Chapter 5
While Mom’s potato salad isn’t famous, her gatherings are. Nobody strives to be the perfect hostess more than Kimberly Carter.
She woke me up at six o’clock this morning to prepare the backyard. Not only did I have to mow the lawn—something I will gladly never do again—but she pulled out the ladder so I could string lights and lanterns from the trees. The folding tables stacked in the basement are scattered about the space, covered in fabric tablecloths because she would never use tacky plastic （her words, not mine） even though this is a literal barbecue and they’ll probably be ruined by the end of the night.
What started out as a small gathering with some of her church friends and my dad’s golfing buddies has morphed into a completely different beast. My mom told me to invite Ashleigh and Grant, whom she then directed to invite their neighbors, and so on and so on. Steaks from Meijer turned out to be steaks, chicken, hot dogs, and burgers and five pitchers of sangria. Neighbors I remember from before I moved to LA mingle with neighbors I’ve never seen before. There’s constant motion at the gate entrance as people come and go, each person bringing a new casserole dish with them.
The good news is that we now have ample potato salads to choose from and only three of them have raisins, dried cranberries, and/or walnuts. The bad news is that someone brought creamy pineapple fluff salad and Karen D. brought “creamy overnight fruit salad” that she’s been trying to force me to eat for the last hour. I’ve been gone for too long. I forgot how distinctly midwestern it is to throw a bunch of random junk into a bowl, toss in whipped cream or mayo, and call it a salad.
Nineties country and hip-hop alternate on the speaker system my dad installed last year. Voices blend together, bursts of laughter ringing out like an orchestra. Toddlers run freely as their parents chase after them, muttering rushed apologies to the innocent bystanders they almost take out. And even though I’m what one could call an intense introvert, I’m enjoying the energy buzzing in the backyard. Which is why it’s so noticeable when a chill sweeps through the air and good vibes turn toxic.
I look over my shoulder just in time to see Nate saunter through the gate. I don’t like to admit how attuned my body is to him, that it always remembers what I’ve worked for years to forget. While the other people in attendance have come in regular old jeans and T-shirts, he’s wearing khaki shorts, tennis shoes—not the same ones I sprayed him in—and a button-up Hawaiian-print shirt. On anyone else, it would look ridiculous, but somehow, he makes it work.
The cockiness in his steps as he walks through the crowd.
The confidence in his voice as he greets his neighbors.
The way his forearms flex when he offers an enthusiastic handshake.
Nate owns the room. And dislike him as I may, even I can’t deny that his presence is electric.
“He was always such a handsome boy.” My mom sneaks up behind me and scares the bejesus out of me. “Go say hello.”
“Oh no. I don’t think that’s necessary.” I try to object, but she’s already linked her arm through mine and is dragging me through the grass.
“Nonsense.” She shushes me just like she did when I was a child. “This is your home and you’re a host too. Don’t be rude.”
I want to ask where this energy was for the multiple other people she let me ignore, but she offers a strong shove between my shoulder blades before I have the chance. I turn and glare, but I still acquiesce.
Our backyard is a decent size, not huge by any means, but also not small. However, as the distance between myself and Nate vanishes, it feels downright claustrophobic. Unwelcome nerves blossom in the bottom of my belly. The fear of causing a potential scene at my parents’ perfect barbecue is in direct opposition to the excitement of going head-to-head with my favorite adversary.
“Collins.” Nate steps away from a group of middle-aged dads and greets me as I approach. “Wish I could say it was nice to see you, but a liar I am not.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Can you please repeat that?” I lean in closer, cupping my hand around my ear. “I couldn’t hear you over your shirt.”
“Bazinga!” one of the dads I’ve yet to meet shouts. He angles toward me, lifting his hand in the air for a high five. “She got you there, Adams!”
I slap my hand against his with a little too much enthusiasm. Nate’s cheeks flush red on his cleanly shaven face. Warmth flows through my veins at the sight. Not much brings me more pleasure than knocking Nate down a peg or two.
“Shut up, Ben.” Nate glowers at his maybe friend. “And she didn’t get me. These shirts are made by native Hawaiians and part of the proceeds go toward helping them offset the effects of tourism and colonization. Where’s your shirt from, Old Navy?”
Oh fuck.
That actually is really cool. I wonder if I can get him to share the website with me for when I have money to buy things again . . .
“What’s wrong with Old Navy, bro?” Ben asks, clearly taken aback by the force of Nate’s frustration.
As someone who has placed myself firmly in the line of Nate’s wrath, I can say it’s definitely not for the weak of heart. And no offense to Ben, but no way is he prepared for this fight.
Nate dismisses Ben with a roll of the eyes before shifting his attention back to me.
“Can we talk?” He doesn’t wait for a response before turning his back on me and heading in the direction of the only quiet spot in the yard.
Considering I didn’t want to talk to him in the first place, I contemplate letting him go off on his own and rejoining the party. But when I see Karen walking around holding a plate of creamy banana slop, I decide messing with Nate a little longer couldn’t hurt.
As I approach the secluded area behind the willow tree, I fight back the memories of summer days spent beneath the tree, spilling my guts to Nate about my fears, dreams, and everything in between. I wish I could go back in time and scoop that little girl up, hugging her tight for the hard times coming her way.
“Just so you’re aware, I already told my mom that I think you may be a serial killer,” I warn as I get closer. “If you murder me, your basement will be the first place they’ll check.”
His eyes go wide and his head jerks back. He looks horrified. “You told your mom what?”
“I’m kidding.” I try to calm him down without laughing. “I mean, I did really voice my serial killer concerns with her, but she didn’t believe me. She thinks you’re nice for some reason.”
“Jesus, Collins.” He drags his hand across his face. He’s already exhausted and we’ve barely exchanged five sentences. “What’s wrong with you? Why do you have to act like this?”
Is he serious? The audacity of this man.
“Oh, no you don’t.” My palm itches for the garden hose again. “You dealt the first blow tonight. You don’t get to pretend to be the victim because I’m better at this game than you. If you want to keep it pleasant, you’d be wise to listen to the ancient philosopher who once stated, ‘Don’t start none, won’t be none.’？”
I didn’t realize rolling your eyes had a sound, but I swear I can hear Nate’s eyeballs hit the back of his skull. I shouldn’t be amused, but he’s just so much fun when he gets worked up. And after months of reading comment after comment on the internet from nameless and faceless bullies judging or mocking me, it’s nice to be able to fight back. Especially with something as low stakes as old high school grudges. I mean really, how bad could this get? He talks shit about me with people I already hate?