by Lauren Layne
He doesn’t say “for once,” but I’m pretty sure he’s thinking it, and it stings. And irritatingly, I want to prove him wrong.
I don’t just want him to like me. I want him to respect me.
“Fine.” I lift my chin. “What do you have in mind?”
“Just for tonight, let your parents think we’re trying to work it out. For real. For one night, let them have their fantasy. That you and I are … you know …”
“Doing it?”
Colin goes still at my words. “I just meant …”
I give him a brotherly pat on the arm and turn to head toward the door. “I know what you meant. For tonight, let them think that I’m trying to be a wife for real. There’s just one problem,” I say, looking over my shoulder as I pick my purse up off the end table.
“What?” he asks warily.
“In order for that to work, you’ll have to prove that you’re trying to be my husband. For real.”
“Which means, what, I follow along behind you and carry your purse?”
“How about a smoldering look across the room?” I suggest. “That way we won’t have to talk to each other, but people will think you can’t wait to drag me home and have your way with me.”
Colin gives me a dark look, and I sigh. “No, no, dear, I said smolder, not glare. Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of opportunity to practice at the party.”
CHAPTER 12
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 4
“ Charlotte, dear, you look exactly the same as I remember.”
“Well played, Mrs. Hicks. I was literally just talking to my mom about how you were my favorite teacher.”
“Oh stop that. Irene, please. We’re both adults now, though one of us is on the uncomfortable side of middle-aged.”
I hadn’t been lying about Mrs. Hicks being my favorite teacher. She’d been young and pretty and fun, and unlike Mrs. Bunting, Mrs. Hicks hadn’t busted my chops for painting my nails during morning announcements.
She’s not so young anymore—neither am I, for that matter. But she’s still fun and pretty, her blond hair neatly styled into an elegant chignon, her makeup perfectly applied to flatter her fifty-something skin. For all her talk about middle age, Mrs. Hicks—Irene—strikes me as the epitome of aging with grace. Her lips don’t have that telltale injection pout, her forehead doesn’t have the perfectly smooth Botox kiss. She looks natural and soft, and I make a mental note that this is how it’s done.
“I was so touched when your mother included me in your welcome home party,” Irene says, taking a sip of her wine. “I still love teaching, but it’s nice to be surrounded by adults. Especially when that adult conversation doesn’t center around the supposed college aspirations of twelve-year-olds who I know for a fact are more concerned with their first kiss than they are their eventual SAT scores.”
“Please tell me my mom wasn’t one of those types of parents,” I say in a loud whisper.
Irene laughs because we both know my mom was exactly one of those.
“You’ll understand when you have one of your own,” Irene tells me.
I give an indelicate snort. “Let’s just say on my road of emotional maturity, I’m still a lot closer to my first kiss than I am to my first kid.”
“An event that I still like to tell myself I played a part in.”
I turn toward the masculine voice that’s just joined the conversation and do a double take before letting out a delighted laugh. “Drew Callahan! What are you doing here?”
I give my high school boyfriend a one-armed hug, careful not to spill the drink that Colin pressed into my hand shortly after we’d gotten to the party.
“You look so good!” I say, drawing back and giving his arm a fond pat.
I mean it. Drew’s a bit thicker now, the body of a man instead of the lithe form of a boy. And while his hairline isn’t quite what I remember, the twinkling, friendly blue eyes definitely are. We dated for nearly three years in high school, a practical lifetime in the teenage timeline. Though, the fact that we went to the same boarding school probably made it a little easier, without parents to loom over us.
Our relationship was an easy one, as I remember it, but then, so was our parting of ways when we went off to college, which was all the confirmation I needed at the time to know that he wasn’t the one. Still, I remember him fondly, and his face amidst a guest list primarily made up of my parents’ friends is very welcome.
“You’re not looking so bad yourself,” he says, giving me a familiar grin. “Do you not age?”
“Exactly what I was telling her,” Mrs. Hicks says emphatically, before drifting subtly away to join another conversation. I can practically hear her devising to give us young things some privacy.
“You know, I never did get a straight answer on if I was your first kiss,” Drew muses, as I turn to face him fully.
“Gosh, if only I can remember. It was so long ago, and all …” I say teasingly, since we both know he wasn’t my first kiss any more than I was his.
My first kiss was with the grandson of the elderly couple who lived across the street. His name had been John; his grandma had called him Johnny, much to his chagrin. He’d been visiting his grandparents for the summer from Texas, and I thought his accent was just about the best thing my thirteen-year-old self had ever heard, even if the kiss had been a sweet, awkward peck of a thing.
“I’m just going to go ahead and keep lying to myself,” Drew says.
I smile. “Solid plan. How the heck are you? Where’s—?” I look around the room for Drew’s wife. I’m blanking on her name, but I remember seeing their wedding photos on Facebook a couple of years ago.
“Andrea,” he supplies, holding up his left hand, which I belatedly realize is bereft of a ring. “We ended up on the wrong side of the divorce statistic.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I hadn’t heard.”
He shrugs. “It was relatively painless, at least as much as those things can be. We just sort of … drove each other crazy, and not in the good way.” He leans forward and lowers his voice. “Of course, maybe if we did marriage your way, we’d have had a shot.”
I laugh, hoping he doesn’t notice the nervous tinge to it. “My way?”
His smile is friendly. “Don’t think that theories over your marriage haven’t dominated every dinner party of our mutual friends for years now.”
“Hmm.” I sip my wine. “What’s the prevailing theory?”
“That you’re Charlotte Spencer, and you make your own rules. And speaking from personal experience, I imagine that living on different coasts is a pretty brilliant way to stay married. How’d you make it work? Weekdays doing your own thing, sexy weekend escapades?”
“Something like that,” I say noncommittally.
There’s no accusation in Drew’s tone, but the conversation makes me uncomfortable anyway. I know I promised Colin not to embarrass my mom, but I didn’t account for how wrong it would feel to be asked to lie outright, especially to someone I used to care about.
I scan the room, subconsciously seeking the one person who might possibly understand. Colin’s in the far corner of the room talking to my dad’s business partner and his wife. My husband’s not looking at me, but he apparently senses my gaze, because he meets my eyes across the room and lifts his eyebrows in silent question before resuming his usual default state when it comes to me. Glowering. And I must be starting to know the guy because I’ve got a pretty good sense of what he’s thinking: Here’s what I think of your goddamn smolder.
I hide a smile and turn back to Drew, who’s thankfully, changed the subject away from my thorny marriage, and is filling me in on our mutual friends from high school. I continue to smile and nod through the rundown on who’s divorced, who’s had twins, and who’s feuding with whom before I give in to the urge to excuse myself.
Not because I don’t enjoy Drew, not even because the conversation’s boring me, but I just need a minute to catch my breath and gather my thoughts. Being ba
ck here among people from my old life is stranger than I thought it would be. Which is saying something, because I’d been expecting it to be strange. It’s like being in a time machine where you’re surrounded by people who don’t know you now, but even worse, you realize maybe never knew you then—not really.
With a quick glance to make sure my mom isn’t watching, I slip out of the room, and before I realize where I’m headed, I take the stairs two at a time until I’m standing outside my old bedroom.
I push open the door.
I’m not expecting it to look the same, and it doesn’t. The bed’s in the same place, but the bedding is navy and taupe instead of the teal duvet cover I’d begged my mom for during my all-things-Tiffany-Blue phase. The nightstand is a dark cherry wood instead of white, and there’s a bookshelf where my dresser used to be.
I know I’m not the first adult woman to have her childhood room turned into a more all-purpose guest room, but I’m still caught off guard by the wave of forlornness that rolls through me. I hadn’t realized how much I was hoping to see something familiar in this room until it wasn’t there.
I sit on the side of the bed and give a quick jump of surprise when I see someone standing in the open doorway. Though I’d come up here for a moment of silence, the forlorn feeling eases slightly when I see my father.
“Hey, Dad.”
He looks hesitant. “May I come in?”
I shrug. “Your house. For that matter, this stopped being my room a long time ago.”
“Not so long ago. If I remember correctly, your mother held off changing things in here until just a couple of years ago.”
“Really?” I ask, genuinely surprised. “I’d have thought she’d have rid the house of all things Charlotte before my plane even touched down in San Francisco all those years ago.”
He gives me a chiding look I remember with perfect clarity. “Perhaps you don’t know your mother as well as you thought you did.”
“Perhaps not,” I say, smoothing a hand over the unfamiliar bedspread. “Perhaps she didn’t know me either.”
He surprises me by laughing. “No, definitely not. But then, I don’t think she would have ever claimed to know you well. It was part of what frustrated her—and me—so much. You just never seemed to be thinking what we thought you were thinking.”
“Or what you wanted me to think,” I point out.
“True,” he admits. “Justin was fairly easygoing, and it didn’t really occur to us until you came along that not all children adhered to the plan you’d laid out for them.”
“Well, props for trying to enforce your plan for as long as you did.” I don’t mean to say the words, which come out with a slight edge. But apparently time doesn’t heal all wounds, because mine are still there. Not as raw as they once were but not entirely healed over either.
My dad looks away, and I expect him to give one of his weary Charlotte’s so exasperating sighs and leave, the way I’d watched him do so many times in the past. Instead, he surprises me.
We’ve already established that my father isn’t exactly a fuzzy, heart-to-heart kind of guy, so it’s both nice and a little strange when he comes and sits beside me on the bed. He exhales, but it’s a thoughtful sound, not an annoyed one. For a few moments, neither of us says anything.
He breaks the silence. “We thought you’d come home, you know.”
Wow, so we’re doing this. The conversation has been a long time coming, but I confess I didn’t think it would happen in the midst of a party, and I sort of always imagined the showdown would happen first with my mother.
I look over. “She told me not to.”
This time he does give in to the weary sigh, but it doesn’t annoy me as much as it used to. “Charlotte, when you—if you—have children, you’ll learn that there’s nothing quite so difficult in the world as watching them try to pull away from you. And you pulled hard, and you pulled often.”
“I know,” I whisper.
“It’s probably not entirely your fault,” he shocks me by saying. “You are your mother’s daughter after all.”
I blink in surprise. “Mom’s the very opposite of me. She’s always done everything she’s supposed to.”
“I don’t mean you get your rebellious streak from her; I mean you inherited her stubborn streak. As well as, perhaps, your tendency to speak and act first, think later. Especially when things don’t go your way.”
“I’ll have you know I’ve gotten much better at that over the years,” I say.
“I’m sure you have, but your mother still gives in to the urge to say things she doesn’t mean when she’s frustrated.”
I don’t pretend to misunderstand. “You mean like when she told me to leave and never come back.”
“She didn’t tell you to leave,” he says, with impressive gentleness. “That was your decision.”
“True,” I admit. “But she hardly gave me a hug, well-wishes, and told me she couldn’t wait to hear all about my California adventure at Thanksgiving.” I risk another glance his way. “Neither did you.”
In that moment he looks older than his years, and he bows his head. “No. No, I didn’t, and I have some regrets about that.”
It’s not quite an apology, but I’m still shocked by how much it means to me to hear it. To know that they haven’t been leaving all the blame on my shoulders all these years, that the shoddy state of our relationship isn’t entirely my fault.
Plenty my fault, definitely. But not entirely.
I reach over and hold his hand, giving it a squeeze. He squeezes back; there’s a lifetime of communication in the silent gesture.
“Is now a good time to ask if you’re ever going to take Coco public?” he asks, a playful note of hope in his voice.
“Wait, what?” I laugh in surprise. “You follow my business?”
He gives an embarrassed shrug, and I’m surprisingly touched.
“It’s not Apple, but it seems to be doing well.”
“High praise,” I say, amused. “And I would love to talk business with you. But maybe not when there are thirty people downstairs in your living room?”
He winces. “Sorry about the party.”
“I don’t mind the party.”
“And yet here you are, hiding in your bedroom. I seem to remember that was always more Justin’s move during your mother’s parties.”
“Ha, that’s definitely true.” I smile at the memory.
Justin and I had been a pretty cut-and-dried introvert versus extrovert case study. He’d been personable enough when required, but if given the choice, he would choose books over people every time.
I’d never met a party or person I hadn’t liked. Even during my rebellious years, if we want to call them that, I still knew how to sparkle and shine, even if it was in a too-much-black-eyeliner kind of way, and not the pearls and discreet blush my mom would have preferred.
Hiding away from the crowd has never been my style, but my dad’s right. I am hiding out right now. I look down at my hands, trying to identify why I feel so atypically uncomfortable. It’s nothing that anyone’s said or done. Everyone’s been welcoming and seems genuinely glad to have me back.
And maybe that right there is exactly what’s making me uncomfortable. The fact that nobody’s even questioned my right to be here, in this house. The fact that everyone, from old teachers to old boyfriends, to my own parents, seems to think I belong here.
Even though I turned my back on all of them and have barely looked back over the course of ten years. I can tell myself whatever I want about my growth and change and maturity, but it doesn’t take away the fact that I could have done a lot of things better.
I look up at the ceiling. “How do you not hate me?”
“Biology,” my dad says without hesitation. “I’m physically required to love you.”
I laugh. “Fair enough. What about like? Do you like me?”
“I do,” he says, again without hesitation. “I’m not going to pretend to unde
rstand you any more now than I did back then. But I’ve had a few years to watch you from afar, and I get what you’re doing. I respect it.”
“What am I doing?”
“You’ve started your own business. Built something for yourself that’s all your own, nothing to do with your connection or the power of the Spencer name in this city.”
“Such modesty.”
“Pride,” he corrects. “Now, I could have gone with a few more visits over the years. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m proud of you.”
I blow out a long breath. “I have a lot to make up for, huh?”
“Showing up to your mother’s party is a good start. It meant a lot to her.”
“And hiding out in my bedroom? Was that on her wish list for the evening?” I ask dryly.
“Well, you escaped up here so that you had an opportunity to talk to your dear old dad, did you not?”
“Oh, absolutely,” I say, starting to take the easy out he’s offering, but then realizing I don’t want to start this tentative peace treaty between us with a pretense.
“Dad, about me and Colin …”
He gives a slight smile, and there’s a definite note of sadness. “You’re not going to live happily ever after?”
“Okay, I have to ask,” I say slowly. “Did you and Mom really think we would?”
“Does she think it’s a real marriage? No, not really. I’d like to think we’re both too smart for that. Hope, though. That’s different. I’ll confess that she’s let herself hope that it could be real. So have I, for that matter.”
Ugh. That’s both extremely sweet and a little bit sad, thinking that they’ve been secretly longing for Colin to become their son-in-law for real.
“But it’s been ten years,” I say slowly. “Surely you sort of figured that—”
“That Colin really likes living in the US?” my dad says slyly.
“Yeah,” I say, relieved that it’s out there without having to be spelled out.
“I know. Your mother does too. But I guess I’ll have to admit to having some of the same old-fashioned sensibilities as your grandmother when she put a marriage stipulation on your trust fund. And that old-fashioned part of me wants my only daughter to find a nice man.”