy?”
“Anything vegetarian.”
I quickly sketch out three pizzas, then push the notebook across the table. With my pen as a pointer, I explain my reasoning.
“One half-Hawaiian, half Supreme. Because neither Easton nor Brody is concerned about how half-pizzas are inferior to whole pizzas, amirite?” I point the pen at both of them, and they nod.
I point to the next slightly lopsided round. “One pepperoni pizza, unsullied by having to share its surface with any other topping, for Gabe, Hanna, and Mom, since she’s in the no-halfsies camp and her only hard rule is no onions.”
“Slick,” Brody says, admiringly.
“And”—I point to the third pizza—“one half mixed veggie, half mushroom, for Lucy, and Mom, if she wants to indulge her mushroom craving, even if it means a subpar topping-to-pizza ratio.”
They are all silent.
“Can I take that as a yes?” I ask.
Nods all around.
“Thank you, Kane,” my mother says, giving me big grateful Mama eyes. Take my word for it, that’s a thing.
“Kane, you’re a saint. I’ll call it in,” Lucy says, reaching for her phone. A moment later, she’s relaying the order.
I exhale and relax. Another peacekeeping mission fulfilled.
As everyone scatters to get in a few minutes of work before the food arrives, I pull out my camera to snap photos. I’ve gotten in the habit of doing it whenever I can, because every once in a while I’ll come up with something that’s great for social media. Like right now, Easton is checking life jackets and paddles for wear, so I snap a few of him, because whenever a photo of Easton goes up on Instagram, we get bookings. Plus, of course, it’s never a bad thing to emphasize how seriously we take safety.
My mother comes up next to me. “Kane,” she says. “That pizza order.”
“Uh-oh,” I say. “What did I forget?”
She frowns at me, and I quickly race back through the conversation to make sure I didn’t ignore anyone’s preference. Nope, all good.
“You never said what kind of pizza you wanted.”
I hadn’t. Because I hadn’t bothered to figure it out. It would just be one more constraint to add to the order, and all the choices sounded fine with me.
I open my mouth to say so, but at that exact moment, every phone in the room buzzes. That would be the family chat. We all grab for them, and immediately, all eyes turn to me.
Clark has texted: I need Kane in Hott office ASAP.
We all look at each other. Clark is…
Well, Clark is not prone to texting the whole family when he needs just one person. Or using the phrase “ASAP.”
What’s up? I text back, then add: At headquarters. Can be there in ten.
Just come.
Everyone’s looking at me.
On my way.