Our time had been wasted. It was stupid enough for us even to think that we were linked somehow. The looks we shared was just a major coincedence, stupid. There was nothing to read into. Nixon's stepmother pulled into the apartment complex my mother and I shared. It looked like a shithole in comparison to the house I'd just visited. My revulsion was on a high.
"What number is it, sweetie?" Claire looked at me expectantly, then blushed, forgetting that I could just answer with words.
"It's 118, Mom." Nixon finished from the backseat. We'd both been eerily quiet on the way to my house, disappointed with our findings...or should I say unfindings. Claire soon found my apartment with the help of my directing finger.
My other hand held a McDonald's fast food bag stuffed with two large fries and a twenty piece chicken nugget meal. My Sprite was being held by the cupholder.
"Well, this is it then. It was a pleasure meeting you. I'm sorry about my husband tonight, he gets like that sometimes." Nixon's father. As soon as he'd seen me he'd fussed, saying that he was in no mood for any guests, that it was unacceptable for me to be there. He wanted me gone. I could tell by the way his lip curled with disgust and he narrowed his eyes. What was wrong with this dude? Did this man not see the striking resemblence between me and his son?
Nixon had argued with his father, telling him that we needed to try and find out why we looked so alike. Had we any of the same relatives? Was there any way that they could have Native American roots down their family line, too?
But Mr. James was not interested. He ordered Claire to take me home at once, that "we do not allow such hooligans as that boy" onto their property. Nixon grew red in the face, I'm sure I held the same color on mine at the time. When at first, I'd felt welcome, I couldn't help but feel the exact opposite now. Like a dog with mange, I was being thrown out, back to "where I belong." Is how Nixon's father had put it.
I got out of the Mercedes, a car I'd never been privy to seeing the inside of, waved, and started to my front door. A few tears escaped from my eyes. Stupid boy. In all my life, never had I been treated like that. Of course, it was nice of Claire to stop at a McDonald's and buy me food so I wouldn't go hungry, but it still didn't let out a dent in my being hurt.
"Wait, Noah!" My head turned ever so slightly, just to hear his plea. "I'm sorry. I know how it feels, there's no excuse. I didn't know he would do that to anybody but us. I'm sorry. Text me. I'll see you tomorrow."
No. Nixon. You won't.