Where We Left Off Page 7

  No, there wasn’t any happy in that.

  But there was happy on this porch, with this family that I loved and these people who called and claimed me as their own. And there was plenty of happy at the bottom of this longneck of beer.

  It might not have been the happy I dreamed of, but I’d take it all the same.

  It was hours later and I was in the barn with Mom stacking hay bales from an earlier delivery when my phone dinged in my back pocket, the familiar alert of a received text. I figured it was Paul, wanting to know if I’d be home tonight or if it was safe to bring a woman back to the bachelor pad. My parents lived just far enough away and I was just enough drunk that I had a feeling I’d be crashing in their spare bedroom for the night, which would be fine if I was in college or recently graduated. But I wasn’t. I was one month shy of my thirties, which made for a whole new level of pathetic. Possibly a plateau as I wasn’t sure it got any greater than this.

  I fished my phone out and when the image flashed across the screen upon unlocking it, my hands reacted before my brain and I tossed the device into a muck bucket placed near the door like it was on fire, its burn too much to handle. My eyes reacted quickly, too, because they welled up right away. Maybe it was the alcohol. I’d always been told I was a sad drunk.

  Mom tugged her black gloves from her hands with a bite from her teeth and shoved them into the pocket of her denim jacket. She had the phone in her grip, never mind the fact that I’d thrown it in a tub of horseshit. Mom wasn’t bothered by things like that. Maybe it was the years of work in the hospital, or maybe it was the cowgirl in her that had recently been reawakened with retirement. Or maybe—plain and simple—it was the maternal instinct to protect her young, and she knew I needed protection from whatever it was that occupied that phone screen. No amount of crap was going to keep her from that.

  “Oh, Cliffy.” She swiped the phone across her chest to dust it off. When she looked at it again, she squinted deeply. “That’s the honest-to-God ugliest baby I’ve ever seen. Spawn of Yoda if I didn’t know any better.”

  I dropped down onto a hay bale and laughed. “He’s not that bad.”

  “Did you get a good look at this?” She fished her reading glasses out of her jacket pocket and her neck pulled so far back with the second look that she could’ve gotten whiplash with the movement. “That baby is hideous! No way on God’s green earth would anyone think it’s yours. If there was ever any doubt that Kayla was a lying, cheating—”

  “There’s no doubt, Mom. We’ve been over this.”

  “All I’m saying is that the proof is in the pudding. And that little puddin’ is the spitting image of her ugly ass father.”

  “Mom!”

  “Oh, come on, Heathcliff! We all know Kayla wasn’t interested in her boss for his physical looks. It was the looks of his bank account that was much more attractive.”

  Maybe, but that never made any sense to me. Logan Tallmadge was a successful CPA and I’m sure his income was substantial, but I wasn’t completely hurting for cash, either. Anything she’d ever wanted, I’d given to her. The weight on her left hand had to be a reminder of that. The smell of her newly purchased Audi had to be the proof. And the half million dollar Tuscan-style villa, where our life was meant to take place, should’ve been the backdrop for our ever after.

  I gave Kayla everything. Everything except the little life growing in her belly for the past nine months. Someone else gave her that, and when he did, he’d taken over her future and ensured his place within it. I could never compete with a child, and it wasn’t something I was willing to even fathom doing.

  My life with Kayla was over, and her’s was just beginning. I was the end of a chapter for her, and that reality churned my stomach in a violent and tumultuous way. I was beginning to feel like I was constantly the end. A beginning would sure be nice.

  Mom sensed my despondent mood. “Know what you need?”

  “Another drink?”

  “That’s a given. Alcohol is always a given,” she said with a laugh. “But no. You need a good, old-fashioned, tried and true rebound.”

  “Not what I thought you’d suggest.”

  “Oh, come on, Cliffy.” Mom slapped me hard on my back, right between the shoulder blades. The barn had been spinning the entire time we’d been in here, but that shove set my eyeballs rolling. My tongue was thick and dry. I was going to pay for this misery tomorrow morning, but for the moment, I welcomed the blur. “Rebound time!”

  Then I saw her fingers scrolling. At least that’s what I figured they were doing. There was a light echoing palely off her features and I saw the reflection of my contact list arcing across the lenses of her glasses.

  “Tanya Bording?” She pursed her lips. “I remember her. Man hands, right? And that hook nose, like Gonzo. Not what you need right now. Let’s keep looking.”

  “Mom.”

  “Claudia Heldwig. She was that German girl? The foreign exchange student living with Cousin Marty in Santa Clara, ya?” I laughed at the fake accent. “Huge rack if I remember correctly. She’s upgraded to the Maybe List just for her tits alone.”

  I dropped my head into my hands and closed my eyes. What happened to me? What happened to my life that I was twenty-nine years old and hanging out in my parents’ barn at eleven o’clock on a Friday night, listening to my mom critique my equivalent of a little black book? Where did life go so wrong for me?

  “Mallory Alcott.”

  There. That was where.

  “No.”

  “She was a sweet girl—”

  “No.” I stood to my feet and pulled my phone from my mom’s hands. I shoved it in my back pocket and grabbed the hay hooks hanging near the door. I shouldn’t be trusted with such sharp objects in my current inebriated state, but I had parental supervision so I was willing to risk it.

  “Heathcliff, she’s the perfect option.”

  “It’s only two letters yet you’re having an impossible time interpreting them.”

  Mom planted her hands on her hips. “I’m well aware what your voice is saying, but your reaction speaks something entirely different.”

  I pulled another hundred-pound bale down onto the ground from the top of the stack and dust clouded around my feet as it slammed, hay spraying into the air.

  “There was never any closure,” Mom said as I continued arranging the bales, ignoring her prodding. “And she liked you so much, Cliffy. I’m sure she’d love to hear from you after all of these years.”

  My neck snapped. “Really?” I didn’t condone shouting at women—especially ones who gave birth to you—but my voice rose sharply in my throat and spewed out with enough volume to rattle the barn windows. “Really? You think she’d like to hear from me, hmm? Then why the hell didn’t she return any of my twenty-seven phone calls after the accident? Why didn’t she reply to the dozen or more letters or the texts or the e-mails?”

  The can of worms was flung wide open and they were squirming all over the barn floor. I was drunk enough to think I actually saw them.

  “I don’t know, Heath, but I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

  I was defeated, plain and simple. I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

  “Call her.”

  “It’s going to take a lot more alcohol before I’ll ever consider calling Mallory Alcott.” My thumb was raw from gnawing on it. I wished I could give up my adolescent nervous tendencies like this one, but it was clear I had my hang-ups. Loads of them.

  “Seven.”

  “What?” I looked up at Mom. She was still quite beautiful with her salt and pepper, sleek bob and full lips, feathered with well-earned wrinkles on her face. She wore her concern and her love in her present expression, and I was a fool to assume this whole shenanigan was for anything other than her wanting the very best for me. She loved me deeply, more so with each passing day. So far, she was the only person in my life to ever offer me that. “Seven what?”

  “Beers. Seven beers,” she answered. “It took
seven beers for me to say yes to your father, but it was the best stupid risk I’ve ever made. Sometimes we need to take the stupid risks in order to get the best reward.”

  “And you don’t think I’ve taken enough risks? The masters program? Marriage?”

  “Those aren’t risks, Cliffy. Those are plans. Big difference.”

  “I don’t plan on calling Mallory.” My head throbbed to the point where I thought another beer was the only thing that could take the edge off, but I knew it wasn’t the wisest of decisions. Hangover remedies often begot greater hangovers.

  “Rebounds are rarely planned.”

  Mom smirked at me like she knew something, like she was privy to some secret I’d yet to uncover. She was keeping something back.

  But the thing was, I was the one keeping it back. I was keeping back the fact that it was impossible to rebound with the person you’ve been rebounding from all these years.

  Calling Mallory wouldn’t solve anything.

  Calling Mallory would be a stupid, stupid risk, one I wasn’t willing to take, no matter how drunk I got.

  Some things were always crystal clear.

  Mallory

  “I’ll take all four.” Cathy Broderick was a woman I loved doing business with, and her order was incredibly necessary music to my ears and my bank account. “You must have them delivered and someone will need to come down and arrange them. I don’t have time for that. And I’m not paying for any that show up damaged, even if they’re fixable. I don’t care that they’re being shipped across the country—absolutely no damage. And no charge for the shipping, nor handling.”

  “Of course.” I nodded. It was more work and money on my end, but what I knew of Cathy was that she was a stiff, unrelenting broad and even if I attempt to renegotiate something reasonable into the contract, she wouldn’t yield. “Everything just as stated here.”

  “Have them arrive on the twelfth. The walls will be ready.”

  “Yes.” I stuffed my papers into my leather messenger bag. My hands were clumsy and shaky. The perfume thick on her skin nauseated me and I took several staccato breaths as though by avoiding breathing deeply, I could avoid the pungent aroma that twisted my stomach. I was a smart enough woman to know that wouldn’t do any good, but I did it still. “Thank you, again. Always a pleasure doing business with you.”

  “Always a pleasure doing business with your father. He’s the real talent here.” Her lips were as tight as the black pantsuit she had on, firm and unmoving. Dark beady eyes lowered, casting a judgmental gaze. “You, my dear, are a hot mess.”

  Cathy Broderick was an awful, pretentious woman, but Cathy Broderick was an observant woman. I was a mess. Carrying a fancy briefcase and dressing in the prettiest dress I owned—the one stuffed all the way in the back of my closet, years’ worth of must clinging to its fibers—did not a convincing businesswoman make. Even still, I’d felt beautiful as I slipped it over my small shoulders this morning. I’d hoped the charming apricot hue of roses patterned over the fabric would bring out the glow of my cheeks, accentuating them rather than the reddened rims of my eyes, the semi-permanent veins that crisscrossed the whites of them.

  Of course, I’d been wrong.

  I didn’t linger on Cathy’s comment. I was out the door after gathering my things and was smacked by the angry heat of triple digits. I reeled back, then adjusted the hem of my skirt, fluffed my hair, and pushed forward.

  The car was parked two blocks over in an empty lot and my heels wobbled down concrete which was speckled with black circles of used gum spat onto its sidewalk. Urine stained the brick walls on buildings a century or more old. It could’ve been a lovely little town if someone took care of it, but I wasn’t sure whose responsibility that was. The mistakes of many have led to its current state. Words like revitalization and revamping got thrown around a lot, but they didn’t stick like the grime.

  Cathy’s small gallery offered a bit of hope. Of all the tenants, she certainly brought in the most revenue, many thanks to my father. I knew her ostentatious lifestyle was also a direct result of the commission she made on his paintings. Everyone knew that. I didn’t have the heart to tell her these would be the last she’d ever purchase from our family.

  Maybe it wasn’t the heart I didn’t have. Maybe it was the balls.

  By the time I made it to my car, my skin was sticky with perspiration. I could feel the dampness of my underarms and frowned at the fact that I’d have to dry clean this dress. Back into the closet it was going to go. Now I had yet another bill to add to the pile.

  I slammed the door to my car and sunk into the driver’s seat. It was the kind of heat that made you fight for breath, and I cranked the air on as soon as the key hit the ignition. Minutes went by before the blast was cool enough to do anything to my current body temperature. Dried sweat now chilled made me shiver, as did the tears that burned the backs of my eyes. I slammed the car into Drive and backed out of the parking lot.

  The road home was under thirty minutes, but I didn’t remember much of it. There was a broken down vehicle on I-5 going north, I thought, because I remembered slowing for the first responders with their red lights as warning beacons, pulled off to the side to aid in the rescue. I remembered speeding back up again to keep up with the flow of traffic.

  Keep up with the flow.

  That’s what I’d been doing for the past year and a half. Keeping up.

  My bottom lip quivered and I scolded it with my teeth. There was a permanent groove settling into the flesh there.

  The tears won their way, spilling over and down my cheeks

  I couldn’t keep up with the flow anymore.

  I couldn’t keep up.

  I didn’t know why I even tried.

  Tori was on the couch when I got home, her neck bent at such an angle that her head was square with her chest. The way her fingers flew over the phone made me pause to take in the scene. I’d bet money that the good majority of Tori’s conversations with friends took place in written text rather than face-to-face. It made me wonder if she really did laugh out loud, or if it had merely become a three letter, typed reaction for her.

  I pushed the garage entry door into the jamb with more force than necessary to startle her into awareness as I walked into the house.

  “Mallory!” Tori jumped from the couch. Her curly blonde hair twirled around her face as she spun toward me. “You’re back early.”

  I slipped my bag off my shoulder and my high heels from my feet. My arches ached as they flattened onto the cool tile and I paced across the kitchen toward her. “Well, you know Cathy Broderick. She’s nothing if not extremely efficient.”

  “And extremely awful.”

  “A little of that, too.” I laughed and placed three folded tens into Tori’s hand. She curled her fingers around the bills and then stuffed them into her jean shorts pockets, a toothy grin exposed under glossy pink lips. Her cheeks were so plump with youth they reminded me of when I was that age. When life was an exciting, intriguing, and naïve adventure. “How’d everything go?”

  “Same as always. He made a mess with the paint again, but I think I got it all cleaned up this time.”

  “I’m sure it’s fine.” I gave Tori a tight hug, thankful to have her here. She’d been a godsend these past several years and I loved her like family. There were few people I could call on at a moment’s notice, but I knew Tori was certainly one of them. She’d been on the receiving end of several late night, incoherent phone calls and texts, and thinking back on those moments made me feel bad for criticizing her social skills. Sometimes the heart emoticons she’d send my way were exactly what I’d needed. “Same time tomorrow still work for you?”

  “Sure thing.”

  As I walked her to the door and watched her get into her brother’s metallic blue car, my heart squeezed, a vise grip of emotion taking hold. Her tires squealed faintly against the curb and the sedan rocked onto the street as she switched the vehicle into gear, the movement jerky and unpracti
ced. Tori tossed me a wave out of the rolled down window and I lifted my hand to return one of my own.

  Then I got as far away from that window as I could. I’d spent countless days waiting by it and I wouldn’t do that again. With hasty movements, I dragged the curtains shut even though it was only six thirty-six. The rest of the neighborhood surely suspected things, the way the house was always buttoned up, the garage closed and blinds drawn. They must’ve thought something was going on inside this quiet place. The truth was, I didn’t know how to cope with what was going on outside of it. Sometimes shutting oneself in seemed an awful lot like shutting others out.

  I backed away from the window and bumped squarely into a wall like it hadn’t been there for the past five years. Like I’d missed out on the remodel taking place and it was some new addition. My head rocked back and I leaned against the drywall, eyes closed.

  I could hear him faintly on the other side.

  It was enough to pull me from my stupor, from the trap of memories in my mind. More than enough. I jogged around the corner to the second bedroom on the right, and I pulled on the doorknob, rotating it softly so as not to make a sound. The room was dark, but he sensed me right away like always. The tightness tugging at my heart unraveled and my body filled with the warmth of unconditional love.

  “Hello, my sweet boy. Did we have a good afternoon with Auntie Tori?” Two small coos answered my question. I heard his chubby legs kick, kick, kicking against the crib mattress, springs coiling squeakily in response.

  I promised myself I wouldn’t fall asleep in the rocker again tonight, but as I lifted him from where he lay and we settled into our favorite space, Corbin’s sweet breath fanning against my neck, his tiny heart beating on top of mine, I knew there wasn’t any good reason to place him back into the empty crib to sleep alone. We had each other, and while most children sought their mothers for comfort and assurance, I relied on Corbin equally as much for those two things.

  I was sure of the life I once owned when I looked into his eyes. He wore so much of his father on his cherub face, in his crooked smile and long, long lashes. They were the kind that would be the recipient of comments for the rest of his days. He’d grow tired of hearing how unreal they were, become annoyed at how jealous the girls got that a boy would have such beautiful and full eyelashes. He’d grow to hate them, but I’d make him learn to love them.