Deb looks awful when she opens the front door. Her face is ashen, the circles under her eyes deep.
“Hi, love,” she says, and I can feel the darkness behind her words. Like she needs a thousand naps to recover from whatever she’s going through.
When I enter the house, I smell something off. Like food left out too long.
“Tea?” she offers, walking to the kitchen. She’s dressed in an oversized blue shirt, the fabric of her black jeans folding on itself by her ankles.
“No, I’m all right,” I say.
She grabs a cup for herself, puts the kettle on. I walk towards her and hold out my hand. “Let me.”
She hands me the cup, then sits down at the island, eyes staring out of the bay window. When it boils, I pour the water from the kettle into her cup. “How are you?”
She shrugs. “Fine, I guess.”
I leave the tea bag in the cup and turn to her. “Are you sure?”
She raises an eyebrow, then drops it like she’s too tired to keep it in place. “You mean from the other night?”
I look down at her fingernails. They’re cut short, the cuticles red and swollen. I nod.
Another shrug. “Yes, well, I can’t imagine that could have been ignored, could it?”
I hand her the steaming cup with sugar and milk. “I’m just worried,” I say. “Richard said you were a bit flustered—”
She looks startled at the mention of his name, and I quickly explain. “I ran into him yesterday. On my way to Spanish class. He told me you had a bit too much to drink but…” I take a breath. “I don’t believe him.”
She leans back. “Yes, I’m sure he said that.”
“If there’s anything I can do, please tell me.”
I look at the overflowing garbage bin in the corner of the room, the source of the foul smell. “I can help around the house? Anything.”
She glances over to the bin, then splats out a chuckle. “Oh, it’s a mess, isn’t it?”
All I want to do is hug her. “It’s fine.”
“Did he say anything else?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. I can tell her everything Richard said yesterday, but something about the way he asked for my number—and the way I just gave it away—makes me decide not to. No good can come from that.
“No,” I say. “Nothing else.”
Deb grunts. A few beats pass before she says, “Thanks for stopping by love, but you can’t help with this.” She takes a sip of tea. “Love is more complicated than it looks. You think it’s hard now, but trust me, it only gets worse.”
She sees the frown on my face and her face softens. “Not to be morbid about you and Seb. You’re lovely together, I just…”, she fumbles for words, “I just mean that young couples worry about the small things. When you’re together as long as we’ve… well, there are other things to worry about.”
“I can imagine.”
“But you don’t have to worry,” she says. “Not at all.”
I place my hands on the island. “Are you? You know… worried?”
She twists her mouth, gives a small nod. I feel the unspoken words hovering between us, the truth coupled with the pain.
“Is he cheating?”
“Is it that obvious?”
I drop my gaze. The silence builds. When it’s almost too painful to let it continue, Deb’s voice shatters the quiet.
“Right, well, that’s that.” She slams her hands on the island. “Let’s do something else, shall we?”
“How about some shopping?” I offer. “Shopping always makes me feel better.”
It’s not really true, but anything will do to get her in a better mood. She agrees to let me set up an ASOS account for her. We sit together, hunched in front of her computer in the study. And before I can scroll for outfits, she’s off her chair. “Wine?”
I doubt for a moment, looking at the time.
“Come on,” she says. “It’s past twelve.”
She pours us two glasses, and looks visibly more relaxed. We choose clothes that Eleanor would call easy grabs. Items that can look good on any shape, especially the bigger ones. Flowy dresses. Adjustable belts. Deb becomes enthusiastic, watching the online videos of plus-sized models in printed winter dresses.
“We’re not trying to hide your shape,” I say. “We’re trying to accentuate what there is, and hide what you feel uncomfortable with.”
By the time we’re done, we have four items in our checkout basket. Our trial clothes. Once we know her fit based on these, it’ll help us to expand her wardrobe.
Deb’s putting in her credit card details when I get a message from Greg.
These reflexive verbs keep falling from the sky, don’t you think?
He’s sent a picture of him pulling a sad face next to his Spanish textbook. I can’t help but smile.
“And that?” Deb asks.
“It’s just Greg,” I say. “From class.”
She looks at me questioningly. “He’s British,” I continue. “He’s in my Spanish class. We’ve gotten pretty close. He’s really funny.”
I tell her about our weekly outings to the bar, his story about making Spain my Holland.
“Careful,” she says. “Seb is a lovely gent, but I doubt he’d like another man moving in on his lady.”
For a moment, I feel embarrassed. Am I spending too much time with this guy? I’ve been so lonely here, so alienated, that I’ve grabbed any opportunity for a friendship. Deb included. Apart from her, Greg is the only friend I have in this town.
But then I remember who he reminds me of, and I suddenly feel unsettled. So maybe there is some casual flirting. But that’s normal, isn’t it?
“I have a question,” I say, eager to change the subject. “How well do you know Ana?”
“She’s a sweetheart,” Deb says. “Why do you ask?”
I think of Seb’s sister, with her soft eyes and warm demeanour. How friendly she’s been to me ever since I met her at the hospital. “I’m just curious,” I say. “Seb doesn’t talk about her a lot.”
“When we moved here, we only saw the Levientos during the holidays,” Deb says. “Alma and Manuel mostly stayed in Madrid when the children were growing up. It was closer to schools. But when they were here in town, Ana was always such a friendly young thing. Much like her father, bless his soul.”
“Seb must have been young then,” I say, remembering the photograph I found in Alma’s house of the siblings together, Ana with her pigtails.
“Much younger. And very different,” Deb’s brow furrows like she’s recalling a memory. “He was more reserved back then.”
“But were they close?”
“Who?”
“Seb and Ana.”
She tilts her head. “I think so. Maybe more so when they were younger.”
“Seb told me they weren’t close. Even now, they don’t seem to be.”
“Well, they would play together all the time when they were little,” Deb says, taking a sip of wine. “Maybe some sibling rivalry started to surface.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, from what I remember, Ana was always the golden child. Alma wasn’t a big talker. She still isn’t. But Manuel—he would parade his daughter around every chance he got. She was clearly his favourite. Seb was a bit more troublesome, by the looks of him.”
Questions spring to mind. “Do you think Seb disliked Ana? Because he knew his dad preferred her?”
Deb raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know. We rarely went to their house. But when they came over to ours, Ana was the star of the show. And it was pretty clear that Seb didn’t like it.”
I picture a disgruntled, jealous child. An image so far removed from the handsome, successful man I sleep next to at night. But then I remember that morning—Seb at the dining room table, arms crossed and lips pouting. Like a child about to throw his toys out the cot. Sending his sister off in tears.
“But actually,” Deb says, “Come to think of it…”
She bites her lip, looks deep in thought.
“What?”
“No, it’s just—now that you mention it, I do remember one summer where things might have changed. I told you they came over a few times during the holidays? But one summer, they didn’t. We invited them, of course, but Manuel kept making excuses. He looked angry, now that I think about it. They left early for Madrid, too. Ana must have been a teenager then. Seb a little younger. The two of them were never around again after that. At least not together, from what I can remember.”
“So something must have happened, right?”
She shrugs. “Maybe, but then again, maybe they just had a falling out. Children grow up and leave the nest, you know.”
I look at Deb’s nest—empty. Is there a reason she never had children? Was Richard against the idea, or was it her decision? I look at her and offer a polite smile, thinking of Seb. The faded photograph resurfaces again, Seb standing beside Ana. Deb’s right: families argue all the time. I can attest to that.
But what if something else happened that summer? Something more than just sibling rivalry?
“Family is complicated,” Deb says, shaking her head. “You never know what’s lurking beneath the surface. And once you finally do, it’s too late. Maybe that’s why we’re all such a mess.”