by Ashley Munoz
This home had been gifted to my parents by one of my mother’s relatives and while I had never heard which one, I did know that it was all very hush-hush.
They still had to pay the taxes on the land along with regular utilities and all the debt they still had, but otherwise they were mortgage-free in a home that should have never been theirs. We rightly should have been situated near Jace’s family, down near the Greenhaven Trailer Park on the other side of the tracks.
Even still, it hadn’t made a lick of difference in how little I’d had growing up.
My daddy was a poor man, having never gone to college and always needing to take care of his sickly sister then inheriting his daddy’s debt. My mother had married him when she was seventeen years old, tucked alongside him in sickness and poverty. I never heard anything about her parents or much of her family in any regard, but I didn’t have doting grandparents or rich aunts to take me shopping.
Things were tight, always tight. But they loved me enough that I never felt the absence of luxury. I never felt anything but happiness growing up here.
Excitement fluttered through me as I got out of the car and slammed the door shut. Within minutes my daddy would come running out and fold me into a hug so tight it might make me forget all the pain I’d endured the last few years. Maybe if I had returned home more frequently, they would have intervened and forced me to leave Bryan sooner. I hadn’t been home in years, though, hadn’t even seen my parents except through video chat.
“Faith? Is that you?” my mother called, pulling me from my thoughts. She was leaning around one of the white pillars on the porch, wearing a pair of soft blue pants and a loose white dress shirt.
“Hey, Mama,” I yelled over my shoulder, grabbing my luggage and tugging it free.
My mother’s eyes raked over me, inquisitive as always. I inwardly cringed. I looked like a billionaire’s wife: expensive clothes, expensive car, expensive skin, nails, and hair. On instinct, I smoothed out my slacks and straightened my dress shirt as I closed the gap between us. I knew I didn’t need to apologize for being rich, but it was a hard habit to break.
“Sugar, to what…” She trailed off as my father came barreling through the door after her.
“Pumpkin!” he exclaimed excitedly.
His salt and pepper hair was more salt these days, his horn-rimmed glasses made him look like he’d stepped right out of the 1950s, and his dark slacks and collared shirt complete with a necktie implied that he was working somewhere fancier than the insurance office. I smiled, pushing toward them, their smiles nearly a mile wide as I closed the space.
Just as I was nearly to the front steps, I pushed my sunglasses up into my hair. As soon as I did, they both froze in place, gaping at me like Gemma had.
“What…who did this?” my father asked harshly, like the air had suddenly left his lungs.
I wavered, having forgotten about my eye and the bruise that was likely blooming into something vicious and horrible.
“Oh…I-I…” I stammered, suddenly embarrassed. Thankfully I was close enough that they both just gently grabbed me and tugged me close. Tears gathered and begged to be shed, but I wanted to be indoors, away from prying eyes and listening ears. My parents lived on a secluded road, but just fifty feet from it was another private drive, and I had no idea who lived there nowadays.
“I’ll tell you both inside.” I kissed their cheeks and dragged my suitcase behind me, my father quickly taking over.
I walked through the living room and carefully touched photos and trinkets from my childhood, things that made me feel safe. My parents hadn’t done much with the inside of the house since I was last home.
I smiled at how the thin reclining chairs faced the modest flat-screen, the same white afghan blanket tossed over the two-seater couch. The same blue and white braided rug lay in the middle of the floor, and my parents’ Basset Hound, Trudy, was curled up on it. She was half deaf and never got up to see what the commotion was. I liked that about her; she was always calm and relaxed.
I heard murmuring near the front door and knew my father was asking for answers he assumed my mother had. I scanned a few more pictures and smiled as I saw the ones from my high school years. I grasped my prom picture where I sported sleek bangs pinned to the side with a hair clip, like Gwen Stefani.
I loved Gwen and had gone through a phase of wanting to be exactly like her. Bright red lipstick, dark eyeliner, pinned bangs, tiny shirts that showed my midriff and baggy pants—yeah, it was definitely a phase. It wasn’t even in my era, so to speak—she was more 90s grunge while I graduated in 2014—but I didn’t care.
My eyes skipped over to the handsome boy standing next to me, and it felt like a fifty-ton weight had been dropped inside my stomach.
Jace.
“Faith, honey, you need to tell us what in the world is goin’ on.” My father’s stern voice pulled me from my thoughts, prompting me to turn around. His six feet, four inches made him seem intimidating, but I knew better. He was a total teddy bear, but still…I didn’t feel ready to give voice to my situation. Explaining this to my parents was vastly different than telling Gemma.
“I think I need a drink for this conversation.” I escaped, walking past him.
“Of course, get comfortable.” He moved aside and started going upstairs with my things.
My parents’ kitchen was the same as I remembered it: chipped paint along the cupboards and some of the drawers, thick subway tile along the counters, the same old toaster resting in the corner, and my mother’s mint green mixer next to it.
Everything screamed 1975, and the nostalgia made me want to curl up in the corner with a blanket and never leave. I reached above the counter and grabbed for a glass before going toward the older fridge and pulling out a pitcher of tea.
I rejoined my mother and father, who were both seated in their recliners, pensive as they waited to hear the story of why their daughter had turned up broken and bruised.
I cleared my throat as I sank into the love seat. “I’m here because I left Bryan. I’m here to start over.”
My father’s face fell, his lips turning into a frown as he examined the rug at his feet. My mother stood and crowded me on the couch. She didn’t hug me, just sat there. It was her own way of showing support…cold and firm as always.
“Did he do this? What happened?” my father asked carefully, like he knew how fragile I was, knew one wrong question would shatter me entirely.
“It’s a long story, made up of several moments leading to one tragic ending, but Bryan hit me last night. He’s been hitting me, but last night he put me in the hospital.” I lifted my shirt, showing my sore, wrapped ribs.
My mother let out a small gasp while tracing the bandages with her fingers. I wanted to curl into her chest and cry. I wanted her to tell me what to do, but that wasn’t her. Over the years, without June, it had been Gemma I’d consulted when I needed a shoulder to cry on. It was Gemma who had been thrust beyond her role as my best friend and unfairly cast as my maternal crutch.
I flicked my gaze to my father, hoping for a warmer reaction, but with his eyebrows drawn in tight, his lips pursed, and his fists clenched, he just looked confused.
“But he loves you.” My father looked up, his eyes asking for more than I was giving him.
Pain pricked my heart.
“I don’t really know what to say to that, Daddy. I think he did at one point,” I admitted softly, sipping my tea.
His focus jumped back to me. “Have you two tried to work it out with a therapist?”
“Clark, he hit her,” my mother chided. That prickly feeling was back; she didn’t sound outraged that he’d asked, just inconvenienced.
My father’s face went from pasty white to a marred, patchy red. “I’m just saying…marriage is a big thing to just throw away. Everyone goes through hard times. I’m just wondering…” He trailed off, likely reading my hurt expression.
This wasn’t exactly what I’d expected when I pictured
coming home. I hadn’t thought it would feel this…unfamiliar. Although, maybe deep down that was why I had stayed away…because all my life, there had been parts of my childhood that were unfamiliar.
“Well, we’re here for you, Pumpkin. Whatever you need.” My father dodged my glare and stood. I stood too, pushing away my concerns and desperately needing his hug. His arms banded around me tightly as he tucked me under his chin. My ribs ached with the movement, but I ignored it, because I didn’t want to focus on the pain or the weakness it exposed.
“Come, let’s get you settled.” My mother grabbed my hand and led me upstairs to my childhood bedroom.
The dark sky above flashed with lightning. I leaned against the tower railing, watching as the storm unfolded, as I waited for him.
The second his feet touched the platform, I expected to be wrapped in his arms like usual, but this time it was different. Everything was different.
“Faith…look.” His tone dipped in a dreaded sort of way…a way that made me feel like I had fallen down the big metal slide backward during the hottest day of the summer.
I faltered back a step, not recognizing the hard finality in his gaze.
“No.” I shook my head back and forth, feeling something dislodge mentally as I considered the possibility of Jace leaving me.
It would never happen.
I grabbed my locket, to remind myself of his promise. This was something else. It had to be.
“What’s going on?” I dared to whisper.
“I can’t do this right now.” Jace’s voice sounded like gravel dropped to the bottom of a chasm.
“We made plans,” I muttered, staring off into the distance, still holding my locket. He’d promised me a future.
“Plans change.” He lifted a shoulder, like I was an unloaded burden, a sack of grain tossed to the side, out of the way.
“Why?” I rasped.
“We’re so young, Faith. We have our entire lives ahead of us. My mom’s sick, and I have too much going on right now. I just need some time,” he argued, pointing at his chest, as though I was being doe-eyed and ridiculous.
“If you need to put off college, let’s put it off. I’ll stay here with you. I’ll help with your mom’s medicine. I can help.” I sobbed, sounding pathetic, desperate. I was begging and I hated myself for it.
“No, it’s over. We’re done,” he said with a firm tick to his jaw. Then he pushed me.
I woke with a start, gasping for air and fumbling with my blankets.
That dream.
That fucking dream. I hadn’t had it in a few years, and now, pieces were choppy and out of place, exaggerated. In real life, there hadn’t been any lighting when Jace broke up with me, nor had he pushed me off the tower.
But the dream took on new little horrors every time I had it. One time Jace was a vampire and tried to kill me; in another, he was there with his new girlfriend.
In reality, nothing that dramatic had ever happened. Jace had merely showed up in our spot and broken my heart. That was the last time I ever spoke to him. That night was our final goodbye, and I still struggled against the confusion of it all. It made no sense…
We had an apartment rented, our deposit paid…we had packed our things. Our college classes were picked. Everything was ready then, out of the blue, he just said goodbye.
I tried to go back to sleep, but being in my childhood home with all the memories hanging over my head made it nearly impossible. Kicking my legs free, I got out of bed and walked to my window. Carefully popping it open, I looked down at the white lattice and green vines that crawled along the wall.
My poor, stupid heart missed that asshole. I blinked against the darkness of the humid summer night, hoping that while I was home, I could officially and finally eliminate Jace from my memories and dreams, once and for all.
Three
I scanned the contents of my open suitcases and wanted to cry, though not in an emotional, sad sort of way. No, these tears were out of pure frustration. Over the past five years, I had truly lost my identity. Staring back at me was the wardrobe of a woman I didn’t want to be.
She had expensive taste: high heels, dresses, high-waisted pants, silk shirts, cashmere sweaters, and pencil skirts all rolled smoothly into neat bundles. There wasn’t a single pair of jeans. No ratty tennis shoes. No flip-flops, boots, or anything else I could wear on a Friday night in small-town Tennessee and stay off everyone’s radar.
The urge to scream came back in full force. I needed to find a Target or Kohls…but the reminder that I was flat broke sank back in. I had $345 to my name, which I needed for gas and saving for an apartment.
Panic was pumping along with the blood going to my heart as I pictured myself standing in the backyard of Whitney Truitt’s parents’ house, awkwardly sipping from crystal ware while everyone congratulated her on her engagement.
My mother had given me a week to lounge around the house, watch television, and eat my weight in ice cream, but today she had wandered up to my room carrying a set of folded towels. It was her passive aggressive way of telling me she wanted me to shower and get ready for a social event.
Pushing the folded towels from my bed to the floor with my feet hadn’t gone over well; it’d only urged her on in getting me out of the house. My bruise had lessened to a faint yellow over the week, now just an ugly blotch around my eye that was easily concealed with makeup.
To quote her exact words: “If you can spend an entire week re-watching that Bella and Edward, pretending they love each other, you can put some clothes on and go to a barbeque.”
Naturally, I had gasped and stood immediately, insisting they weren’t pretending and it was real. She’d merely rolled her eyes and left, surely thinking her mission had been accomplished.
My mother was nothing if not polite, and what we lacked in money, she made up for in her baking skills. She was polite, thoughtful, and considerate to everyone in the entire state of Tennessee—except me.
Because of her big fat heart, she was invited to everything—and I do mean everything. Growing up, I grew accustomed to it, but now as an adult, I had assumed I’d have a choice.
Giving up on my miniscule options for regular clothes, I pulled a black pencil skirt free and paired it with a tight red tank top. I piled what I could of my hair up into a ballerina bun, spraying the little strands that wanted to fall and pinning them with bobby pins. I put on makeup and applied dark eyeliner and red lipstick, just like Gwen. In fact, this entire look was something I’d seen her wear on The Voice.
I loved that woman.
I grabbed my clutch and headed downstairs, ready to join my mother for an evening with her friends. It oddly felt like I was still seventeen, not having a choice one way or another if I was dragged somewhere to socialize. I could have just said I was going out with Gemma—I needed to go see her anyway—but I loved my mother and, for whatever reason, she wanted me to go, so the least I could do was honor that.
I wished so badly I could just be honest with her and tell her how insensitive it was to force me to go to an engagement party for someone I hadn’t kept in touch with, and all while I was going through a divorce. Always the perfect hostess, those kinds of socially awkward encounters didn’t register with my mother.
“Okay, I’m ready to go.” I huffed, looking down at my ballerina flats. I didn’t need to be piercing holes in the Truitt’s grass or rolling an ankle tonight.
“You forget your sweater, sweetheart?” my mother asked, pulling her own cardigan around her shoulders. My father was in the living room watching preseason football; he never had to go to these things, and I always envied him for it.
“Mama, the humidity alone will be a killer, and with all those tiki torches Beverley Truitt likes to use, there is no way I’m wearing a sweater if I have to go to this.” I sauntered down a few more steps and joined my mother at the door.
She pursed her lips, eyes roaming over my chest and the small locket resting there.
“You sti
ll have that?” She raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow.
I lowered my head, cradling the object. “Of course I do…”
“I just figured you would have gotten rid of it.” She gently inspected the silver pendant, speaking in a hushed tone.
“Couldn’t,” I whispered, watching her dainty nails hold on to something that felt like it was now a part of me.
Her blue eyes snapped up to mine, and in a quick movement she released the necklace.
“At some point you’ve got to want to protect that heart of yours,” she scolded, turning back toward the front door. Sharp pain shot through my stomach as I processed her words.
It felt like she’d dismissed me, painted me with ugly, broad strokes in the ugliest color. She didn’t know me, not really. She didn’t know who I had become.
But it made sense. Familiar anger pulsed under my skin as I considered my past. I knew she loved me, and at times, we laughed, shopped, and joked like a healthy mother and daughter…but then, when it mattered, she’d leave me to suffer.
“We’re off, Clark. Dinner is in the oven,” my mother called out softly, pulling open the front door. “Honey, let’s take your car.” She carefully maneuvered over the gravel to my BMW.
I let out a pained sigh and followed after her. We drove toward Widow’s Peak Drive, the wealthiest part of town. My parents were not wealthy by any means, but my goodness, they knew how to put on appearances and befriend the right kind of acquaintances.
“Right here.” My mother indicated with her finger, directing me to the left.
I pulled over, parallel to the curb, behind a large, white truck. It was lifted with black-rimmed tires and so much chrome it made my eyes hurt.
“Are there supposed to be a lot of people at this thing?” I asked, eyeing the dozen or so cars parked along the curb, blocking the Truitt’s mailbox and squeezed into their massive driveway.