Homecoming (Speakeasy)

by Rebecca Norinne

  I smiled faintly. No use lying now. “No, I haven’t eaten yet.”

  “You’re in luck! I’m making those lemon ricotta pancakes you love so much. You should come over.”

  Briefly, my eyes flicked up to her attic window even though I couldn’t see it from this vantage point. “I don’t know,” I hedged, unable to get the image of her daughter sobbing out of my head. “Rosalie might not feel comfortable having me there her first morning back.”

  She waved her hand in dismissal. “Please. It was her idea.”

  I scratched at my beard. “It was?”

  Gloria nodded enthusiastically. “Of course. Besides, a big strong man like you has to eat, doesn’t he?” My stomach growled again, and she laughed. And before I could come up with a good reason why I should say no, she grabbed my hand and tugged me out my front door. “Well, that settles it then. You’re coming with me.”

  4

  Rosalie

  I swiped at my wet, gummy eyes with the back of my left hand as I attempted to flip a pancake with my right. When I’d stumbled downstairs to find Mom at the stove prepping breakfast, I’d thought my day was looking up. But then she’d simply smiled, said “good morning,” and passed me the spatula. I’d looked between her and the stove, but her meaning couldn’t have been any more clear: I was supposed to cook my own breakfast. Sure, she’d already made up the batter and washed the blueberries, but as I stood here now, trying desperately to slide the spatula between the pancake and the griddle, I couldn’t help think that had been the easy part.

  The second she’d disappeared out of the room with an encouraging, “Don’t worry; it’s easy as pie,” I’d known I was in deep trouble. What she’d failed to understand was that I didn’t actually know how to make a pie. And if the sticky, gloppy mess currently stuck to the griddle of this ancient beast of a stove was any indication, I couldn’t make these particular pancakes, either.

  “Shit,” I muttered under my breath as I tossed a furtive look over my shoulder to make sure she hadn’t snuck back in sometime in the last thirty seconds to witness my shame. Knowing my mom, I’d find her leaning against the door jamb, arms crossed over her chest, watching my attempts with wry amusement. My mother was a big fan of what she called “teachable moments,” and this certainly qualified as one.

  I sniffed again, the unintended reminder of her focus on self-reliance another sharp stab to my already bruised psyche. Generally speaking, I was doing fine. I mean, sure, I hadn’t washed my hair in three days or worn a bra in at least that long, but until this morning, it had been almost a week since I’d last cried over the state of my life. And I couldn’t even tell you why I’d started bawling earlier. One minute I was searching through my suitcase for a clean t-shirt, and the next I was hunched over in grief, my hands braced against the window sill to keep me from crumbling to my knees. But just as quickly as the tears had come on, they’d dried up again, leaving me feeling shaky and hollowed out.

  Lemon ricotta pancakes with blueberries had sounded like the perfect antidote. Alas …

  “Fucker,” I cursed when I managed to actually get this one flipped, only for the uncooked batter to splatter between where the stove ended and the cabinets began. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  I turned toward the sink to grab a sponge to mop up the mess but stopped in my tracks when I spied my mom ushering our hot lumberjack neighbor into the kitchen with a wide Cheshire Cat grin on her face.

  Surely, she hadn’t …

  “Look who decided to join us!” she exclaimed, gesturing excitedly for him to take a seat at the retro, fifties-style diner table that sat in the middle of the kitchen.

  Slowly, Preston pulled the red vinyl chair out, only he didn’t immediately drop down into it like I’d expected him to. Instead, his gaze raked hesitantly over my face for a few brief seconds before his eyes dropped lower. Immediately, they bounced back up, wide and filled with shock.

  Curious at his reaction, I glanced down to see what had caused the panicked look on his face and sucked in a startled gasp. Horrified, I tossed the sponge back into the sink, my arms quickly coming up to cover my chest. In my haste to find a clean shirt this morning, I’d donned one of my old favorites from college. What I’d failed to remember until just now was the reason it had sat unworn at the bottom of my dresser for so many years was because it was so threadbare that more than one spot was see-through, including directly over my right nipple.

  The one Preston had just been treated to an eyeful of.

  “Umm,” he hummed, his eyes still fixed firmly on something over my shoulder. “I should go.”

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  At the exact same time, my mom said, “Don’t be silly.”

  “Mom!” I exclaimed, starting to gesticulate widely before remembering my indecent exposure.

  With a pshaw of dismissal, she swiped her hand in front of her face. “Please, Rosie. I’d wager you’re hardly the first braless woman Preston has shared breakfast with.” She turned to him, rapidly raising and lowering her eyebrows in a gesture that made it impossible to mistake her meaning.

  I felt my cheeks turning scarlet with embarrassment, but I wasn’t the only one. A faint blush had begun at the edge of Preston’s beard and inched its way upward, turning his ears pink in the process. When he caught me watching him, he grimaced and looked away quickly, his lip curling in what seemed like disgust.

  It shouldn’t have, but his reaction stung. I knew I wasn’t as pretty as I once was, and sure, at thirty-two, my boobs weren’t as perky as they used to be, but I didn’t think I was so hideous as to cause someone to actually twist away in revulsion when they spied an inadvertent peek at my boob.

  But while my mind knew there wasn’t anything so wrong with me that a shower and three weeks of sleep wouldn’t fix, my heart—and the body it was so firmly attached to—couldn’t shake the reflexive feeling of shame that settled over me. My eyes started to burn, and my vision turned cloudy with unshed tears as I recalled another time in the much-too-recent past when a different man had turned away from me, saying he couldn’t stand the sight of me a moment longer.

  Before my tears started in earnest, I rushed out of the kitchen, holding back a long sob. As I reached the staircase in the front hall, though, Preston’s deep voice somehow managed to break through the fog of memories haunting me.

  Against my better judgment, I stopped and listened to what he had to say for himself.

  “Gloria,” he rumbled wearily. “What am I doing here?”

  “Well, I’d hoped you’d be eating breakfast with Rosalie, but so much for that.” She mumbled something then that I couldn’t quite make out before offering to fix him up a plate of pancakes to take back to his house.

  “But why did you tell me this was her idea? It’s obvious she wasn’t expecting company.”

  Well, that was the understatement of the year.

  In theory, I wasn’t opposed to Preston joining us for breakfast. He seemed like a nice enough man, and I knew from my weekly calls with my mom that he often ate with her, so his being here wasn’t out of the ordinary. Had I known this was the plan, I might have made more of an effort with my appearance. Worn a bra, for example. Or put on a sweatshirt or something. Anything that would have kept my nipple from practically poking his eye out from across the room.

  When my mom answered, her words were spoken too low for me to hear, which only served to pique my curiosity further. Like Preston, I was eager to understand why she’d lied to him. As slowly and stealthily as possible, I snuck back toward the kitchen, careful to avoid several creaking floorboards en route.

  “I get it, Gloria,” I heard Preston say when I pressed my ear up against the swinging door that led into the kitchen. “You want to see her happy, but maybe give her some time to acclimate to this new reality before you start inviting all of Colebury here to welcome her back.”

  “Who’s inviting all of Colebury over for breakfast?” my mom asked. “Do you see anyone else
but you?”

  Preston chuckled. “Okay, point taken. Still, you ambushed her. You ambushed me.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  “Gloria,” he chided. “She obviously didn’t know I was going to be here. I feel bad.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Are you really going to make me say it?”

  The sound of the refrigerator opening and closing reached me through the door. “I don’t see what the big deal is. It’s not like you haven’t ever seen a nipple before.”

  Her tone gave me the the distinct impression she wouldn’t have batted an eye if I’d whipped my shirt off over my head, exposing every naked inch of me to Preston’s startled gaze.

  “Of course, I’ve … you know what? Never mind,” he grumbled. “I’m not discussing my sex life with you.”

  “Who said anything about sex?” my mom asked in a voice I recognized all too well. It was what I liked to call her “who me?” voice. The one that was meant to sound innocent when she was anything but.

  “You did,” Preston pointed out, his tone growing increasingly exasperated. “If I didn’t know better, I’d almost wonder if you planned this.”

  “Oh, for the love of God. You think I knew she was going to come downstairs in a shirt that was basically see-through, and so I ran across the yard to invite you over hoping you’d take one look at her half-exposed nipple and drop to your knees and declare your love?” came my mom’s prickly reply. “I’m not some evil mastermind who spends her time concocting elaborate schemes to throw you and my daughter together, you know. It was breakfast, Preston. That’s all.”

  “Which I’m more than appreciative of,” he said placatingly. “No one makes better lemon ricotta pancakes with blueberry syrup than you do. And I’m sorry. You’re right. You’re not an evil mastermind.” I could practically hear the smile in his voice when he said it.

  Well. Preston might not think her capable of that sort of ruse, but I knew it was precisely the type of scheme she was capable of cooking up. My mom was an amazing woman who I loved dearly, but I also knew perfectly well that she was a busy-body who never met a line she wasn’t prepared to cross in the name of helping out someone she cared about. I’d never been the focus of her do-gooding impulses before—at least, not of the matchmaking variety—but I’d certainly seen them in action. Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure this breakfast invite hadn’t been part of a bigger plan to get Preston and me together. I’d have to be on my guard for any future shenanigans she might try and pull.

  I listened to the sound of her slippered feet shuffling toward the stove. “Yes, well. Clearly, my cooking genes didn’t get passed down to my daughter.”

  I stopped myself from pushing through the door to defend my honor. I could make lemon ricotta pancakes! Or rather, I could if I didn’t have to cook them on that ancient behemoth of a stove. Give me a non-stick electric griddle, and I’d whip up the best damn pancakes he’d ever tasted. Better yet, I’d take him to—.

  The thought died nearly as quickly as it had formed. I didn’t live in San Francisco anymore, and there would be no more visits to my favorite brunch spot in Cole Valley.

  I refocused my efforts to hear what else they might be saying about me on the other side of the door. When eventually my mom asked Preston for an update on how things were going with the inn he was remodeling, I tiptoed my way back toward the staircase. I’d heard enough, and now I needed to make myself presentable so I could rejoin them for breakfast. I also needed to practice my apology for my outburst. Now that I’d had a moment to reflect, I knew I’d overreacted.

  When I came back downstairs fifteen minutes later wearing a pair of dark skinny jeans and a clean flannel shirt over a decidedly not see-through tank top, only my mom remained in the kitchen.

  “Where’s Preston?”

  She looked up from the newspaper she had spread out over the table, her expression unreadable. “He went back to his place.”

  “He didn’t eat?” I asked, spying a stack of perfectly fluffy pancakes sitting on a plate next to the stove.

  Her lips flattened into a straight line, and she shook her head in the negative. “No.”

  I blew out a breath, feeling slightly guilty. The man had been promised pancakes, and although that promise had been made under false pretenses, he was out a meal. I moved to the cupboard and pulled down another plate. “I’ll take some over to him.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nodded, my back to her. “Yeah. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Hmm.” She kept any other thoughts to herself.

  I chose to do the same for now. Which wasn’t to say that I planned on keeping them to myself forever. I was definitely going to have a word or twenty with her about what had happened this morning. First, however, I had a peace offering to extend.

  I’d swing by Preston’s place, drop off the pancakes with a smile and nary a nipple in sight, and then my mother and I were going to talk.

  Again.

  5

  Preston

  My phone trilled through my truck’s speakers, and my brother’s name lit up the digital screen on the dashboard. Without a second thought, I sent it straight to voicemail. I avoided Colton as best I could these days. When he’d chosen to sleep with Margaux, he’d made it clear how little he respected me or our relationship. I felt zero guilt for giving him the brush off.

  Unfortunately, my phone rang again almost immediately. “Fucking Christ,” I muttered before seeing my youngest sister Briana’s name flash on the screen. I pressed the call accept button and waited for the call to connect through my Bluetooth system.

  “Hey. What’s up?” Briana calling so soon after Colton had me on high alert. “Is everything okay?”

  When she laughed, the ball of lead that had formed in the pit of my stomach disappeared. “You sound out of breath, brother o’mine. Maybe I should be asking you if everything is fine.”

  “Shit, Bri. I thought there was an emergency,” I told her, flipping on my blinker.

  “According to Mom, the emergency is you aren’t coming home for the holidays. I’ve been instructed to change your mind.”

  “Ugh, not you too,” I said.

  “Let me guess—Mackenna?”

  “Yeah, she called on Saturday. Colton called, too, a minute or so ago.”

  “You talked with Colton?” she asked, her voice laced with skepticism.

  I snorted. “Of course not. I sent him straight to voicemail.” I would have blocked his number a long time ago, but what was the point when he so rarely made an attempt to speak to me? It wasn’t like he was blowing up my phone these days.

  Given the things he’d said when his affair with Margaux had come out, you wouldn’t know that my older brother and I had once been thick as thieves. He’d changed, though, and now I hardly recognized the uptight, self-absorbed man he’d become. Honestly, it shouldn’t have surprised me when he and Margaux hooked up, as they were actually perfect for one another. Hindsight was a real bitch sometimes.

  “That makes sense,” Briana mused. “I was shocked when Colton told Mom he’d call you. I suspect he was hoping you wouldn’t pick up.”

  “Yeah, well …” I said, trailing off. What more was there to say? My relationship with my brother was beyond redemption at this point.

  “So, what do you want me to tell her?”

  “Tell who?” I asked, my thoughts still stuck on my former fiancée.

  “Mom,” Briana huffed out with exasperation.

  “I don’t know. Make something up.”

  “Would it be so bad to come back just for the weekend?” she asked, her voice sad. “I’ll be there.”

  Guilt twisted at my insides, but what was I supposed to do? Pretend like my brother’s betrayal had never happened? If our mom had her way, that was precisely what I’d do. After all, that was how she’d coped with my dad’s infidelities for years, all so she’d have the type of picture-perfect family one could brag to their friends about.

/>   I blew out a breath. “I don’t know, Briana.”

  Spending the holidays with my family was the last thing I wanted to do, but if she really needed me to be there, I might have to reconsider. Our mother had very particular ideas about what constituted a proper young woman, and my sister’s pink hair, nose ring, and arm full of tattoos were as far as you could get from it. The first time Briana cut off all her hair and refused to wear a dress for our annual family holiday portrait, we’d all thought our mom was going to have a heart attack. Two years later, when Briana announced she was gay as we’d filed back inside the house after midnight mass, Mom had literally fainted. Until I’d moved to Vermont, Briana had been the black sheep of the Kelly family, and while she liked to act as if it didn’t bother her, I knew how hard she took their censure.

  “It’s okay, Preston. I get it,” she said, her voice lacking its customary warmth. “On the bright side, I won’t have to share the pumpkin pie if you’re not there. You know how I feel about pie.”

  I recognized the joke for what it was: a way of masking her own feelings about spending time with our family during the holidays.

  “No. If you need me there, I’ll come,” I said, regretting the words the second I spoke them.

  I might loathe the idea of spending the holidays with my family, but I hated the idea of our parents’ shitty comments toward Briana even more. Last Fourth of July, our dad had straight up asked her when she thought she might grow out of ‘this phase.’

  “I don’t want you to have to deal with their homophobia alone,” I told her.

  “Ah, you haven’t heard, then. Turns out, I’m no longer persona non grata.”

  “What?” I asked, my fog lights illuminating the road and tree line ahead.

  “Drake came out to his parents a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Drake Barlowe?” I couldn’t have masked my surprise even if I’d tried. If you looked him up in the dictionary, his picture would be found next to the word bro. He was the bro-iest bro that ever did bro. Finding out that the guy who’d bragged incessantly about how much pussy he got was gay was like finding out … well, I didn’t know what it was like, but it was certainly shocking.