The Truth About Heartbreak

by Celeste, B.

  But seeing their home is different than trying to picture it. It didn’t matter how many times they told me about the seven bedrooms and who knows how many baths, my imagination did it no justice. I take it all in as Robert parks just in front of the cement steps that lead to the wrap around porch and entrance. Trimmed flower bushes line either side of the cobblestone walkway leading to the stairs, giving a little color to the monotone exterior.

  Sucking in a breath when Bridgette brushes my arm, I snap my eyes from their house to her. I’m greeted with a soft, white smile. The curve of her painted lips is a friendly gesture, and there’s sympathy mixed in the hues of her hazel eyes.

  “We’re home, River.”

  Home.

  They’ve used that word nine times today. First when they told me they couldn’t wait to take me here, and again not even seconds later when they told Jill that everybody was more than ready to have me. No matter their insistence on referring to the mansion positioned next to us as my home, it’s a concept that tastes bitter in my mouth.

  Jill called the single-wide trailer I lived at for the past eight months my home. I shared a tiny bedroom and a full-size bed with a three and ten-year-old. Before that, Jill referred to my home as the two-story blue house on Maple Avenue in Exeter. I lived with a middle-aged couple and another foster, a boy named Trevor.

  Home is relative. It’s a place of residence, no matter how temporary. So, I suppose they’re right. This is my new home. It’s a roof over my head until something happens, and something always happens.

  “River?” Robert speaks this time, his baritone voice locking my muscles in the back seat. Bridgette takes notice and gives me a comforting gaze, her hand itching to touch mine but keeping a distance.

  Jill told them about me. Not everything, but enough. They know I don’t like to be touched, or to be left alone with men. But they don’t know the gruesome details behind my fear. I asked Jill not to say anything, and she promised it was my story to tell.

  My lips are sealed.

  “It’s … large.” My voice is an audible whisper, barely loud enough for me to hear. Gazing back at the mansion, I note the flowerpots in the lower level windows, with green leafy plants waterfalling over the sides. They’re pretty. Serene.

  I catch a light flickering on in one of the rooms, and Robert must notice too. “Ah, Oliver must be home.”

  Bridgette smiles at me. “You remember Oliver, right? We took you both out for frozen yogurt at the strip mall a few months ago.”

  Oliver is their biological son. Before bringing him on the meet-up she refers to, they told me all about him. Pride always radiates from their stories when Robert mentions his spot on the school basketball team or when Bridgette mentions his role in student council. They love their son, they’re proud of him. And why shouldn’t they be? He sounds like the type of person who will achieve big things. And from what I hear about the James family, it’s a good thing he’s so involved in school. He’s got a lot to live up to.

  Which makes me all the more anxious. What role do I play here? I’ve never been in one school long enough to join a sports team or club, which leaves me at a disadvantage. I stand no chance in a family the public loves, and I don’t want to compete for their attention. In fact, I don’t want any of it. I’ve been in ten different homes that I can remember, thirteen including the ones from long before I could recall making memories.

  The James’ adopted me, but who’s to say it won’t fall through? This could just be house number fourteen. I’ve learned not to get my hopes up, because when things come crashing down I’m the one left suffering while everyone else walks away unscathed.

  “Are you ready, sweetheart?”

  Sweetheart. I’m not used to the gentle term of endearment. I’ve been called a lot of things, a lot of names I want to forget. Brat. Bitch. Slut. But the way Bridgette ushers me with a hopeful smile makes me absorb the pet name, even if for just a second. I want to pretend I’m a normal girl and this is the only normal I’ve ever known.

  I open the backdoor and step out, my torn sneakers hitting the flawless pavement. Wiggling my toes, my eyes capture the frayed cloth that reveals my white socks underneath.

  The soft click of Bridgette’s heels contacting the driveway peel my eyes from my unfortunate state of dress. Jill told me to wear the nicest outfit I have because it’s a big day. But the nicest clothes I own are jeans that are both too big and too long and a long sleeve shirt with a bleach stain mixed in with the floral pattern. My white shoes used to match it, but they’re turning gray from the years of wear.

  Bridgette is in one of her normal dresses, this one light gray and ending just above her knees. It’s warm out, almost seventy degrees, so she forgoes any type of sweater. The clunky jewelry she usually sports comes in the form of a necklace and large dangly earrings that look uncomfortable. But she’s beautiful like always.

  Robert opens the back of their Escalade and pulls out the black duffle bag Jill bought for me. She said it was for good luck, because one day I’d use it to move to my forever home. The papers signed this morning indicate this is it, but I’m still not sure. You learn after a while not to trust the good things, because eventually they’ll inevitably end.

  Bridgette gestures for me to follow her in, with Robert trailing behind us silently. He doesn’t talk much, mostly because Bridgette fills the silence with her chatter. She always asks me questions, though I rarely answer them. When Robert does talk, it’s nothing particularly important. Mostly just small acknowledgments when Bridgette says something about their history. I’m not sure if it’s me who makes him quiet or if that’s how he naturally is.

  As soon as we enter the front door, the smell of something sweet hits me. I’m familiar with the cinnamon scent but can’t figure out what it’s mixed with.

  “Darlene must have made her famous cinnamon rolls,” Robert notes, setting my bag down on the floor in the foyer. It’s an open space that stretches out into three different rooms, with archways separating them. There’s a large staircase leading upstairs not even ten feet from us, and from my peripheral I can see a big brown couch in the room to the right and an expensive looking wooden dining set to my left.

  Bridgette gestures toward the left, guiding me into a dining room that offsets a large looking kitchen area. The smell is stronger the closer we get, until an older woman with white hair and glasses wearing an apron turns toward us.

  Bridgette smiles at the woman. “Hi, Darlene. I thought you’d be home by now.”

  Her tone is soft, friendly, just as her smile is. She doesn’t say it like she prefers the woman to be gone, just states it in pleasant surprise.

  The woman slides off the oven mitts and sets them next to a pan of doughy dessert. “I wanted to make sure there was something special for when you got home, but I lost track of time.” Her eyes drift to me, looking me up and down with a big smile on her face. “You must be River. I’m Darlene. I’ve worked for the James’ for over twelve years now.”

  She works for them?

  It shouldn’t surprise me that they have a cook. They probably have a housekeeper too. I’ve read plenty of books that I’ve snuck out of private libraries over the years. People with money use it in ways I’ll never understand.

  My throat is dry, but I remember what Jill taught me about manners. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  I wait for her to tell me to speak up and stop mumbling but the scolding never comes. She just keeps smiling and asks Robert and Bridgette if they’re relieved to have me home.

  “By the looks of you,” Darlene notes, gesturing toward my midsection, “you could stand a few of these rolls. There are leftover muffins over on the island. Chocolate chip, if you like that sort of thing. We need to get some meat on those bones.”

  Heat creeps up the back of my neck and settles into my cheeks. The same cheeks that Jill said reminded her of my mother’s when she first dropped me off. The only picture I have of my biological mother is of us when I was
an infant. Mom was all skin and bones and her hair was blonde instead of the red that apparently runs in the family. Jill’s words, not mine. I don’t remember my mother.

  But Jill mentioned that the woman who gave me up was struggling with addiction. Cocaine. Meth. Anything she could get her hands on. I’m lucky, according to Jill. So why don’t I feel like it?

  Before anyone says anything else, a teenager that I recognize as their son walks into the kitchen from the back hallway. He pauses when he sees us, his eyes darting to me, then Darlene and his parents.

  “Uh … sorry.”

  Robert chuckles. “No need to apologize, Oliver. We’re just showing River around. River, you remember Oliver, right?”

  Oliver stuffs his hands in the pockets of his expensive looking jeans. My bootcut jeans are from a thrift store, second hand. Or third or fourth hand, if I’m being honest. They’re worn out and frayed at the ends, stained with muck and who knows what else from over the past year I’ve had them. He doesn’t dress like his parents, but casually. Kind of like my old foster siblings used to. And it’s weird, realizing that he’s not just another foster brother. He’s my adopted brother. Or, I suppose, I’m his adopted sister. I don’t know how he feels about that, but he offers me a small smile like the one he gave me the first time we met.

  “H-Hi,” I offer, wetting my bottom lip. The tip of my tongue grazes the slightly jutted scar lingering on the corner of it. I know it’s there and visible, a pinkish-white against my pale lips.

  “Sup?”

  Sup? How am I supposed to answer that? It’s rhetorical, I realize, because he doesn’t look like he’s expecting an answer.

  While Oliver James doesn’t dress like his parents, he’s their perfect replica. More so of Robert than Bridgette in his squared, tapered jaw, but I see the warmth of his hazel eyes that Bridgette has too. His hair is cut short and the kind of dark brown that almost looks black, but it looks good against his olive skin tone. If I had black hair, I’d look like a walking corpse. I’m sure of it.

  Bridgette claps her hands abruptly, startling me. I flinch and try recovering, hoping nobody saw. But Oliver did. His brows draw in for a split second until he sees my frantic expression, then goes back to neutral when his mom starts speaking.

  “Ollie, how about you take River’s bag up to her room? We’ll finish showing her around and then maybe we can all go out to dinner.”

  She sounds excited, and I assume that’s her normal setting. Every time Bridgette would come to see me, she was all smiles and optimism. I like that about her, but this instance makes me uncomfortable because the types of places they probably eat are fancy. I don’t own fancy clothes.

  Oliver glances at my wide eyes and parted lips and shifts slightly on his feet. “Why don’t we stay in for dinner? It might be nice to do a homecooked meal for River’s first night here.”

  Letting out a small breath of relief, I watch him with a grateful look on my face. Or, I think I do.

  Bridgette beams the same time my shoulders ease from their tense position. I can’t force myself to thank him, but he tips his head a fraction when we lock eyes as if he knows what I’m thinking. The drum of my anxious heartbeat settles back to normal as Bridgette and Robert nod and tell Oliver what a good idea that is.

  Darlene offers to stay and cook, but Robert tells her they have it handled. She finishes coating the cinnamon rolls with homemade white frosting as Bridgette guides me around the first floor of their home.

  Robert parts ways with us when we make it to his office-slash-study in the back of the first floor, just past the stairs. He says he’ll get started on dinner once he checks in at work, leaving Bridgette as my tour guide.

  I’m right. Their house is three stories, not including the full basement-turned-media room, whatever that is. We don’t go down there, but Bridgette tells me Oliver and his friends usually hangout there, watch movies, and play one of those silly violent video games on the flat screen. I make a personal note not to go down there, if that’s his domain. I know better than to step on people’s toes and go where I don’t belong.

  My tongue touches the scar again.

  The second floor is where Bridgette and Robert’s room is, along with Bridgette’s office, one of the guest rooms, and a guest bathroom down the hall. The third floor is where Oliver’s and my rooms are, as well as two guest bedrooms. She mentions one of the bedrooms being claimed by Oliver’s friend, who hangs around here a lot. His name starts with E, I think. My anxiety builds in the pit of my stomach over that news, because the stranger’s room is right between Oliver’s and mine.

  When we make it to my room, Bridgette’s smile widens to the biggest I’ve ever seen. The room is painted a pale cream, and the ceiling, moulding, and windows are all white. My jaw drops slightly when I see the large wooden bed against the middle of the back wall, covered in a green and blue bed set that matches the rug, chair, and lamp in the corner. There are nightstands on both sides of the bed that match the beaded headboard, as well as a matching desk positioned on the opposite wall. Two doors are offset on the wall closest to us, which Bridgette explains leads to the closet and bathroom.

  Oliver put my duffle bag on the edge of the bed, wrinkling the geometric patterned comforter. There’s no way my clothes need the amount of space a walk-in closet has.

  “What do you think?” Bridgette turns to me after fluffing one of the pillows.

  It’s hard to swallow, hard to think. I’ve never had so much space to myself before. It seems almost unfair, knowing there are kids I grew up with who won’t have this. It makes me wonder why they chose me, the girl who barely spoke to them whenever they saw me. What makes me so special?

  “It’s …” My voice cracks.

  “It’s a lot to take in,” Bridgette says lightly, walking toward me. She doesn’t reach out. “I know it’ll take some time to get used to, but we’re so happy you’re here, River. Truly.”

  I itch to ask, why? But I don’t. I don’t say anything, like usual. Instead, my eyes drift back to the items that are now mine. It’s surreal and I wonder when I’ll be elbowed awake by a toddler and realize it’s all a dream.

  Bridgette clears her throat, snapping me back to reality. Because this is reality. One I don’t quite fully grasp or understand but have to if I’m going to make this work.

  “I thought we could go shopping tomorrow,” she tells me, eying the duffle bag. “Jillian told me you don’t have a lot of clothes, so I thought we could have some bonding time and get you the essentials. Do you like shopping?”

  I’ve never been. I shrug.

  Her smile softens. “Well, you don’t start at Freemont until Monday, so that gives us all weekend. If you prefer to settle in, we can wait until Saturday to go into town. I don’t know if you’ve been to the mall, but there are plenty of stores to go through. We can even get you decorations for your room. We want you to make it your own.”

  My room. I’ve never had one of my own before. Once, I had a pullout sofa to myself before the couple fostered another kid. They made us share, like usual, because they only had one bedroom.

  “I would like that,” I murmur, staring down at my shoes. The tips of her clean heels are in my eyeline, making me frown. Their whole family is put together, presentable. Then there’s me. It’s embarrassing because I haven’t looked at myself in the mirror today. Is my auburn hair frizzy like normal? Are my brown eyes too hollow, the bags under them dark again my pale skin? Does the shirt look as loose as it feels? I can only imagine what Bridgette thinks of me right now.

  “River?”

  My eyes slowly lift.

  “Thank you,” she whispers, emotion coating her words like tears do her eyes. What could she be thanking me for? “Thank you for letting us take you in, for being part of our family. We’ve … we’ve waited a long time for this moment, and we’re so happy.”

  Her voice cracks when she says happy and I realize that they may look put together, but they’ve struggled just as much as I
have. And this arrangement, my adoption, isn’t just benefitting me.

  They get a daughter, one they want to be proud of. And I’m not familiar with the look, but somehow my presence is already making them proud of me.

  And I wonder if I can keep it.

  I’m not like Oliver, who fits in with people and has tons of friends. I close myself off to protect myself, waiting for the day Jill shows up to take me away. It always happens, even when I finally get used to a routine. The James are different. They want me here, and for the first time ever, I start to think I want to be here too.

  I just hope they’ll let me stay when they realize how deep my scars really go.

  3

  Everett / 17

  The steps creak under my weight leading to the media room where Oliver tells me to meet him. Sundays are our game days, where we kick back and yell at whoever’s playing. Usually, it’s a weekly get-together between me, Oliver, and a few other guys in our small circle of friends. But with Oliver’s new sister around, none of us were sure we’d be invited over.

  Yesterday, Oliver called and told me to bring pizza and wings from the pizzeria near my grandfather’s house. Southside Pizza is some of the best Bridgeport has to offer, and we can wipe out two full pies ourselves easily. After making sure Grandad was all right, I picked up the food and hauled it over.

  Fact is, I’m not sure I should be here. If Bridgette and Robert weren’t okay with it, Oliver would have shut it down. But it still seems like an invasion of privacy on his sister’s behalf, especially with the group of rowdy assholes we surround ourselves with.

  “O, you down here?” I call out, setting the steaming cardboard onto the glass table positioned in front of the brown leather sectional.

  A short gasp pulls my attention over to the corner of the room, where a short redheaded girl stands in the corner. Her eyes are wide as she drops what she’s holding, a paperback book. My book that I lost last time I was here.