by Kristi Rose
She met my father at the University of Georgia. Dad was a foreign-exchange grad student in the engineering department, and Momma was getting her MRS. Degree. According to them, it was a whirlwind courtship. They moved to Florida when my sister was a baby.
I reach up and try to pat down my wayward curls. It’s not my fault I inherited my father’s light complexion with the uncontrollable reddish-orange hair, nor can I help my mother wants me to dye it some color close to a Crayola crayon. Magenta, I think it’s called.
“Leave her alone, Helen, I like her hair. Don’t ye worry, me dear, it’ll brown out as ye age,” Nana, who has ears like a bat, says from the other room. I’ve been waiting for it to “brown out” most of my life. She’s right about it getting darker, though it seems to be taking forever. Sometimes I wonder if the darker color she refers to is gray.
Thankfully, Gigi distracts my mom with her clever conversational skills. We follow her into the great room and kitchen combination. Oversize French doors separate the inside from a large outdoor deck and even larger pool. Sarah Grace’s kids are outside running around the yard. They catch sight of me and come rushing in.
“Aunt Paisley,” they cry and lunge at me when they get close. I hug the best niece and nephew in the entire world with all my strength.
“Did you bring us anything?” Jill, the youngest by three minutes, asks.
“No,” my sister answers for me. She’s standing in the kitchen, tossing a salad.
“Yes, it’s in my car. Front seat.”
They run out before I can say any more, Jackson in the lead, and I follow behind. Jackson pulls a bag out of my car and holds it up for affirmation. When I give him the nod, he pulls out two books.
“Yippee. Thanks, Aunt Paisley.” They give me hugs and kisses before running off to fight over their new books.
“At least it’s books,” my sister says. She thinks I spoil them. “Hello, Gigi, it’s great seeing you. How’s little Pete?”
They exchange hugs and cute stories about their kids and I try not to let it bother me. This is one area I have nothing in common with Sarah Grace or Gigi. We are at such different places in our lives.
“You look pretty, Paisley.” Sarah Grace hugs me close. “I’m glad you changed your mind and decided to come.”
“You look pretty, too. The house looks great.” It doesn’t hurt that Sarah Grace is an interior designer.
In high school, she was the it girl and it’s still obvious as to why. Tall, with long, blond hair, and big green eyes, she looks as much like our mother as I look like our father. She is perfection, gives perfection, and expects nothing less from others. Sometimes it’s hard to be her sister. Sometimes it isn’t. Like when I was going through my divorce and she called me every day to check up on me. She’s sweet.
I glance outside. Dan’s in the yard staring at some folding tables he’s been tasked to assemble. He gives me thumbs-up with a smirk.
“Why’s Dan outside?” I snag a chip and dip it in salsa.
“We are dining alfresco tonight.”
My vision blurs, and I choke on the chip. We cannot eat outside. Sure, it’s a wonderful idea and even though Sarah Grace’s seven-foot privacy fence blocks any view to Gigi’s folks’ house, Gigi will still think about them. Knowing they are right behind the fence, she’ll feel obligated to go say hi, see Hank, do the math, come back, punch me in the face, and end our friendship. My family will figure it out. My mother and Nana will gush with joy and start scouting for wedding locations, and Sarah Grace will shake her head with disappointment. I don’t want anyone to know what Hank and I did.
“What about the mosquitos?” Any state in the South will claim mosquitos as their state bird. Florida included. I start chewing my fingernails.
“I bought some of those large citronella candles. According to the package, we shouldn’t be bothered.”
Desperate times call for desperate measures and, even though I know it’s a cheap shot, I don’t hesitate.
“Oh, OK. So you aren’t worried about the study that came out?” There is no study.
Sarah Grace stops cutting vegetables. “What study?”
I pick up a second chip and dip it. “The one linking childhood learning disabilities to West Nile Virus. It stated citronella and pesticides are ineffective.” It’s low, I know. I also know the safety of my niece and nephew is high priority for Sarah Grace and about her natural proclivity to go to the extreme.
I use it to my advantage.
Sarah Grace pauses for a beat and marches outside. I watch her discuss something with Dan, turn, and march back inside. Dan shoots me a lethal look. I give him the thumbs-up. I bet he’s happy I came.
He takes down the table he struggled to get open and carries it to the screened portion of the deck, closer to the house. It’s still outside, but if I can get Gigi to sit facing toward the inside of Sarah Grace’s house, maybe I’ll be OK.
“You don’t have to change eating outside, Sarah Grace. It’s one study. I’m sure one night of citronella smoke and the odd mosquito bite won’t hurt them. Much.” What’s the point of putting a blade in if you don’t twist it?
“Better to be safe than sorry.” She finishes loading the appetizer tray and hands it to me. I scurry off to my mom and Gigi like the rat fink I am.
Not fifteen minutes at my sister’s house, and I’ve chewed my nails down to nothing, made small talk with everyone, eaten all the carrots, half the salsa, and drank one and a half oversize piña coladas. I slow down on the booze, considering being drunk will probably not work in my favor, and I reassess the situation. No one is the wiser about last night. I’m in control.
Tonight might turn out all right.
Maybe.
And then my very own mother throws me under the bus.
“Mercy, Sarah Grace. You certainly can host a dinner. You’ve enough food to feed the neighbors,” she says, taking in the smorgasbord Sarah Grace has prepared.
Sarah Grace shrugs and smiles, her head snaps up, her smile widens, and she looks right at Gigi. My stomach plummets.
“Gigi,” she cries. “Why don’t you invite your parents over? It’s been forever since we’ve seen each other.”
Chapter 4
I pick up the remainder of my piña colada and toss it back. Gigi calls her parents. I pour another one and start chugging. Screw being in control. All hell has broken lose. It was stupid to think I could avoid Gigi’s family. Stupid.
“My brother is visiting?” Gigi poses the question to my sister. My mom and Nana ooh in unison.
“That’s even better. We haven’t seen Hank since the homecoming party. When was that, two? No, nearly four months ago. Dan, get the other table out of the garage.”
Sarah Grace takes off for her linen closet and starts gathering table-setting items.
My mother turns to me and attempts to fancy me up. She pinches my cheeks, straightens my dress, and squashes down my hair before she steps back to assess the results.
“Go put on some lipstick, sweetheart. It wouldn’t hurt you to try to impress Hank. He’s a nice boy. Imagine how lovely it would’ve been if you had married Hank rather than Trevor.” She shakes her head in what I can only assume is disappointment.
My mother never wastes a moment to point out my failed marriage. She didn’t seem to object six years ago when I was engaged to Trevor, pleased at his quiet, gentle nature. Now, a year after the divorce was finalized, all she can talk about is how she knew he was wrong for me, how he probably never loved me, and how he was probably always cheating on me. Though her remarks are heavy with truth, they are better left unsaid.
I bite back a snarky reply. “Marrying Hank would have been unlikely since we were never like that.”
I get myself another drink and catch my reflection in the mirror above the wet bar. My eyes are large, and my skin is pale. I look guilty.
“So you slept with him. Big deal. There’s no need to panic. It’s about
time you slept with someone,” I whisper to my reflection. “Maybe next time pick someone more removed from the family.” With a firm nod of my head, I pour another drink and make my way back to the group.
People bustle around, setting up a second table on the deck, getting dishes, and moving chairs around, excited to see Poppy and Becky Lancaster. It’s clear how my one night can backfire in ways I never imagined. What I do out of town, where my family cannot bear witness, makes it seem as if it never really happens. But this, this was right under everyone’s noses.
“Paisley, don’t just stand there,” Sarah Grace calls to me as she carries chair cushions outside. “Grab the pruning shears and cut some hydrangeas. The vase is on the counter.” She stops and gives me a look. “What’s wrong with you?”
I tip my drink back and return her stare. I don’t see her. I only see a catastrophe in the making.
“Paisley,” she shouts.
I jump, put my drink down, and move toward the kitchen.
Gigi rushes by, shoots me a broad smile, and squeals, “This is going to be so much fun.”
Yeah, until she puts it together and the world implodes.
I try to return her grin, but I can’t force my lips to make a real smile. Instead I stretch them back. They curl upwards and I show teeth, hoping it’s enough. I move in what I’m sure is the opposite of warp speed, like an out-of-body experience. I head toward the kitchen and everyone’s running past me, chatting excitedly, yet it’s all white noise. It takes all of my brainpower to put one step in front of the other. Maybe I’m drunk? Maybe this is the afterlife. Gigi has worked out what’s happened and separated my earthy body from my spirit. Maybe it’s hell.
I snort. It’s definitely hell.
I don’t know how I do it, but I make it to the garden, snip some hydrangea blooms, walk them back inside, and put them in a vase. I’m heading back out to the table when I realize Gigi’s family has arrived.
Everyone’s talking, hugging, and acting as if they live hundreds of miles from each other instead of around the block. I’m afraid to make eye contact. Gigi’s father, we all call him Poppy, pulls me into a bear hug.
“Paisley, we don’t see enough of you. You need to come over more often,” he says.
They could have seen a whole lot of me this morning.
“I’ll try, Poppy,” I say. Looking at him, I see what Hank will look like when he’s his father’s age. He passes me over to their mom, and my eyes meet Hank’s, who is hugging my mom. He winks and I glare. His mom gives me a warm embrace, and I feel dirty. If she knew, would she be disappointed?
“You look lovely. You doing OK out there in Daytona by yourself?” Ms. Becky asks.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m doing all right. It’s good to see you.”
When she lets go, I head inside to the bar and refill my wineglass. Goose bumps cover my arms, and I sense rather than see Hank come up behind me. I’m caught off guard at how close he’s standing. He takes my glass and finishes it off.
“What are you doing later?” He wiggles his brows.
My knees threaten to buckle.
“Ahh. I...I...Uh.” I’m tongue-tied. I step back as Gigi approaches. She pours a glass of wine and gives me a curious look before turning to Hank.
“I didn’t know you were coming to town,” she says.
Using telepathic means, and what I hope are pleading eyes, I try to convey to him not to say anything, but he refuses to look at me. It’s odd having this secret and pretending otherwise. It makes me nervous and sweaty. I struggle against the maddening urge to chew my already ravaged fingernails. Instead, I clutch my hands in front of me.
“I don’t run everything by you,” he teases.
There’s a pause lasting longer than it should.
“Hey,” she says, wagging her finger between us, “did you two hook up?”
Hank is still holding my glass or it would have crashed onto Sarah Grace’s perfectly polished hardwood floors. Panic has shut down my bodily functions, and I’m going to wet myself any minute now.
“Huh?” It’s all I can come up with.
Hank, the big oaf, takes another drink.
Gigi looks at me, puzzled. “You know. Last week at the surf competition in Cocoa. When I canceled. I’m sorry I bailed last minute. Did you two get together?”
Hank drops an arm around my shoulder. “Sure did. We made out, didn’t we, Paisley? Competition was fun to watch, saw some sharks, scored some free surf stuff including a Ron Jon’s Surf Shop T-shirt.” He squeezes my shoulder, pulling me toward him.
“Yep. It was fun.” I nod uncontrollably. I try to pull myself together, stamp back the panic, and force a smile. I focus on a spot over her head and try to think of something other than the make-out session Hank and I had on the beach that night, because tingly heat is climbing up my neck and I’m trying to beat it back.
Gigi leans toward me. “What’s wrong with you? You’re acting weird.” She sniffs my breath. “I think she’s drunk. Cut her off, Hank,” she teases as she walks away.
“Relax,” he whispers. He drops his arm off my shoulder, pinches my ass, and leaves with my drink.
I berate myself for drinking too much, for not being quick on my feet with a response, for going to the stupid beach to begin with because, let’s face it, all roads lead to here. At this very moment, I’m experiencing the infinity wheel of karma hell.
Sarah Grace comes over and asks me to help her set out the food. It’s a distraction I welcome. Dan’s put two tables in a figure-eight layout so no one will sit with their back to another. It’s like watching a bad comedy as people jockey for various seats and my mother’s obvious attempt to make sure Hank and I are seated together. Try as I might to avoid it, I end up sitting next to Hank anyway.
Before we pass the food, Nana raises her glass for a toast. It’s a family tradition done at every meal. Everyone picks up their glasses.
“Slainte,” my nana toasts.
“Slainte,” we repeat and clink glasses, but I need something more than a toast for good health. How about some good luck?
I pick at my food and notice Hank is picking at his, too. Will this new awkward always be a part of us? I reach over, take my wineglass from him, and toss back a gulp.
“You should slow down on the hooch,” he whispers.
“You should shut it,” I whisper back and take a second gulp.
“You keep it up, you might find yourself waking up in the same bed tomorrow you did today.” He squeezes my knee.
I choke on my wine. The ugly kind, where you can’t talk because you are too busy gasping for air, the kind of choke where people stop eating and look at you, waiting to see if you’ll need the Heimlich or not. Hank continues eating with one hand and stroking my knee with the other.
“Paisley dear, ya OK, darlin’?” Nana asks, while whacking me on the back.
I nod, wheezing as I suck in air and grab Hank’s hand on my knee, twist it, and try to push it off. He chuckles and removes it.
“How are you liking Jacksonville, Hank?” my sister asks.
“It’s nice to be close to home. That’s for sure.” He leans back and puts an arm across the back of my chair. “It’s the little things you miss. You get a good idea of how you define home when you’re homesick. Puts it in perspective.”
Everyone nods and looks thoughtful, as if he’s shared the path to enlightenment.
I do an eye roll.
“You dating anyone special yet?” Of course, my mother is the one to ask this nosy question.
“Momma, he’s only been home four months.” I give her the stink eye, but she doesn’t care.
“Hush, Paisley. For all I know he met a nice Asian girl and brought her back.”
She dismisses me with a wave. The women in my family turn toward Hank to wait for an answer.
“Yeah, he’s left her in the car outside,” I mumble to Gigi across the table and she sniggers.
; “I didn’t bring anyone from Japan home.” He laughs. “It takes a special person to be with a service member. The hours are crazy and the deployments can be long. I was deployed a fair amount in Japan, so it wasn’t easy to meet people. Besides, I find most girls want to stay close to home. Moving halfway across the world takes an adventurous spirit.”
My mother and Nana exchange looks. The scheming has begun.
“I’m the perfect example. I won’t even move the fifty minutes to Tampa for John’s work,” says Gigi.
“Paisley couldn’t wait to get out of Lakeland.” Momma pitches to Hank.
“That’s not true. I love Lakeland. It’s just easier to stay in Daytona.” Plus my job and network of friends are there, but never mind that.
“Pish.” She doesn’t even look at me, her focus solely on Hank. “You do know Paisley’s free now, and she’s always had such an adventurous spirit. You may not want to date a divorcée, not many people do, but she’s a good worker, and if she would do something with her hair, she’d be rather pretty.”
“Momma,” Sarah Grace exclaims on my behalf.
Momma smiles at the group and winks at me. “Hush. Y’all know I’m not being ugly. I have good intentions.”
“She always does,” I whisper to Hank, who cuts his eyes to me before looking at his plate.
I can sense everyone’s eyes on me. The room is quiet except for the scraping of Momma’s fork on her plate. No one knows what to say.
“And her teeth are real, too,” I say, showing off my pearly whites before I reach over and toss back the rest of my wine.
It’s gonna be a long night.
Chapter 5
An annoying buzz rouses me from my slumber. I bury my face in the pillow and hope it goes away.
It doesn’t.
I crack an eye and sigh with relief when I recognize Gigi’s guest room, in her current house, not her childhood bedroom.
The buzzing starts up again, and I swat at the bedside table, desperate to smash whatever is causing my disturbance. My hand grazes my phone; its vibration tickles my fingers. Squinting at the screen, I take a second before recognizing Hank’s number.