The Road Home

by Erin Zak

  “I mean, yeah, look at you. You’re all girly and prissy. I thought maybe the whole lesbian thing was only a front because none of the guys here are cute.”

  Lila lets out a laugh. “You are out of your mind.”

  “I’m kidding, of course, and I am very happy for you. ‘Bout time you finally got a good fucking.”

  Lila gasps.

  “What?”

  “You are so crass.”

  “Don’t act like you aren’t.”

  “I mean, I am, but it’s different when it’s aimed at me.” She drinks her Corona. As her mind flashes back to a vision of Gwendolyn between her legs, her stomach fills with heat, and her core begins to tingle. “It was a wild night. That’s for damn sure.”

  “Wanna share the deets?” Bella leans forward, the popcorn set aside. “I mean, not that I’m hard up or anything.”

  Lila laughs. “You know I don’t kiss and tell.”

  “Or come and tell, apparently.” She rolls her eyes. “Boring.”

  “It was far from boring.” She sighs. “Nothing about Gwendolyn Carter is boring.”

  “Oh, Jesus, seriously?”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  Bella leans back against the arm of the couch and groans. “The faraway stare? The dreamy sigh? The only thing you haven’t done is toss your hair over your shoulder and burst into song like a Disney princess. You’re in way too deep.”

  “Oh, come on now. Not true at all. I’m totally fine.” Lie. “I have no real feelings for her whatsoever.” Another lie. “She’s fun and kind, but I know where I stand, and she’s not getting a space in my heart.” Oh, go on, tell one more lie for good measure. “I’m being careful. I promise.” I should change the spelling of my name to Lie-la. She’s not totally fine. Gwendolyn already has a space in her heart. And she does have real feelings. And the lies she’s sprinkling are going to start a forest fire like a lightning strike in the middle of a dry season. The fire will burn down everything in its path, including her heart.

  “When was the last time you were in love?”

  “Why?”

  “Go on.” Bella motions with her hand as if she’s urging her to speak. “You forget that I didn’t know you until after you came back from college. I have no idea about your past.”

  “It’s not exciting.”

  “What isn’t, your past or the last time you were in love?”

  “My past.” Lila sighs. “Both?”

  “Have you ever been in love before?”

  She stops her bottle halfway to her lips and eyes Bella “I thought I was, but now I’m not so sure. There. Are you happy?”

  “No, I’m not happy.” Bella shakes her head. The movement is small, but her hair still bounces with the slight turn of her head. “You need to be careful. Gwendolyn is…”

  She’s hanging on the end of that sentence. “Is what?”

  “She’s confusing.” Bella looks uncomfortable as she struggles with her words. “She’s selfish. Ever since high school, she only cared about herself. I mean, look at how she left. She didn’t look back, and she never visited. She only kept in touch with me because I refused to let her go. She wanted to leave this place, her family, her friends, anything that reminded her of home because she assumed no one accepted her for who she is. But the truth is…” Bella shrugs. “No one accepts her for who she became.”

  Lila swallows. Hearing these things is very hard. The pull inside of her to stick up for Gwendolyn, to say she has never seen a bad side, is very strong. But at the same time, she’d be lying. This time right through her teeth.

  “I have to say,” Bella starts and holds her left hand in the air as if she’s testifying in a court of law. “She has really turned around in the past month and a half. She’s different. Softer, kinder. I don’t know. All the shit she’s going through, you’d think she’d be even more miserable and an even bigger mess. I hate to say this for fear of making her sound even more heartless, but she seems so happy. In a way that I don’t know if I’ve ever seen from her.”

  “Maybe she’s not miserable anymore.”

  Bella nods. “Possibly.”

  Lila lets the very welcome silence wash over her. She knows Gwendolyn is a mess deep down. Hell, who isn’t? She has some of her own messes and secrets buried deep, deep, and she plans on never unearthing them. Gwendolyn…is open and honest and hasn’t hid the pain she’s worked so hard to overcome. Lila has refused to let anything scare her away. She will continue to stand by Gwendolyn, help her, and be there for her throughout everything because things will get harder before they get easier. The desire to be the person Gwendolyn runs to, holds, cries with, is hard to fight. She imagines she’s not alone with these feelings. She can’t be. There is no way Gwendolyn isn’t also struggling with “what is” and worrying about “what if.”

  Because if she isn’t?

  Well, then, Bella is right.

  Lila is in way too deep…and there’s no turning back now.

  * * *

  Gwendolyn hears her father in his study as she steps off the last stair. She stands still at first. She needs to talk to him. She needs to let him know that she knows everything, and she is not happy. In fact, she’s furious and hurt, and how could he do this to her mom? To the woman he says he loves so much? It makes no sense. Cheating has never made sense. She’s been in her fair share of relationships, and she has had to escape advances. Being the bigger person is not easy. Walking away from invigoration is hard. If things have gone stale in a relationship, it’s even harder. But dammit, she was taught to not give up. To give it her all until there is nothing left to give. And the person who preached that was her mom. Since she was old enough to pick up a book, get on a bike, pass a volleyball, she was taught to give her heart to the things she wanted to succeed in. And relationships had to go on the list.

  Apparently, not for her father. She glances down the hallway at the light coming from under the closed door. She knows he doesn’t want to be bothered. For some reason, she doesn’t care. She wants him to be present, be there, be fucking accountable for helping with her dying mom. Everyone has wants and needs, but if he doesn’t have the decency to give a shit about Gwendolyn’s wants and needs, she certainly doesn’t care about his.

  She moves to the door, her hand raised to knock, when it swings open. Her father is standing there, a soft look on his face, and for the briefest of seconds, she forgets what an awful asshole he is. She forgets how she saw him kissing another woman. She forgets he hasn’t been available. She forgets it all.

  “Gwennie? Are you okay?”

  His voice is as soft as his face, and she must remind herself that he’s a jerk, someone she can’t stand, someone she wants and needs answers from. But her reminders aren’t working, and she feels herself crying. And of course, because as much as he might be a cheater and a horrible person, he takes her in his arms and holds her. He smells like fabric softener and aftershave, and it’s equal parts comforting and infuriating. She wants to push him away, hit him, tell him she knows. But she can’t. Her words are gone, and his hug feels like home and family, and it’s driving her so nuts, she cries even harder.

  He pulls her into his study, closes the door, and ushers her to the old leather couch along the wall. The room is dim save for the desk and floor lamp next to his reading chair. She sniffles as she wipes the tears, the snot from her nose. There’s not a bone in her body that wants to have a conversation where she calls him out. She has barely seen him in days, and it’s not something she has the mental capacity to handle.

  “You haven’t answered me, dear,” he says as he puts an arm around her shoulders. He pulls her into his side, and she rests her head on his shoulder. The scruff on his face is rough as he kisses her forehead. She wants to push him away. Scream. Tell him to go to hell. But what he’s doing is all she has needed since the whole ordeal started, and the gravity of her feelings are weighing her into compliance. She’s going to be the good girl, and she tries to focus on h
ow a simple conversation might be exactly what she needs. Maybe she misunderstood what she saw? Maybe she doesn’t know the whole story? Maybe she has no idea what has happened in her parents’ lives since she left?

  Admitting she has missed so much is something she has never done. She has never wanted to admit she was wrong to leave and never return. She doesn’t want to deal with the ramifications of the admission. She knows she was wrong. She gets it. More and more.

  “I’m sad,” she says when her tears subside, and she catches her breath from sobbing. She doesn’t move her head for fear of making eye contact. She doesn’t want him to see the hatred in her eyes. Or maybe she doesn’t want him to see the lack of hatred.

  “It’s all hard. I know you think this has been easy on me.”

  “No.” She takes a deep breath, lets it out shakily, and adjusts so she’s not as vulnerable and childlike, leaning against her father as if she needs him. Even though she does. “I know it’s not easy on you. I know you struggle.” She hears him breathe, smells whiskey on his breath. “I wish you’d struggle with me. Instead of on your own.”

  “Seeing her like this…” His voice is as heavy as the quilt her grandmother made on her seventh birthday. Everything about this moment makes her small again. Makes her feel as if she hasn’t lived a single second past that birthday when she crashed her bike, and her father swooped her up and carried her inside, cleaned her skinned knee and elbow, and bandaged it with care. He was gentle and wonderful. She glances at him as he takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes. He’s sad. How can he be sad when he’s doing what he’s doing? He’s not allowed to be sad.

  “You can’t leave her now.” Her words seem to startle him. He doesn’t jump, but his eyes widen, and he stares at her, blinking rapidly. “I can’t bear to see her alone.”

  “She’s not dying.”

  “Dad, yes she is.”

  “Gwendolyn.” His tone is so final, she wonders if he’s going to continue. But he does. “You cannot give up on her.”

  “Isn’t that what you’ve done? You don’t care, you don’t give an ounce of yourself to her, to me, to us. And we both need you.”

  “Do you?” He places his hands on his Docker covered knees. He never wears shorts, not even in the dead of summer. He’s always buttoned up with a tie and slacks and dress shoes. He calls it his uniform. Now it seems even more fitting.

  “What is that supposed to mean, Dad? Hmm? Are you trying to tell me something?” Gwendolyn pulls her glare away. Oh, good, there’s the anger. If only she can hold on to it, but she feels the rage slipping through her fingers as if she’s trying to grip sand. “You know I couldn’t stay here any longer.” Her words come out as a whisper, and dammit if she isn’t crying again. “I was suffocating.”

  “You don’t think I am?”

  His words slam into her like a wave. She blinks back the tears. He’s not making eye contact. She wonders if he’s drunk with the way he seems barely able to keep his eyes open. “What are you saying? Dad?” Her voice is so loud in the study. She wishes he liked to work with background noise, but alas, he does not. “Silence is how the greats used to write,” he said. “Silence is how I will work.”

  “You know your mother.”

  “Dad…”

  He sighs before he slaps his knees. The sound is crisp. “You’d better get to bed, dear. It’s late.”

  She doesn’t know how to respond, which is maddening. She isn’t ready to stop the conversation—it’s cathartic and necessary—but he doesn’t feel the same way because he stands and crosses the room with three giant steps. He opens the door, presumably waiting for her to leave. She hasn’t stood yet, and she wants to tell him to shut the fucking door and sit the fuck down. But she doesn’t. Of course.

  She has never stood up to her parents. The list of reasons why she picked a college forever away and never came back is long, and that reason is near the top.

  Until now.

  Now.

  When her mom is struggling, and her father is a cheater, and the woman she’s falling in love with is her mother’s best friend.

  Of all the times in her entire life, she chose now to come home. If only she could turn back time.

  But the only problem with turning back the clock is, she doesn’t know if she would decide to never come home or never to have left in the first place.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Oh, sweet Jesus.” Lila tosses her clipboard onto the chair. The fifth service error in a row has given the other team a substantial lead. “Miranda!” She holds up her hands. “Take a breath. They are reading you like a book.”

  “She’s turning her shoulders too much for a line shot.”

  Lila groans and glances at Gwendolyn sitting at the end of the row of chairs, calm, cool, and collected. Of course she is. She’s exactly like her fucking mom. “I know. I can’t get her to fix it. I’ve tried.” As the frustrated words come out, the other team scores the twenty-fifth point, and the referee blows his whistle, signaling the end of the match. She looks at the girls as they jog to the out-of-bounds line and wait for the okay to head to the other side of the court. Their heads are bent. Their arms hang at their sides. Their uniforms are disheveled. They look tired. They look defeated, and it’s the first time Lila has ever seen the three-a-day practices backfire. They’re struggling, and she has no idea how to fix it.

  And there is no way in hell Carol could make the two-hour trek for the tournament. Gwendolyn said she’d be there, and so far, she’s been no help whatsoever, which is frustrating to no end. When it’s time to switch sides, she grabs her clipboard and heads to the other bench. She sits down, exasperated, and leans against the padded chair. She misses Carol. She misses her sass and her pizazz and the way she knew how to get the girls to rally even when they had nothing left to give. She’s wondering more and more if she’s cut out to lead this team to victory. In fact, the thought has been rolling around in her mind for quite some time. She sees the way they look at her. They’re as skeptical about her as she is about herself.

  She wants to talk to Carol about it, too, but is that admitting defeat? Can she even say to a woman fighting for her life that she’s scared and worried? Because in the end, what she’s most afraid of is having to live her life without the woman who has become a mother, a best friend, a confidant, a cheerleader. Carol is all the things Lila never knew she needed, and now that she has it, she doesn’t want to let it go.

  God. Is that how Gwendolyn is feeling? Lila feels like shit for not inquiring about her state of mind. How is she handling any of this? She seems so strong and unshakable, but is she really?

  The girls walk up to her, sweaty, bruised, and downing water and Gatorade. They’re all worried but clearly eager for assistance. Lila is spent, though. She has no idea what to say. Nothing has worked, and she’s in over her head. “Go, talk amongst yourselves. Figure it out. Because none of you are listening to me.” She waves to shoo them away. “When you want to play volleyball, let me know.” She shakes her head as they move away, all of them making comments under their breath.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Lila rolls her eyes at Gwendolyn’s question. “They’re done. They’re tired and clearly—”

  “Clearly what? That’s bullshit. They’ve been killing themselves for two months. It’s three weeks before the season starts, and you’re going to give up on them?” Gwendolyn has her hands on her hips, her hair pulled up into a ponytail, and she’s wearing running shorts and a Lemurs T-shirt. She looks like the coach.

  “Why don’t you try?” Lila moves a hand through the air. “Be my guest.”

  Gwendolyn’s eyes are wide, her mouth hanging open, but she closes it abruptly and turns, heading to the girls’ huddle. “All right, all right, girls, listen up…”

  Lila watches, half-pissed, half-amused, as Gwendolyn points at places on the court. She grabs Miranda by the shoulders and twists her.

  “Do you feel this?” Gwendolyn asks, and
Miranda nods. “That’s what you’re doing. You cannot do that when you’re hitting line. Left, right, left, jump, reach, and swing. Period. No turning. Stop turning. Why are you even turning?”

  Miranda shrugs. “I don’t know. Trying to hit around their block, I guess.”

  “Listen to me,” Gwendolyn says, and she walks to the left side of the net with Miranda. “Your footwork here is how you hit around them. Don’t let them know you’re hitting line. They will have already started their blocking pattern as the ball is set. You switch things up here.” She points at the ground. “Now look at me.” She grabs her shoulders again. “None of this. Okay?” She puts two fingers under Miranda’s chin. “Keep your head up. You are doing fine. And guess what? If you hit into their block, it’s going to go out of bounds. Which means what?”

  “Point for us.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Courtney,” Gwendolyn shouts and waits for Courtney to run up. “Quick set middle more. Rylee is ready.”

  “She’s not ready, Gwen. Did you see her in warm-ups? She was completely hitting into the net…” Courtney’s protest is short-lived when she sees the look on Gwendolyn’s face. “Er, I mean, I will.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Rylee, come here, please.” Gwendolyn holds her arm up, and Rylee rushes over and tucks herself under it. She’s still taller than Gwendolyn, but she bends her knees. “Quick set. Tell me about it.”

  “I leave when the ball is set.”

  “No.”

  “Passed?”

  “Is that a question?”

  “Yes?”

  Gwendolyn laughs. “Rylee, Rylee. Peak of the pass. Say it with me.”

  “Peak of the pass,” they say in unison.

  “You know this because we talked about it last practice. Remember?”

  “Yes?”

  “Oh my God.” Gwendolyn playfully smacks her on the arm. “Come on. You know what to do. We did it a hundred times. You have to watch the ball. The serve. The pass. All of it. You remember?”

  “Yes, I do.” Rylee nods. “I’m sorry. You make me nervous.”