The End Zone

My eyelid ticks with anger as I finally catch up with what my son is saying. I snap, “Language!” at the same time that Vicious corners Vaughn near the glass behind the staircase. He is not touching him, but he is still making sure our son knows he overstepped, and now he needs to listen to what we have to say. My head is reeling. I can’t figure out where all of this is coming from. My son is a lot of things, but he is not prone to dramatics. Something happened.

Vicious chuckles, shaking his head before plastering his palm next to Vaughn’s face and getting in his personal space. I feel the urge to break them apart, but I also know that Vaughn is the kind of kid that needs to be reminded what boundaries are. Vicious lifts a warning finger to Vaughn’s face. “I love you. You’re my son. It’s in my blood to demolish anything that remotely endangers your wellbeing. But I will be clear on this, and only say it once—next time you talk about your mother like that, you and I are going to have a serious problem. A problem which will not limit itself to money, something I know you don’t care about. I assure you that you will regret disrespecting her, or me, and just to set the record straight, Emilia never dated Dean and me at the same time. She dated Dean, and I was the asshole who tried to steal her away from him. Nod once if you understand this, twice if you still want me to confiscate anything that’s not water or oxygen from your life for the next two months.”

Vaughn nods once, his eyes narrowing into slits as he scans his dad. My heart is in my throat. Vicious take a step back and irons Vaughn’s tattered collar with his hand.

“Relationships are complex, son. So are people. What’s bothering you?”

“Knight’s existence is fucking bothering me.”

I’m about to call him out on his language again, but then Vicious shoots me a not-now look. He has a point. I love my husband, but he cusses like a drunken sailor in an Irish bar. I promised myself I would not be a hypocritical parent before I had Vaughn, and so far, I have kept my promise.

I take a step toward them, placing a reassuring hand over my son’s shoulder. I don’t recall the exact moment when he stopped feeling soft under my touch, with chunky Pillsbury’s baby arms and cheeks that seemed to have swallowed the rest of his features, to this young man, sinewy and resilient, all sharp edges and aristocratic features.

“What are you two up to now?” Vicious thrusts his chin toward our son. Knight and Vaughn grew up practically as brothers. They were born in the same month, for God’s sake. But you couldn’t find two people more different in personality and style. My child is cold, aloof, frivolous, and cruel at times, while Knight, like his dad, Dean, is open, candid, friendly, and was blessed with enough charm to enchant the entire nation with his cocky grin alone.

“It’s not what he is doing; it’s who he is doing.”

“You’re sixteen. You should not be doing anyone other than yourselves,” Vicious quips. I laugh, and Vaughn rolls his eyes, something he is trying to refrain from doing, so I know he is really pissed.

“May I be ex-fucking-cused? And please, no more ‘language’ BS, Mom. We both know I learned it somewhere.”

“Is this about Luna?” I probe, forever in Mama Bear mode.

Vaughn huffs out a laugh, shaking his head and swiveling toward the edge of the stairway again. “Yeah. Right. Like Luna would put out to Knight.”

“Daria, then?”

I know my son has a secret he shares with Daria Followhill. Despite her being a senior and him a sophomore, there is a bond that connects them. But Daria is homecoming queen. Prom queen. Head cheerleader and the most popular girl in school. Coming at second place is not really an option for her, and so sometimes she tries to push Luna around, simply because she steals so much of the boys’ attention without even trying.

But I also know my son’s personality, and he is not easily affected by his gorgeous, senior friend. At first, I thought Vaughn and Daria were having sex, but when I confronted him about it, he just laughed and said, “I love you, Mom. I do. But if you really must know, I’d rather mess around with our neighbors’ dog before I touch a bitch like Daria.”

Did he get grounded for that kind of language? Yes.

Did he care? No.

“Asking me again and again will not make me open up, Dad. It will just make me want to punch more walls, and Ralph is already on my case.” Ralph is our interior designer. He pops in every year or whenever Vaughn is having one of his angry phases. “The Devil Wears Walmart,” he tells me every time he drops in for his usual let’s-remodel-your-kitchen visit and sees my son. I don’t think Vaughn is wearing Walmart, but I’m not quite sure what he is wearing. I just know he looks grunge and hard-edged, like his dad was, but in less a preppy way. I palm Vaughn’s cheek, and he kisses the base of my palm before swatting my hand away.