Outside the Lines: A Novel

“This better be good,” was Georgia’s greeting when I called her the Saturday morning after my first visit to Hope House. “Like, I-need-to-borrow-one-of-your-kidneys-because-I’m-­dying good.”

“Good morning to you, too, sunshine!” I said, smiling into the phone. I sat on my couch, sipping my way through a huge mug of coffee and staring out at the rain. The drizzle from the night before had morphed into showers; the raindrops pelted the metal roof of my house, making it sound like I was inside a tin can. Jasper lay at my feet, whimpering, because I still needed to take him for a walk.

“Late night?” I asked Georgia.

“Mmphm,” she grunted. “What time is it?”

I glanced at the clock on the DVD player on the shelf by the television. “Almost nine o’clock. Want to go get breakfast?”

“Ugh. No.”

“C’mon,” I cajoled. “I’m buying. And grease is good for a hangover.”

Georgia groaned. “I’m not fit for public consumption. Can’t you just come over and cook us something?”

“Nope! I feel like letting someone else do the work this morning. And I want to hear about your date.”

She groaned again. “Oh, all right, fine. You win. Where do you want to go?”

“Where do you think?”

“Luna Park Café?”

“Yep. I’m dying for some cinnamon roll French toast. We can take Jasper for a walk afterward to burn it all off.”

“We’ll have to walk to Portland to burn off those carbs.”

“Carbs schmarbs. I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.”

“You’d better bring me coffee or I might have to shoot you.”

“You don’t own a gun. So throw on some deodorant and get ready to go.”

Georgia and I had met at the same restaurant where I found Jasper. She was working nights as a server to put herself through the last year of her bachelor’s degree in business. Having graduated culinary school, I was a line cook searing steaks or whipping up risotto when a table was done with their appetizer. We first spoke on an exceptionally busy night. Georgia was a new employee, so when she told me to start cooking two filets, I peeked through the stainless steel shelf that guarded the cooks from the waitstaff.

“Are you sure your table is ready for them?” I asked her. I’d seen the apps for that ticket go out less than five minutes before she told me to fire the steaks.

“Yes, I’m sure,” she said. “The bastards tore through those mussels like a couple of king crabs. It was disgusting. Like the Discovery Channel or something.” She dropped her chin to her chest and gave me a pointed but friendly look. “Are you sure you can cook fast enough to keep up with them?”

I laughed. “I’ll do my best.”

“Fabulous.” She winked at me and sashayed back out toward the dining room, her plush hips swinging in concert with each step. She was short but had one of those glorious hourglass shapes and the kind of cascading dark auburn waves that gave men Victoria’s Secret wet dreams. I could have hated her for this, but her energy was great, easygoing and accessible. I liked her immediately.

Our kitchen manager, Dean, caught our interaction. “That is one hot piece of ass,” he commented to me as he leered at her backside.

“One hot piece of ass whose daddy is an employment lawyer!” Georgia cheerfully called out over her shoulder before the door swung shut behind her.

“Uh-oh,” I said. “Can you say ‘sexual harassment’? She has a witness, too.”

“Whatever,” Dean huffed at me, and then went to hide in his office.

It was like that for Georgia, I thought as we sat in a booth at the Luna Park Café, breathing in the luscious scent of garlicky home fries and peppery sausage while we waited for our breakfast to be served. Being attracted to her was a side effect of being a male in her presence. Even hungover she looked gorgeous: Her hair was pulled up in a French twist that somehow managed to appear messy but totally put together. Her skin was creamy and her hazel eyes lit up with every smile. Adding in the cleavage and pouty lips, it was no wonder men were constantly hitting on her. What was best, though, was how unimportant all this was to Georgia, how little she let it infect her ego. “Give me a man who notices my soul instead of my cup size,” she liked to say, “and I’ll introduce you to the man of my dreams.”

“So, tell,” she said, now fortified by the triple Americano I’d brought to her house. “How was the shelter?” I knew better than to talk too much in the car. It was a good idea to wait until the caffeine ran a steady course through her veins.

I shrugged. “Okay, I guess, except the guy who runs the place was a little rude at first.”

She cocked her head. “Aren’t those social-worker-type fellas supposed to be all liberal and easygoing?”

“You’d think so. But he wasn’t okay with putting a picture of my dad anywhere. He was afraid it would freak out his clients. Like he was reporting them to the government or something. He was kind of snippy about it.”

Georgia poured more cream into the huge mug of coffee in front of her and stirred. “Huh. You’re never snippy with people at your job, right?”

“Shut up.”

She grinned. “I guess I get what he was worried about. Don’t you?”

“Sure, after he explained it. I think it was just the way he said it that rubbed me the wrong way.”

“Did you want him to rub you the right way?” Georgia wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

I laughed, almost spitting out the sip of orange juice I’d just taken. “Georgia! No!”

She sat back and gave me a knowing look. “Ah. So he wasn’t cute?”

“No,” I said, then reconsidered. “Well, yeah, I guess he was decent. In a short-man, I’m-afraid-he-might-have-a-small-pecker kind of way.”

“Oh, come on, now,” she said, rolling her eyes. “That’s a total myth. I’ve disproved it several times myself. Height has no more to do with the size of a man’s equipment than the size of his feet.”

I laughed. “That’s right. What was his name again, the one with the size-fifteen shoe?”

Georgia shuddered. “Ugh. Don’t remind me. Tiniest pecker I’ve ever seen.” She held up her pinky finger and waggled it at me. “I gave him a couple merciful faked orgasms and was out the door.”

“How generous of you.” I took another sip of orange juice before setting down my glass. “Why do you care if the guy at the shelter was cute?”

She gave me another wicked grin. “Because he’s the first man you’ve mentioned since the last one. That mama’s boy, Ryan.” Georgia was well aware of my most recent boyfriend’s propensity to live off his mother’s income and insisted on celebrating when I finally broke up with him six months ago. She continued. “There had to be something about him,” she said, referring to Jack.

“Other than the fact he started off our conversation by irritating me, there wasn’t much. Though he did manage to talk me into volunteering there on Tuesday night.”

“Really? Doing what?”

“Cooking. He said the best way to find my dad was to get to know the kind of people he spends time with. Build relationships with them. Like maybe they’d keep an eye out for him or something. Or maybe my dad would just show up there.”

“Makes sense. You’ll have to let me know how it goes.”

The waitress arrived with our plates, which really should have been called platters. Mine was overloaded with the cinnamon roll French toast I’d been craving along with a huge mess of scrambled eggs and maple link sausages. Georgia had gone for broke and ordered the strawberry blintzes with eggs and sausages, too. It all smelled heavenly.

“Oh, holy yum,” Georgia moaned as she closed her eyes and took the first bite. “My trainer is going to kill me for this.”

“So don’t tell him.”

“I don’t have to. It’s like he smells the extra fat cells on my ass.”

I snickered, trying not to spit out my food. “Yet another reason I don’t have a trainer.”

“You don’t have a trainer because you have a freak-of-nature metabolism. It’s a miracle I put up with you.” She winked at me, then looked thoughtful. “So, I think this guy irritating you is a good sign.”

“Really?” I mumbled with my mouth full of warm, sweet bread slathered in syrup. I felt my serotonin lifting, but I wasn’t sure if it was from the sugar rush or just spending time with Georgia.

“Yep,” she said. “It means he pushed your buttons. No buttons pushed means there’s no sexual energy going on. It’s classic psychology.”

I sat back against the padded booth and twirled my fork. “Do tell, Dr. Freud.”

“Oh, it’s not Freudian. It’s experience. My best lovers have been the guys who irritate the shit out of me. Remember Dean?”

I laughed. “Our sexual-harassing kitchen manager? I still can’t believe you actually slept with him. Yuck.”

“I know. It was sick.” She stuck a strawberry in her mouth and chewed, waving her fork in the air as she spoke. “But he was hellishly good in bed. A total asshole. But you know, whatever a girl has to endure to get off.”

At Georgia’s loud pronouncement, the couple at the table across from us stopped their conversation and turned their heads in our direction.

“Nice!” I said, ducking my head down and shaking it in disbelief. “Have you no shame?”

Georgia ignored my question. “You know who else pushes my buttons, don’t you?”

“Men with big fingers?”

She ignored me again. “Your hot little brother. That boy is getting fine.”

“Um, ew? He’s my brother, Georgia. He’s a kid.”

“A kid with massively multiplying muscles, my friend. I’m working out at his gym, remember? You should see him look at himself in the mirrors. His cocky attitude pisses me off.”

“And you find this appealing?”

“I know, I’m twisted. But can you say ‘boy toy’?” Her eyes sparkled as she took an entire sausage link in her mouth.

The guy at the table across from us hadn’t taken his eyes off her. His female companion noticed this and kicked his leg under their table. “What!?” he exclaimed, and she shot him a dirty look.

“I’m actually going to Bryce’s competition today,” I said. “I promised my mom if I didn’t have to work I’d find a way to fit it in, so I asked Juan to cover the first part of my shift. Want to come?”

“Can’t. I have an appointment.” Since many of Georgia’s clients ran Fortune 500 companies during the week, she had to make her coaching services available pretty much 24/7. Their schedule was her schedule.

“Who is it this time?”

“Some start-up geek who wants to learn to be more assertive with his staff. He’s practically twelve, so that shouldn’t be a problem. His balls should drop any day.” She rolled her eyes before glancing at her watch. “In fact, I need to get going.”

“What about our walk?”

She motioned to the waitress to bring our check. “I’ll have to take a rain check. Call me later?”

“Sure. We’ll dissect your date with the lawyer.” I paused to hand the waitress two twenty-dollar bills and told her to keep the change.

Georgia waved her hand at me over the remains of her breakfast, dismissing the idea. “Eh, there’s nothing to dissect.”

“He didn’t irritate you?”

“Not even in the slightest.”

“That’s too bad,” I said, laughing as I stood up to pull on my coat.

“No worries,” she said. “Tomorrow’s another day.”

By the time I had dropped Georgia off, driven home, and walked Jasper, I arrived at the community center where Bryce’s competition was being held about ten minutes after the event began. I spotted my mother and John sitting on the bleachers before they saw me, and the sight of my mother’s chemo-induced short hair didn’t fail to throw me. I had watched it disappear. I cried with her the first time she brushed her thick blond locks in front of the mirror and huge chunks fell to the ground. Now it was layered on her head in a fashionably spiked mess, similar to the style Rita wore. Even with the weight the steroids had packed on her she looked beautiful. Luminous, really. Nothing could disguise the light in her eyes as she looked up and laughed at something John had said. I had no memory of her looking at my father that way. I knew that she must have. I knew their life together wasn’t always filled with despair.

I pushed my way through the crowd and climbed up to their seats. “Hi!”

“Hi, honey,” my mom said, giving me a quick hug and a kiss. Out of habit, I gauged her temperature with my cheek against hers. She felt cool. Healthy. I sent off a little thanks to the universe for keeping her alive.

“Eden!” John bellowed. “How’s my girl?”

As usual, I cringed internally at his claim on me. I’m not yours, the child in me said, pouting. I’m my daddy’s girl. I was well practiced at not letting this feeling show on my face. The few times I had shown it when I was younger, my mother made me regret it.

“You will show your stepfather respect, young lady,” she’d said one time. “Do you understand me?” When I didn’t respond right away she gave my arm a little shake.

“Fine!” I pouted in a manner only an adolescent girl could pull off. “Okay! I understand!” I liked John, but it bothered me how hard he tried. Everything was over-the-top. His Hawaiian-print shirts were too loud; he was jolly when just happy would do. He insisted on taking me to Mariners games and I didn’t even like baseball.

I squashed my irritation now and sat next to my mother in the bleachers. “I’m good, John. How are you?” Since marrying John, my mother was happier than I’d ever seen, so I did my best to be nice to her husband, if only for her sake. She was an entirely different person than she’d been with my dad—serene, relaxed, and cheerful. She still worked, but only part-time, and she wasn’t the only person responsible for paying the bills. Worry didn’t constantly pull at the muscles in her face; she no longer cried more than she laughed. There had been a fundamental shift inside her.

“Good, good. I’m great. Kickin’ ass and takin’ names.” He grinned at me. John was a bear of a man, well over six feet tall, and packing enough flesh to make me wonder how he could continue to pass the firemen’s physical fitness test. Didn’t they make him climb a ladder? He was always clean-shaven and I didn’t think I had ever seen him without a perfectly sheared crew cut. From the day my mother told me she was going to marry John, I couldn’t help but compare him to my father. And while he was the physically bigger man, in my eyes John always came up short. My father taught me things; John liked to boast about how much he knew. John was loud, but my father had a pizzazz my stepdad could never match.

I searched the stage for Bryce but instead saw four incredibly well-muscled men in Speedo-type bathing suits striking various poses. “Did I miss much?” I asked. “I had to take Jasper for a walk.”

“No,” John said. “He isn’t up yet. We’ll see him in the next round.”

“How was work last night?” my mom asked.

“It was good.”

“Did you go out afterward?” She prodded me, fishing, I was sure, for whether or not I’d changed my mind and gone prowling for a new boyfriend.

“I did go out, but not to a club, if that’s what you’re asking,” I said. I didn’t want to bring up my visit to the shelter, since I knew it would only upset her. I watched her pale eyebrows furrow and knew she was going to push the issue.

“Where did you go, then?”

I sighed, then leaned in toward her. “I went to a shelter to see if I could put a picture of Dad up.”

My mother averted her gaze from me to the stage. “Um-hmm,” she murmured, tilting her head toward John, indicating that she didn’t want me to talk about my father in front of him. I knew this, which was why I’d tried to avoid telling her, but honestly, her reluctance to mention my father in John’s presence was a little ridiculous, considering John was one of the firefighters on the scene the night the medics took my father away. He sat with my mother and me in our living room, rattling off soothing words and nodding empathetically when she cried about losing her husband to his illness. Six months later she was pregnant and John had a son on the way and a stepdaughter. It’s not like the man didn’t know what he was getting himself into.

“I met a guy,” I said, knowing this, at least, would pique her interest.

“At a homeless shelter?” she asked, swinging her face around to look at me. Her eyes widened as she put her hand on top of my leg. “Please, tell me you’re joking.”

I laughed. “It wasn’t a resident, Mom. It was the guy who runs the place. He suggested I volunteer my cooking services so I can get to know the clients better. See if any of them know Dad.”

Before my mother had a chance to respond, John stuck his fingers into his mouth and let out an ear-piercing whistle. I looked to the stage and there was Bryce, standing under the lights wearing nothing but a tiny purple spandex bathing suit. His skin was tinted the approximate shade of an Oompa-Loompa’s and his light blond hair looked neon in contrast. He began what I supposed was his routine, working his way through poses similar to the ones the men before him had performed.

I giggled, and my mother elbowed me. “Be nice,” she said under her breath.

“I’m trying. But he’s . . . my brother. It’s a little weird to be ogling him.”

“All right, Bryce!” John yelled above the rest of the crowd’s cheers. “Show ’em what you got!”

“Can he not show so much of it?” I whispered in my mom’s ear, and she chuckled.

“Well, he does take after his father,” Mom said.

“Aaahh! TMI, Mom!”

Oblivious to our amusement, John continued to hoot and holler for his son. After Bryce’s weight class left the stage, the three of us made our way down the bleachers. John made sure my mother’s arm was hooked tight into the crook of his elbow before taking a step; his hand pressed hard on top of hers. I felt an overwhelming sense of tenderness toward him in that moment, grateful for his unfailing strength when my mother needed it so much. John had his faults, but his devotion to my mother was something I would never question.

We waited outside where Bryce had told John he would meet us for about fifteen minutes. Both Mom and John went to the rest­room, leaving me alone when Bryce approached. I was happy to see he had changed into a pair of sweats and a T-shirt.

“Sis!” He gave me a hug. “You made it. Mom said she wasn’t sure if you would.”

“What, and miss my brother in a banana hammock? No way.” Even though Bryce wasn’t more than a couple of inches taller than me, I felt like a child in his substantial embrace. He’d been a strong but sinewy teenager, all long, gawky arms and too-big feet. Now his obsessive work at the gym was paying off. It was good to see him coming into his own.

He laughed, flashing a set of unnaturally brilliant white teeth. “You are one of the chosen few.”

“You’re paying for my therapy, you know. That image is forever burned on my retinas.” I punched his arm, then pulled back my fist, shaking out the stinging sensation the contact with his muscle had ignited. “Ow!”

He grinned. “I know, right?”

I grabbed his bicep with both hands and didn’t even come close to my fingers touching. “You are getting huge. How much weight have you gained?”

“About twenty pounds.” He flexed under my touch and my hands popped off. “All muscle, baby.”

“Wow,” I said. “Remind me not to piss you off.”

“Ah, I love you, Ed. You never piss me off.”

“That’s a lie. And don’t call me Ed.” Bryce couldn’t figure out how to say “Eden” when he was learning to talk so I became “Ed” by default. John made it worse by adding a “Mr.” before the nickname. I was thirteen and in the midst of a great deal of adolescent angst. Bryce was two and made a habit of toddling around, pointing at me and saying, “Mr. Ed! Mr. Ed!” to anyone who’d listen. I was already struggling with gaining a sibling after ten years of only-child-hood; this did not further endear him to me.

“Okay, Ed,” Bryce teased.

I punched him again and the pain in my knuckles reminded me why I shouldn’t have. “Ow!”

He cracked up just as John walked over and grabbed Bryce in a bear hug, lifting him off the ground. “My son, the bodybuilder!”

“Pops, knock it off!” Bryce struggled and managed to drop back down to the floor.

Our mother hugged Bryce. “You looked fantastic up there, sweetie. Very good job.”

Bryce scowled. I could tell he was not happy John had picked him up, and I didn’t blame him. For a man in his early fifties, John could be as exuberant as a Great Dane puppy.

“What’s with the tan-in-a-can?” I asked Bryce, trying to lighten his mood. “Did you lose a bet?”

“Ha-ha,” Bryce said. “Very funny. I haven’t gotten the right formula yet. You have to do it in layers and all the other guys who compete say it’s a bitch to get it perfect. You want to help me put it on next time?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.”

“Tempting . . .” I pretended to ponder this, tapping my finger against the side of my mouth. “But no. Spray-tanning my naked brother just isn’t on my bucket list. You might get Georgia to bite, though.”

“If I’m lucky.” Bryce’s eyebrows rose suggestively as he spoke. “I’ve seen her at the gym. That girl is smokin’ hot.”

“Bryce!” our mom said, slapping him on the forearm. “I didn’t teach you to speak that way about your sister’s friends.”

“I did,” John said with a hearty chuckle. “You want to come out to dinner with us later, son?” John asked him. “We’re going to Olive Garden.” Olive Garden was John’s idea of high-class cuisine. I did my best to keep my chef sensibilities in their proper place and not hold it against him.

Bryce shook his head. “Sorry, Pops. I have to meet a client at the gym.”

“On a Saturday night?” John asked.

Bryce shrugged. “I work when it’s convenient for them. If I don’t, I don’t get paid and I have to move back in with you guys.”

“We’ll see you later then, honey,” my mom said. She hugged him again and John shook his hand.

“I’m proud of you, Bryce,” my stepfather said.

“Thanks, Pops.”

My heart ached a bit watching this exchange. Despite the ways he managed to get under my skin, John meant well. He’d cheered me on at basketball games and cried when I accepted my high school diploma and culinary degree. He’d told me he was proud of me many times over the years. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe him, but it wasn’t his voice I needed to hear saying those words.

After Mom and John left, Bryce walked me out to my car. The rain had dissipated, leaving a sweet, freshly scrubbed scent in the air. I told my brother about my visit to the morgue and Hope House.

“You let me know if you need some muscle to back you up down there,” he said.

“Ah, planning to use your powers of tan-orexia for good rather than evil?”

He reached over and gave my side a quick pinch, tickling me. I swatted at his hand. “Hey! Knock it off.”

“You knock it off.”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. You did great today, little bro.” I gave him a quick hug. “I love you, shithead.”

“I love you, too.” He flashed the smile I knew had won him countless high school girlfriends’ hearts and broken just as many. “Be careful, okay? You’re the only sister I’ve got.”