“Yeah, I picked up on that.” Okay, I decide that if Blake is willing to admit his oddness, I should forgive him and move on. “It’s okay. I’m not the most socially amazing person either.”
“Your car is fine.”
“Thank you.”
“It smells nice.”
“It shouldn’t smell like anything.”
“Maybe it’s your deodorant.”
“Let’s switch topics,” I suggest.
“Sorry. Was that creepy?”
“It was getting there.”
“Sometimes my oddness crosses over into creepiness.”
“It’s fine,” I insist.
“I’m not usually the kind of person who compliments deodorant. Just so you know.”
“Here’s what we’re going to try,” I say. “We’re not going to talk for the rest of the drive to my house. I’ll put on some music, and we’ll listen to it. That’ll give us time to recalibrate our brains and make sure they’re in good working order before we start talking again. Sound okay?”
Blake nods.
I turn on the stereo. One of my favorite bands, Infamously Vicious, blasts the song “Rabid to the Core.”
Blake scowls. Two seconds in and I can tell he isn’t enjoying this song.
“That’s not your band, is it?” he asks.
“No.”
“Good.”
“They’re not trying for mass appeal,” I explain.
“Clearly.”
“It’s not important to be liked by everybody,” I say. “The worst thing in the world is to be mediocre.”
“I completely agree,” says Blake. “But if there’s a line in the air that says, ‘mediocre,’ it’s probably better to be above it than below it.”
I turn off the music.
“You didn’t have to turn it off,” says Blake. “It was bad, but it wasn’t literally hurting me.”
“We’re going to try silence,” I say. “No music, no talking, simply the sound of the wind.”
“You mean the sound of your engine.”
“Whatever.”
“You should get it checked out.”
“I will.”
“Automobiles aren’t supposed to sound like this.”
“My car is fine.”
“I actually felt safer with the music playing,” says Blake. “There’s a lot of stuff going on with this car. I assume the only reason your ‘check engine’ light isn’t on is because it’s burnt out.”
“I thought we were going to try silence.”
“I thought we were too, but your car had other ideas.”
I turn the stereo back on and eject the CD. “Fine. You pick a radio station.”
Blake goes through the entire FM dial and then through the entire AM dial and then through most of the FM dial again before choosing something Auto-Tuned and horrible.
It’s only three months, I tell myself. Only three months. Only three long, endless, excruciating months.
4.
We pull into my driveway. For the first time ever, I’m kind of embarrassed by the size of my house. I wish we had a heliport on the roof or something.
I turn off the engine. I’d never noticed it before, but my car takes a while to wind down after it’s shut off. It whirrs and sputters and sounds like it’s desperately trying to cling to precious life, as if it knows in its heart that it may never turn on again.
“Well, we both survived,” says Blake, unfastening his seat belt. “I assumed we would, but there were moments of doubt.”
“Yep,” I say in a lighthearted tone, pretending that I think he’s kidding around. I unfasten my own seat belt and get out of the car.
Blake has not yet opened his door.
I really hope we’re not doing the whole door thing again. If Blake thinks I’m going to open his door for him, he’s whack-a-doodle nuts. That is not the dynamic we’re going to establish here. I will leave him in the car all night before I open that door for him.
“C’mon,” I say, gesturing to my house and hoping it sends the message, Hey, it’s time for you to open the car door—all by yourself—and exit the vehicle.
Blake looks at me expectantly.
Maybe I’ll just open the door a bit and let him push it the rest of the…
No! No, no, no, no! I will not open the door for him. He may be used to that kind of treatment back in Rich McWealthy Goldcash Treasure Land, but he’s our houseguest now. We’re not on a date. In my world, you open your own door. No porter is going to save him this time.
I go to the back of the car and open the trunk. I grab a couple of suitcases and then walk past the passenger side, hoping he’ll notice what’s happening and decide to become a participant.
He’s still sitting there.
If he were busy checking his phone or something, maybe I’d be okay with it. But as far as I can tell, my able-bodied cousin is, indeed, waiting for me to open his door like a chauffeur. Nope. Not gonna happen.
Maybe he’ll give me a tip.
Even then, nope. Nope, nope, nope, nopeity nope. If you don’t have a broken arm, I’m not going to be his door opener. Nope.
I walk up to my house, set down his suitcases, and unlock the front door. I do this slowly, waiting to hear the sound of the car door opening.
I do not hear this sound.
Could he be too dumb to figure out how to work a door handle? I’d happily take a dullard of a cousin over one who thinks I’m his butler.
I open the front door, hoping he’ll see how easy and fun it is and decide to follow my lead. I take his suitcases inside, carry them down the hallway, and put them in my bedroom.
When I walk back outside, Blake is still sitting in the car, staring at me.
What I’d like to do is roll down the window, shove a fire hose in there, and fill the car with water until Blake takes the hint. If I had a box of scorpions, I’d toss them inside as incentive. Unfortunately, I don’t even have one scorpion, much less a whole box. (Lesson: plan ahead.)
I’d call my mom, but that would be tattling. Sixteen-year-old lead vocalists in punk rock bands aren’t tattletales. Instead I try to reason with my cousin.
I casually stroll over to the car. “Everything okay?” I ask, speaking loudly enough to be heard through the window.
“Everything’s fine.”
“Would you like a tour
