“It’ll be fun, Hannah. I promise.”
My stomach tightens. I hate promises. Somehow, they never live up to what you’re expecting.
But I nod anyway, my lips forming a tight smile.
Paige claps her hands together, her excitement bubbling up like a fountain. “Oh this is going to be so fun!”
I want to laugh at that, but I stay quiet instead. I can’t imagine in what world this would be fun, but as Paige goes on and on about what to expect when I go with Lucas to dinner tomorrow night, I can’t help but hope she’s right.
CHAPTER FIVE
Wyatt
The smell of home.
The girl on the pier said those words, and I bet when she said them, she thought she was saying something emotionally revealing or romantic.
She couldn’t have been more wrong.
I lift my leg over to straddle the seat, pull the clutch, and hit the start, revving the engine a few times before I throttle down the alley and back onto Hermosa Ave.
The smell of the ocean in Hermosa Beach doesn’t make me feel like I’m at home.
Not anymore.
Instead, the smell reminds me of all the reasons I left.
I come to a stop at a red light and glance to my left, seeing a convertible full of women singing along to some pop song. They wave and giggle, but I ignore them, turning back and screeching away when the light turns green.
I have to admit, this bike has been quite useful over the past few months. I’ve always known that women love a man who rides a motorcycle. But there’s a certain pitch to this engine that seems to hit the ladies right between their legs.
The motorcycle I’ve had since I turned twenty is still up in San Francisco, safely tucked away in storage while I travel. This baby is a birthday gift my dad sent me last year. An Indian FTR 1200 Rally.
It didn’t even debut until the end of last year. Didn’t go on sale until January. But somehow, he managed to figure out exactly what I wanted and have it assembled and sent to me before any of that. It was a surprising gift, primarily because my dad isn’t the type to pay attention to anything I say.
So, I suspect Ivy is to blame.
I smile, looking forward to seeing her soon.
But that brief bit of joy gets quickly overshadowed by the truth of why I’m home. Why I’m here instead of drinking a whiskey neat on Otto’s dad’s company jet, bound for London.
My smile quickly slips away.
I’m only on the road for about ten minutes before I finally pull in to the short driveway at my mom’s house. It doesn’t take long to get anywhere in Hermosa, unless you’re driving from the Tourist End to the Money End.
It might sound conceited or elitist, but I didn’t come up with this shit.
I park the FTR and pull my helmet off, irritated that I’m not in a better mood. I thought stopping by the pier would give me time to relax. Help calm my mind before I enter the storm.
But it did neither of those things.
Sure, I’d gotten a brief distraction when the hot blonde and I shared the bench. Her legs were so fucking long. It took everything in me not to tell her how much I’d like to see those babies wrapped around my waist.
I knew nothing was going to happen tonight, though, with anyone, regardless of whether they wanted it to or not. So I’d decided to just play friendly stranger instead, and we had a nice little chat about nothing.
But once she was gone – after turning me down, too – my mind when straight back to the real reason I’m here.
Clenching my hands, I grab my small bag off the back and head inside, banging through the front door, but closing it softly behind me. I set my bag down on the marble-floored entryway and take a deep breath, the smell of home hitting me square in the chest.
That must be what Pier Girl was talking about. Because as much as I hate that I have to be here, that familiar scent of green tea that my mom makes on most evenings, and the waft of the gardenia bush that sits out back… they’re familiar smells that help calm me just a bit.
Thankfully.
Because the last thing I need is to be upset right now. The last thing I should be is anything other than loving and happy and warm.
“Welcome home, Wyatt,” comes a melodious voice from my right.
I turn just my head and give Vicky a smirk. “I thought you were supposed to call me Mr. Calloway.”
She rolls her eyes and takes the few final steps until she’s right in front of me, her arms wide for a hug. I step in to her embrace, thankful for a positive, familiar face as my first reintroduction to this house.
“There’s only one Mr. Calloway, and I won’t be saying his name with affection any time soon, okay?”
I let out a small laugh, though it’s tinged with the knowledge of what she truly means.
“Yeah, well, my dad won’t be coming here any time soon. So don’t stress about that too much.”
She takes a step back. “Oooooh, boy, you’ve grown. At least another inch since the last time I saw you.” She pokes my chest. “And I’m not talking about your height.”
I roll my eyes, ready to tease her right back about the muscle mass I’ve added on since the last time I was home, when I hear my name called from somewhere else in the house.
“Go on, see your family. I’ll grab your bag and get you settled in.”
I kiss Vicky on the cheek. “Thanks Vic. Love you.” And then I wander off into the house, searching for the voice that called to me.
Vicky has been my mother’s everything since I was a kid. Her assistant, her personal shopper, her maid, her closest friend. She’s one of the few people that I’ve known my entire life. That I’ve loved my entire life. And I’m glad to know that she’s one of the people invested in keeping things in order around here.
I head down the hall between the large formal dining room and my mother’s office, through the kitchen and out to the patio where I find her lounging by the pool.
One of the smart things my parents did during the years they were trying not to save their marriage was build a house one street off the beach, acknowledging that it provided them with slightly more privacy. They purchased an apartment complex and a house, demolished them both, and created the behemoth known to most Hermosan socialites as the Calloway Estate, though my friends in high school mockingly called it Calloway Castle.
Seven bedrooms, nine bathrooms, a media room, two offices, a game room, gym, swimming pool, three car garage, and two thousand square feet of outdoor patios and grass, plus a completely separate two bedroom guest cottage over another garage, it’s an absolutely outrageous property. The only real goal my parents could have had was to irritate all of the neighbors and flaunt their wealth.
Mission accomplished, mom and dad.
I might have seen only a handful of other homes over the years that have a pool this close to the beach. And those people wasted a lot of real estate to have it. But this property would seem almost too big if there wasn’t the large almost unearthly blue mammoth sitting on the edge of the property against a tall wall covered in carefully manicured ivy.
The irony is that my dad is the one who insisted on getting the pool, and my parents divorced before he ever had a chance to use it.
“Wyatt. I’m so glad you’re home,” my mother says as I take a seat next to her on a lounger.
She’s wearing sweats and fuzzy socks and reading a book. On a Friday night.
This is the woman who once told me that staying at home any evening was the first step to becoming irrelevant.
Just goes to show how circumstance can play a part in the choices people make.
“Good to see you, mom.” I lean over and place a kiss on her cheek. “Though I’m surprised to see you out here reading. I assumed you’d be upstairs.”
She sighs. Another indicator that things are taking a turn.
Vivian Calloway doesn’t show her true emotions. She used to be made of plastic, and she enjoyed life that way. “If you’re made of glass, i
f you let people see inside, you might shatter at any given moment,” she told me once. “Plastic doesn’t break as easily.”
It was the most honest and heartbreaking thing she’s ever said to me.
“Well, sometimes you just have to take a deep breath outside, you know? Breathe in that ocean air. Breathe out all of the fear and helplessness.”
I nod, squeezing her hand.
It’s weird, this closeness with my mother that seems to have sprung up out of nowhere. Being plastic always made her feel fake. Inaccessible.
Now, in the wake of anxiety and sadness, she’s letting that false exterior slip away and I feel like I’m finally getting glimpses of the real Vivian. The mom I might have had if things had been different.
“How was the trip from San Francisco?” she asks, her eyes dropping to my boots. “Tell me you didn’t ride that rickety scooter all the way down here.” At my silence, she sits forward, her eyes wide. “Wyatt, that’s a dangerous ride to take by yourself. You should have just flown. I’m sure Greg Slader would have let you hop on one of his jets. Lord knows he goes back and forth to see that mistress of his enough.”
I smile just a little bit. “Mom, it’s not a rickety scooter. It’s a high performance sport bike. And I was completely fine.”
She rolls her eyes, another newer expression I’ve only seen from her a few times. “I’m your mother. I’ll never think you’re completely fine.”
I’m twenty-five years old, but she still knows how to pull the I’m your mother card like I’m still in my teens.
Settling back into the lounge chair, I look up at the sky, both anticipating and dreading the next thing I’m going to ask.
“How’s everything going?” Then I turn to look at my mom’s face, because with her defenses temporarily down, I know she doesn’t have the ability to hide anything from me. “Honestly.”
My mom stays silent for a moment, and I can’t tell whether she’s shoring herself up to tell me something bad, or if she’s just struggling to find the right words. But eventually, she confirms what I knew to be true.
“The doctors said we just have to wait and see.”
I clench my jaw, shake my head. Bunch of fucking crocs, these doctors. Always with the wait and see, as if we aren’t sitting around absolutely terrified of what comes next.
“That’s bullshit. We’re getting another opinion.”
She looks at me with sad eyes. “Wyatt…”
“Not about the diagnosis itself. Okay? I just… there has to be a better solution than just doing nothing.”
She leans her head back against the lounger, her eyes looking up at the sky. But eventually, she nods.
“Is there anything I can do around here to make things easier?” I ask. “For anyone?”
She tilts her head to look at me, a sweet, gentle, unguardedness in her eyes that is so unlike her. “No. Just be here. That’s all we want. That’s the only thing that will make any of this feel manageable.”
I nod, just once, then lean over and give my mom a kiss on the cheek.
She lifts a hand and places it on my shoulder. “I love you, Wyatt. And I’m glad you came home.”
I reach out and squeeze her hand, trying not to focus on the tightness in my chest. Then I stand up and head back inside.
Vicky will have taken my bag out to the guesthouse, knowing I typically prefer privacy and dread the idea of staying in one of the guestrooms in the main house. But before I head out there and get settled in for the evening, I have one more thing to do.
I jog up the staircase to the second floor, then head down the long hallway to the bedroom at the very end.
Cracking the door open, a sliver of light slices through the room, illuminating the tiny body that rests in my mom’s bed. She’s curled up on her side, totally passed out, dead to the world, and snoring like a fucking chain saw.
I smile to myself, debating for just a minute whether I should wake Ivy or let her sleep and just say hello in the morning.
My sister has her own bedroom, but I know she’s been sleeping in here with mom for the past few years. Part of me thinks it’s unhealthy, and I’ve talked to my mom about it before. But another part of me can’t help but see what they’re both going through right now.
I step into the room, leaving the door cracked, and wander over to the other side of the bed where I can see my little sister’s face. She looks so at peace right now, so adorable and fresh-faced the way only a twelve-year-old can. I can’t muster up the will to wake her when mom told me she’s been having trouble sleeping over the past few weeks.
But before I can even make it back to the door, I hear a small voice mumble in my direction.
“Are you seriously not going to say hello to me?”
I spin around and find Ivy has rolled to her other side and faces me, a sleepy smile on her face.
Sorry, I sign, though my smile is just as big as hers. I just didn’t want to wake you.
Come give me a hug. And then she lifts her arms out, a silent command.
And, of course, I follow her directions, crawling up onto the bed and wrapping my arms around her, giving her a tight squeeze.
Once we’re done hugging, I kick off my boots and lean up against the wall, looking down at her.
When did you get here? she asks, her hands moving quickly with the skill of someone who has been signing her entire life.
Not that long. I talked to mom for a few minutes, then came up here to see you.
My signing is a bit choppier. I didn’t start learning until much later, since there’s a big gap between our ages. And Ivy is always making fun of me for how poorly I sign.
How did she seem to you?
I sigh. Honestly? Not good. But I figure that’s okay. It’s a lot for her to take in. You know. I smirk. Now that she isn’t a plastic anymore.
Ivy giggles.
She loves when I talk about mom being a human Barbie. I’m the only person in her life that doesn’t see mom as this perfect untouchable thing, and it makes Ivy feel like mom is more relatable somehow.
I’m really glad you came home. I don’t like having to deal with this on my own.
I nod, feeling the pang of having been gone too long. I’m sorry for not coming home sooner. I should have been here more.
No. No way. You still have a life to live. I’m just glad you’re here now. Unlike somebody.
She means our dad, the expression on her face morphing into something unpleasant and resentful.
I roll my eyes, not wanting to get in an argument it right now.
Let’s not talk about him, okay? He isn’t important. I lean forward and kiss her forehead. I’m exhausted and need to head to bed. Wanna go get breakfast together in the morning? I’ll take you to Mary’s.
She beams. Yes, please.
I give her one more hug and then hop out of bed.
“Night,” she calls to me, then snuggles back in under mom’s fluffy down comforter.
I close the door behind me and make the short trek back down the stairs and out to the guesthouse, kicking my boots off at the entry and tugging my jacket off just as quickly.
A six-hour drive down the center of the state was instead a long ten-hour journey along the coast, and I am shattered from the draining day behind me. Similarly to my decision to visit the pier, I’d hoped to have some sort of calm, some modicum of clarity come over me.
Instead, I’m just sore and achy and tired, and my mind has been in no way relieved.
I strip off the rest of my clothes as I make my way into the master bedroom, foregoing a shower, even though I desperately need one. Instead, I plop right onto the bed, feeling almost dead to the world within just a moment.
But I do have one more thought right before I slip all the way into dreamland.
Even though it’s highly unlikely, I wonder if I’ll get to see the pretty blonde from the pier again while I’m in town.
CHAPTER SIX
Hannah
That night I lie i
n bed and wonder what the hell I got myself into by coming here.
I thought it would be simple. Spend time with my brother. Get to know him a little bit. Learn about his life. Maybe find some sort of common ground or friendship or something that makes me feel like we’re connected.
But within only a few hours I’m realizing things are probably going to be a lot more complicated than that. Lucas lives in such a different world with what seems like a completely different set of rules.
I don’t know if I’ll fit.
Though I guess that’s my biggest fear no matter where I am.
Unable to sleep and feeling restless, I crawl out of bed and crack my door open, listening to see if anyone else is awake.
Everything is super quiet in this house, and as I’d trudged to my bed earlier this evening, the sound of my footsteps the only noise I could hear, I’d wondered how Lucas lives here without anyone else. It just seems like it would be… lonely.
When I see no one in the hall, I pad softly on the carpet past the other rooms on the third floor, then tiptoe down the stairs.
The house is quiet, though the living room windows are cracked open, the breeze from the water rushing through and filling the space with damp air and cooler temperatures than I’m able to feel in my bedroom, which faces away from the ocean.
I open one of the sliding doors and step out onto the front-facing balcony, getting a good look at Hermosa Beach at night.
Well, I guess, in the early hours of the morning.
There isn’t much to see under the night sky, when the beach is asleep and so much of the view is cast in darkness. I can see the Hermosa Pier to the south with a string of lights leading from The Strand all the way out to the tip. I can see the dim lights on a handful of large boats still out on the water in the distance.
But most of what can be seen is just the concrete path of The Strand, separating homes from the sand, rows of lights illuminating the path as it stretches from the south to the north.
Promise Me Nothing (Hermosa Beach Book 1) Page 6