Well, hello! I feel like it's been so long!
Me? I can't complain. Gosh, so much has happened since we last talked. I mean, like, night and day!
To be honest, like one hundred percent truthful, it's so much better than "I can't complain." Do you mind if I go off a little? I mean, I consider you a really close friend — like, almost a sister . . . and, well, I just have to tell someone. You know I don't like to brag or gloat . . . it's just . . . well, something happened this summer.
Have you ever met Robert, my brother? I can't imagine you would've. We're not really tight, him and me. I see him and his wife maybe once every three years or so. They're only in Corte Madera, for Pete's sake. They never make it down here; we never go up there. Family, you know? The age difference, maybe? We barely know each other.
This time it was for a favor. They had a big Asian excursion planned, from June to August, and they wanted to dump their kid off on me. Second honeymoon, I guess. Bryan, the son, well, I'd seen less of him than of Rob. It was probably seven years ago or so, and they were dumping him off on us then too. And I think I dumped him off on Kayla — he was young enough to need a babysitter and she was old enough to be one. And me back then, well, I was running around a lot. You remember.
Anyway, he's at USC now, nineteen, and still young enough to need watching, at least for a whole summer. Is nineteen young? I remember feeling like an adult then. Heck, my father had been in a war for a year at nineteen. But they seem so young now, don't they? Bryan can barely tie his shoes. And Kayla, she's twenty-four going on fifteen. With all that "weeaboo" stuff — do you even know what that is? Ugh, consider yourself lucky.
Maybe we were as young they are. Maybe we never really grew up either?
Sorry, I'm rambling. Such a flibbertigibbet today!
So, Rob drove over and asked if we could watch his kid, and I said sure. Guilt trip for years of aunt neglect. He flew back from school after his parents had split town, catching an Uber to our place. He didn't ask for a ride, and I didn't offer. I was afraid I wouldn't recognize him. Real role model I am, huh?
Honestly, I was nervous. Why? Oh, I wasn't really sure either. I barely knew him, I suppose, and here he was, about to live in my house for three months. My strongest memories of him were as a toddler or a child. Now he was nineteen . . . the age that I, well, that I still weirdly think of myself as. Does that make sense? I feel the same as I did when I was nineteen. Exactly the same. We were equals, in that sense, even if he saw me as his way-old aunt.
Kayla seemed nervous, too, all week; that is to say, she showed signs of nervous energy. Any energy was an improvement, as far as I was concerned. I swear, she barely would leave her room, did you know that? Watching anime, that's what! Or Vining or TikToking or whatever the hell they call it. What do you do with someone like that? I've said many times that I can't kick her out, and she can't stay here. At twenty-four I was . . . cripes, I was a mother! Jeez Louise. Maybe she does know what she's doing.
She had actually left the house, doing god knows what, the day he arrived. I was alone. I didn't know what to do with myself, so I played dress-up. Why, I don't know. I wasn't trying to impress anyone, I don't think. I don't get many visitors to the house! It was fun, anyways. I tried this outfit on, and another . . . nothing seemed right. What does one wear when entertaining a college freshman? Everything seemed either too stuffy or too inappropriate. I settled on this little black sundress I have, with a floral print. Yes, that one, so what? It's not revealing; it's fun and ladylike. Oh, you shut up.
The doorbell rang. My palms were sweating! I was acting so weird. I didn't know what had come over me. I tried to play it cool . . . I opened the door with pizzazz, spreading my arms real wide.
And wouldn't you know it, there stood little Bryan. Okay, not so little — he was taller, of course, a nice height, and he had scruffy sideburns and boy band hair, but it only made him look more like a kid to me. Same face, same look. Was this nineteen? Skinny legs, smooth cheeks, innocent eyes? Goofy, unsure grin? My nervousness melted away in a warm flush of relief. I felt . . . something else? One thing was for sure: I no longer felt nineteen.
"Hi Bryan! Come in! Come in! So good to see you!" I gushed. He was wearing a dirty leather jacket and tight gray jeans, ripped at the thighs; a black and white striped shirt and black Chuck Taylors. He was thin but taut. Long, wiry arms . . . biggish hands, you know what I mean? Mannish boy. I gave him a great big hug as the Uber pulled away, leaving him here with me.
Oh, but he smelled! Like cigarettes. You know how much I hate that, right? I immediately held him at arm's length. "Oh, Bryan . . . do you smoke?"
He looked at the floor, and then back at me, with a sheepish smile. "I had one when the plane landed."
"One?" I laughed. "You smell like an ashtray! Do your parents know you smoke?" He rolled his eyes and made that
sound,
that quintessentially adolescent sound, like air escaping, that means everything from "Who cares?" to "What do you know?" to "Whateverrrrr . . ." It was a sound I knew all too well.
"Rule number one in this house: no smoking. I'm allergic," I lied. "You wanna stay here, you don't smoke. Or else."
Well, he just raised his eyebrows and said nothing, for a long time.
"Good to see you, Aunt Heather." Then, he smiled at me. It was beautiful. Oh, I felt so . . . I don't know! Happy, I guess. I beamed at him.
"Oh, it's so good to see you too, Bry." I never called him Bry before, I don't think. "I missed you! Now, come on, let's get your bags in. We're rolling them right into the laundry room. I bet your clothes all reek."
And boy, did they. I made Bryan unpack his luggage — I wasn't going to touch anything — and separate the whites and the darks. Well, 'unpack' is too kind; that would require packing first! He had just poured his dirty clothes straight from his dorm room floor right into the suitcases, nothing folded, everything a mess. Probably expecting me to clean them for him, I imagine. Filthy t-shirts, crusty socks, and the boxers, oh, you don't wanna know . . . A powerfully musty odor mingled with the burnt tobacco stink, turning my laundry room into a dive bar, some sweaty pool hall.
Is it weird that I felt excited by it? It was the wrong kind of masculine and freakin' gross to boot, but it was something I hadn't been around in years, and it just kinda, well, did it for me. Oh, don't look at me like that! You know how long it's been for me? Anyways, I can't control the butterflies, any more than you can. They come when they want.
And I blame them for what I did next. Promise you won't judge me!
He had four piles of clothes on the tile floor. "That's all of it," he muttered at me.
"Not all of it," I said curtly, doing my best drill sergeant. I patted him on the shoulder. Why couldn't I talk to Kayla this way? Distance? Gender? I can't really say.
"Give me your jacket." He rolled his eyes again — they do that so much! — taking his jacket off and handing it to me. I took it with thumb and forefinger, holding my nose, and I dropped it in the dry cleaning bag. He stared at me blankly . . . waiting, I felt, for more direction?
"Socks," I said. He took off his shoes, and hopped around a bit while pulling his white socks off his whiter feet.
"Shirt," I said.
"Seriously?" he sneered. I just nodded, eyebrows raised. He sighed, then pulled his long sleeves off his arms, yanking the shirt over his head. His reddish brown hair was all messed up. His chest was hairless; his nipples were small. His stomach was not quite chiseled, but close.
I inhaled slowly through my nose as i spoke: "Almost done," I smiled, to hide the giant lump in my throat.
The look he gave me . . . it was a cross between a squint and a twitch . . . he was surprised, uncertain if I meant it. I pursed my lips and nodded sharply, twice, to show him that I did.
"Hope you're wearing underpants," I said with a grin. But as I said it I thought:
what if he didn't have underwear on?
What would I do next?
He looked at the floor again.
My gosh,
I realized,
he was going to do it!
and my thighs quivered.
He undid and unzipped the pants, and took them down, revealing baggy boxer shorts — I didn't even know they still made those! — with little USC Trojans on them.
Bryan stepped out, then dropped the pants on the pile. He didn't know what to do with his hands. His thin legs dangled down, dense and fuzzy. And his face! Oh, his face. It was adorable. I just had to laugh a little.
"At least you've still got your school spirit," I cracked.
He laughed, too. "Shut up," he said.
I felt relieved. This wasn't abnormal, right? I'm his aunt. I changed his diapers, and all that jazz (I don't think I ever did, actually). Maybe this was unconventional, sure . . . but I was well within my rights, wouldn't you say? My house, my rules? Deterring my kin from an insidious and deadly habit, as best as I was able?
Why, I should be lauded with praise!
I told myself. I really did.
