by Becky Monson
After reading comments and reviews online, it seemed that the store owner might have been exaggerating. There were no horror stories that we could find, and according to posts, there was plenty of signage to get us through the cave.
We found the entrance, got about a quarter of a mile in, and then hit a spot where you basically had to shinny down into a very small crevice. It was at that point that both Chase and I realized we’d had enough adventure for the day, so we went back the way we came. It was just as we were getting to the end, where we could see daylight coming through the small entrance of the cave, that I took a dive, tripping over something and scratched up my arm. That kiss for good luck before we entered apparently only worked for Chase, who made it out without a scratch.
The drive was my favorite part. I learned a lot about Chase on the way up and back. I got to ask the questions, since we’re still not even. I stayed away from too many about his mom. I think I’ve known him long enough to understand that he doesn’t want to talk about her all that much. Definitely not about her death or the funeral. He’s at least been able to tell me some stories with her in them without having a sad moment. They’re mostly funny stories. Heidi Beckett was a funny woman, it would seem. That’s where Chase gets it, I’d bet. He doesn’t tell all that many stories about his dad, who seems more stoic, more serious. He was definitely the disciplinarian in the family.
But we never get to feelings. Or even recent stories. People mourn differently; I know that. Chelsea, Devon, and I have all experienced different reactions to losing our mom. I’m sure Chase is dealing with it in his own way. Maybe all of this adventuring is helping.
But even avoiding that topic, I still learned that Chase hates baseball (I almost made him pull the car over and let me out over this), studied business marketing in college (he went to ASU, too, but was a couple of years ahead of me), is a morning person, and likes all kinds of food but hates cilantro (prompting my second request to pull over and let me out).
We talked about past relationships; his dating history is fairly similar to mine, except his longest relationship was two years with a woman named Amelia, and they went their separate ways when they both decided they wanted different things. Amelia wanted to settle down and have a family. Chase, not so much.
“You don’t want a family?” I asked as we were driving along the 10, the sun just starting to set.
“I do,” he said. “I just didn’t want one then. And if I’m being honest, I don’t think I wanted one with Amelia. We had different ideals about family. She came from a broken home—which isn’t a problem for me, but for her, it was. It affected her.”
“Gotcha,” I said. “Well, I’ve never made it past sixth months in a relationship.”
“How come?”
“There were only two guys that I considered boyfriends. There was Brian. We dated for nearly six months until things just … fizzled out. It was during college and we were both young … and dumb. After college, I dated a guy named Jace for four months. I thought there might be a future with him, but then I realized that I was trying to make something work there that just wasn’t. So I broke up with him.”
Chase glanced over at me and then back at the road. “Don’t take this wrong, but is there something wrong with you?”
I reached over and whacked him on the arm. “How am I not supposed to take that wrong?”
“Like a weird hobby? Or stinky feet?”
“You tell me. I took my shoes off as soon as we got in the car.”
“Is that what I smell?”
“Shut up.”
I looked over at Chase and he’s doing that little smile of his. “What I’m saying is, you’re … very pretty.”
“I fifty percent forgive you for saying that.”
He chuckled. “You’re attractive, and you’re kind of funny.” That got him another whack. “And you … how do I say this? You—”
“Have a pathetic dating life,” I interjected.
“Your words, not mine,” he said. “It … confuses me.”
“You and me both,” I said. I looked out the window, watching the sagebrush and the cacti zoom by. “Maybe there is something wrong with me.” This came out quietly and mostly for my own ears.
“I don’t think so,” he said.
I looked over at him. “See, and you’re the person who should be able to tell me what’s wrong with me. You read those texts—you saw some of my innermost thoughts.”
“I forgot them.”
“Lies.”
We sat in silence for a bit, just the low volume of a rock station making background noise.
“I guess that’s why I’m confused,” Chase finally said. “I read things that you never meant to be read. Your innermost thoughts, or whatever. And—” He stopped and took a breath. “It just … doesn’t add up.”
I felt the tips of my ears warm at his words. “You’re now eighty-five percent forgiven.”
Now, sitting here on Chase’s couch, feeling drowsy from the day’s events as I snuggle with my new best friend, Oscar, I feel … peaceful. I can’t remember when I’ve felt like this. Not in the past five months, that’s for sure. And definitely not for the six months before that. I don’t know if it’s all the fun we’ve been having or the fact that I just really like Chase. He makes me laugh. And I feel like … me around him.
I feel like me.
Chapter 23
Maggie: I will give you all my worldly possessions if you come to my parents’ house and save me from this.
I send this text to Chase, my phone partially hidden under the large dining room table where Devon, Chelsea and her family, and I are having dinner with my dad … and June.
There are pictures of my mom and our family hanging all over the walls of this room. Her touch is everywhere, from the drapes, to the large contemporary shelving on the south side of the room, to the floors, which were updated a couple of years ago. This room is all her. This house is all her.
My dad is sitting in his normal seat at the head of the table, and on his right sits June. Their adjoined hands resting on the top of the table.
“June and I are dating,” my dad says, grinning at all of us. He looks over at June and they give each other a smile. It’s one of those intimate ones, full of meaning.
He didn’t just start with that. There was a lot of pomp and circumstance leading up to this announcement. First the invitation, which we all got late last night via text. It’s not rare for us to all have Sunday dinner as a family, but we haven’t done it in a while. It didn’t seem like a big deal until the second text came in.
Dad: I’d like to talk to you all about something.
That’s when we switched over to our sibling WhatsApp group.
Chelsea: What do you think Dad’s going to tell us?
Maggie: My gut is on June.
Devon: Gross.
Turns out my gut was right. Stupid gut.
Chelsea got there first, and then Devon and I somehow showed up at the same time not long after her. Chelsea nodded her head toward the kitchen when Devon and I entered the house, and we walked over to find June there, helping my dad with the finishing touches on dinner. He made roasted chicken and potatoes, one of our favorite family dinners growing up. My dad and June smiled at each other and laughed as they worked together.
It was different than the two of them sitting in a dim room listening to music and drinking wine. Under normal circumstances, I might have thought this whole kitchen routine was cute; instead it felt foreign and odd.
I think I’m the least taken aback, because of what I caught the other night. But I never shared it with Chelsea and Devon—it somehow didn’t feel right to. I was still processing it myself. In hindsight, I probably should have told them—maybe this would have felt less awkward.
When we entered the dining room, the table was set nicer than it usually is. June’s doing, I’d guess. My dad was never one to set the table formally. We were using Mom’s fine china and silver that we’
d usually only bring out at Christmas. My heart did a little wrenching thing when I saw it. I took some steadying breaths.
Then when we went to seat ourselves and June took the spot where our mom used to sit, I felt a weight land in my gut, like I had swallowed a massive rock. Roasted chicken may no longer be my favorite dinner. It might always be associated with this feeling.
“That’s … great.” Mark, Chelsea’s husband, is the first to speak. I think he couldn’t take the awkward silence that landed on the room after our dad’s announcement.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice coming out breathy.
“Yeah, great,” Chelsea says, using her extra cheerful fake-sounding voice. Avery is on her lap, playing with the white cloth napkin, putting it on her face and giggling.
Devon just sits there, his arms folded, an angry look on his face.
“I know this might be strange for all of you,” June says. “I promise, this is not what we were expecting.” She looks at my dad again.
“June has been wonderful, helping me work through my grief. She’s been a rock for me.”
Devon snorts and it sounds sarcastic.
“Are you going to get married, Papa?” Alice asks, sitting in the seat next to me. She’s a very astute four-year-old—she picks up on things that a normal child her age probably wouldn’t. But she’s smart like that. She already knows her ABCs.
She also has an obsession with Disney princesses, as evidenced by the Elsa dress she’s chosen to wear to dinner. She’s holding a butter knife—a silver one from my mom’s collection—and has it pointed at my dad and June. Chelsea reaches over and snatches the knife out of her hand. I give Alice my phone to keep her occupied.
My dad does a nervous laugh. “Not yet, Alice in Wonderland,” he says, using the nickname he gave her at birth.
Not … yet?
I need my phone back. I need to text Chase for help. He’s got to use his wingman skills and get me out of here. But Elsa, a.k.a. Alice, has my phone.
“Mommy, what does C-H-A-S-E spell?” Alice asks, holding my phone up to show Chelsea.
“Chase,” Chelsea says. She looks at my phone and then at me. Her brow pinched. “You’re getting texts from him?”
I grab the phone from Alice, seeing Chase’s name on the lock screen. “We’re friends. I told you.”
“No one can replace her,” Devon says, his voice elevated.
Chelsea and I look over at the other side of the table where my dad and June are still sitting, still holding hands, and Devon is staring at them, red faced.
I just missed something. What did I miss?
“I’m not looking to replace your mom.” My dad’s face is starting to turn a matching shade of red.
I swivel my head back to Chelsea, who gives me wide eyes and a quick shake of her head. We need to intervene. But I’m not sure how to do it.
“Couldn’t you, like, get a dog or something?” Devon asks, his voice getting louder.
“This isn’t about being lonely,” Dad says.
“Sex, then?” Devon asks.
“Devon!” Chelsea says, the pitch of her voice bordering on shrill.
“That’s not your business, son,” my dad says, his voice loud and booming.
“What is sex?” Alice asks the room.
June is now the color of a beet, and it feels like the temperature in the room has gone up a hundred degrees.
Everyone starts talking over each other—words are being said between Devon and my dad that are going to be hard to take back. June looks like she might cry.
I glance at Chelsea and see a look of desperation on her face. We make eye contact and her eyes plead with me. I know my job. I’ve always been the peacemaker of the family. It’s the plight of the middle child. How do I fix this? What can I say?
I look down at the phone in my lap. And then my head jerks up.
“CHASE HAS MOM’S PHONE NUMBER!”
The words come out super loud, like they just exploded from my mouth.
The room goes silent. All heads turn toward me. Avery starts to whine in Chelsea’s lap, and Mark gets up and lifts her into his arms. He coaxes Alice from the table with promises of candy and the three of them exit the room. Lucky.
“What?” Chelsea asks as her family leaves, confusion on her face.
“Who’s Chase?” Dad asks.
“Mom’s phone?” says Devon.
I swallow. That was a real knee-jerk reaction. I could have yelled fire … that might have been better.
I take a breath. “You all know Chase. He was at the party and then at Drives for Dreams.”
My dad nods his head slowly, remembering. He looks to June, who gives him questioning eyes.
“Devon gave him a ride in the Lambo?” my dad asks.
I nod my head. “Yes. He’s … he’s not a client or a potential client. His name is Chase Beckett. And he has Mom’s phone number,” I say.
“What?” Devon says, his ire now directed at me. Good, good … that was the point of my outburst. Even if I have so many regrets already.
“I don’t understand,” says Chelsea.
I close my eyes and take a steadying breath before opening them. “I was texting Mom’s phone. After she died. It was kind of like therapy,” I add, after seeing the confused/concerned look on my dad’s face. “It felt like therapy, at least.”
“Maggie,” Chelsea says, and I look to see her watery eyes.
I blink rapidly, looking away from her. I can’t cry right now. “So then I found out that Dad had turned off Mom’s phone.”
“I’m so sorry, Magpie,” my dad says, his voice quiet. “Had I known—”
“It’s okay, Dad.” I cut him off. “I understand.” I give him a closed-mouth smile. “It turns out that my texts started going to someone.”
Chelsea’s eyes go wide. “Chase?”
“Yes,” I say. “Chase.”
“Wait … the guy that wants to bring his car to the shop?” Devon asks. He’s still not grasping this. “The one I gave a ride in the Lamborghini?”
“Wait … why was he at both events?” Chelsea asks.
“I … invited him.” I nibble on my bottom lip after this declaration. It’s weird to begin with, but inviting him to that party and then to Drives for Dreams makes it ten times crazier.
“I don’t understand, Magpie,” Dad says.
I swallow, looking at him and then to June. She gives me a comforting smile, dipping her chin as if to urge me on. I’m suddenly grateful for her steadying presence.
“Chase wrote me back after he started getting my texts that were meant for Mom, and we sort of … started texting.”
“What?” Devon says. He’s got triple chins now, the way he’s pulled his face so far inward. His lips are pulled downward.
“Catch up, Devon,” Chelsea says. “Our sister has been texting a stranger, thinking it was Mom’s phone, and then invited him to our family business work events.”
I shoot her an annoyed look. There’s an accusatory tone to her voice. She’s not wrong, but it’s so much more than that.
“So he doesn’t want his car wrapped?” Devon asks.
I shake my head.
“No Lexus LC five hundred?”
“He really does drive a Honda Accord.”
Devon makes a sour face at this bit of info.
“Wait … so that story was totally made up. Did his mom really die?” Chelsea asks.
“She did,” I say.
“Before Mom?”
I shake my head. It feels wrong to share this part of Chase. Like it’s not my story to tell. “In March,” is all I offer.
I’m not sure if my family can put two and two together with this information.
“That’s … how sad,” June says, her head tilted to the side, her soft eyes on me.
“So are you like, what? Are you with this guy or something?” Devon asks.
“No.” I shake my head. “We’re friends.”
June makes a little smacking no
ise with her mouth and I look back at her. She has her hand resting on her heart. “I think that’s just lovely,” she says. “What a way to meet someone.”
“A creepy way,” Chelsea says.
I squint my eyes at Chelsea, annoyed with her reaction. I should be more understanding. Chase has become more to me than just someone I’ve been texting. So much more. But it’s hard to convey that when the way we met is just so freaking weird.
“I’m sorry I lied to you,” I say, looking around the room at my family. The family who will probably have another meeting without me, this time to discuss my sanity. I’m now fragile with a side of insane.
“Well,” my dad says after a few beats of silence. He looks around the room. “Who wants some pie?”
Devon raises his hand. “I’ll take some.”
“Me too,” Chelsea says.
And just like that, my job is done. Peace once again restored. At least for now.
~*~
I feel Chase’s chuckle more than I hear it. We’re lying on my bed and I’m turned toward him, my face buried into his shoulder, his arm around me.
“You said you would take it to the grave,” Chase says.
“I know,” I say, the words coming out muffled with my face against his shirt.
He smells of that same cologne—the one I still can’t name—mixed with the scent of fabric softener from the black fitted tee he’s wearing.
I lift my face up and give him a defeated look. Then I lie back, using his bicep as a pillow. He pulls me toward him, resting his hand on my arm. He gives it a squeeze.
I texted Chase before I left my dad’s house, asking if he could come over. Hannah has been working all weekend on the same case, the one that’s been taking all her time for the past month.
I needed to vent, and who better to vent to than the reason for my need to vent? Sort of. He’s more like an innocent bystander.
When Chase got here I gave him a tour of our small apartment, and then we took a seat on my bed and I started telling him what happened. As we talked, he kicked off his flip-flops, scooted back on my full-size bed, and laid his head on my pillow, patting the spot he’d left next to him. That’s how we ended up here, lying on my bed, looking up at the dormant ceiling fan.