by Logan Chance
My father pats my shoulder. “Ethan, let’s talk outside,” he says.
“What’s up?” I ask, dropping my duffel by the door and following him out into the backyard.
“I really want this all to go off smoothly. I’d like for you to really try to get along,” he says.
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Just be nice.”
I exhale, relaxing my shoulders. “Fine. Dad, you can’t seriously be thinking about marrying this woman?”
He crosses his arms over his broad chest, and his dark eyes catch mine. “Of course, I am.”
“I just think it’s a mistake. What if she’s using you?”
“She’s not.” He uncrosses his arms. “I asked you to come down early, so you could get to know her.”
“You’ve got a lot of money, Dad.”
I know this is pointless. He’s in love; she’s ‘the one.’ Great story, if I actually believed it. If I hadn’t heard it with ex-wife two and three. My old man has a track record of changing girlfriends and wives like his Polo shirt. He’s a good man, but just can’t seem to make it stick.
And, you know, it’s his business. But part of it is Mom’s, literally. The multi-million-dollar construction business dad owns is part hers. Which, she’s too wrapped up in her six-month African yoga retreat, with her new granola guru sex toy, to pay much attention.
“She’s not like that at all.” My father sighs, ready to move on from it. “I’m glad you came. I think it’ll be good for you to get away for a while. It’s important you stay grounded and get your hands dirty.”
I’m not sure the studio would agree with him, but as long as I’m back for press obligations, they’ll have to deal.
On our way back to the house, the curtains shift in the second-floor window, and Nova peers down at me.
I smirk at her, and she closes the curtains with a whoosh.
“Nova has your things upstairs, where you’ll be staying,” Dahlia informs me, when we re-enter the kitchen. “It’s the first door on the right.” She places a small platter of streusel-topped muffins on the island. “Want one?”
“No, thanks.”
When Dad says, ‘Mm, I love your muffin,’ I excuse myself and go upstairs.
Ok, check it, I’m not a bad guy at all. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. But no, seriously, I’m a great guy. I’m just leery of the woman who’s cast a spell so strong on my father he got down on his knee after knowing her only a short time. And this same woman has done her voodoo and talked him out of a prenup. I mean, who are these people?
I find the first room on the right and, um, don’t really know what to think when I open the door. It’s large enough, with all the basic things— slate colored dresser and nightstands, yellow rug across the well-worn hardwoods—but it’s what’s on the bed.
I tread closer to stare at the white ‘Daily Mews’ comforter lying atop grey sheets. What the fuck? I laugh to myself at the sunglass wearing cat heads bursting through the printed headlines. Keeps Raining Cats And Dogs, The Cat Is Out Of The Bag, Cool Cat! There’s even little articles. Obviously, I read them, ‘cause how can you not? Even the pillow shams match. Ah man, this stay is going to be interesting. Well, unless they fail the test. And maybe it’s time to go speed this test along.
Chapter 3
Nova
I want a refund of my twelve dollars. What a jerk. He can’t be this obnoxious, can he? I’ve seen the tabloid stories about his attitude but figured it was just something made up for money. Obviously, I was wrong.
He probably wanted me to carry him into the house. Tuck him into bed. Feed him grapes. All while fanning him with a palm frond, or something equally entitled.
The antique iron bed in my old room squeaks when I plop down on the edge and throw myself back. The best part of this day is thinking about what his reaction will be to the cat comforter. Grandma loved cats, and this house. It’s got a For Sale sign staked in the ground, though, and a brand spanking new, larger than two people could possibly need, brick house is being built to showcase my mom and Patrick’s love for each other. It’s got to be big, you see, to house all that devotion. It couldn’t possibly fit in just a regular house.
A ball of white fluff pounces onto the bed and nuzzles my face. Mr. Meow slinks down beside me and curls into a ball. That's exactly what I want to do to shield myself from this insanity. What is my mother thinking? She doesn't even know this man, really. And now my nice, tidy life is being thrown into chaos by adding Ethan Hale to it.
My eyes slide to the door when a quick rap sounds. Reluctantly, I haul myself off the bed and swing the door open to see Ethan looming in the hallway holding a pink towel in his hand.
“How’s your room?” I ask.
“It’s per-fect,” he quips, drawing out the r like a purr. Ah, Ethan Hale has a sense of humor. “Are these your only towels?”
“Um, I guess?” I shrug. “I don't shower here often, seeing as I’m an adult and live elsewhere.”
He runs his free hand through his thick, dark hair. A sliver of black boxer-briefs is exposed above the waistband of his jeans when his tee lifts from the movement.
“This is like washcloth size,” he complains, holding it out to me.
“I'm sorry,” I offer. Ethan Hale is probably used to plush white towels the size of my comforter.
“Did you make the towel?”
Why does he keep doing that? I rub my lips together to bite back a retort that he knows I didn't make the freaking towel and instead offer a viable alternative to his ridiculous problem, “Well, you can always use two.”
A gleam enters his pretty blue eyes. “It's barely big enough to cover my...”
“Your what?” I stupidly ask when he doesn’t finish the sentence.
All it takes is a lift of his brow for it to dawn on me what he means.
A blaze of fire fans across my face. What's the first thing you do when someone says something like that? You look.
Unable to stop myself, my eyes hone in on the slight bulge in his worn jeans.
My eyes zip back to his amused blue, and for the first time, I meet Ethan Hale’s dimple up close. It's sexy and cute and all of his assholishness today is instantly forgotten. For about a second.
He drags my attention from his panty dropper with his next words, “It’s probably not appropriate for you to look at me that way, since we’re practically brother and sister.”
Ugh. Worse than his mention of our impending step sibling relationship is the fact I did it again. And if I'm not mistaken, the bulge is slightly larger. My incestuous eyes bolt back to his face.
His smile drops, and much to my chagrin, the dimple disappears. “Is that a real cat?” he asks, peering into the room.
“Yes, that's Mr. Meow,” I answer, thankful for the change of subject.
“Fuck,” he groans, “I’m allergic.” Mr. Meow couldn’t care less. His cashmere like fur grazes between my legs and out the door. He gives a little tail flip to the seeming hypochondriac before me. “What is your mom’s obsession with cats?” he snips.
“They were my grandma's,” I answer, quietly. “When she died, Mom brought some of her things here.”
He shifts on his feet and the aging wood floor lets out a squeal. It sounds like an explosion in the silence between us. I'm suddenly stricken by self-consciousness. Everything seems so cramped against his larger than life persona. What must he live like? What does he think of us? I bite my lip and brush past him.
“Nova,” he calls after me.
I stop and turn toward him. A need to make him feel better rushes through me at the contrite way he rubs the back of his neck. I always feel that’s something I need to do in times like these. Laugh it off and make the other person feel better; ease their discomfort. But, this time I don't give in to the urge. Let's not forget he let me open his car door. I leave him there.
“Mom,” I whisper, “he can not stay with me. Absolutely not.”
“Nov
a,” she says, not whispering back, “he's allergic to cats. The hotel is full because of the bass fishing competition, so it's just for a few days and then he flies back to LA.”
This day needs a do over. A complete rewind of me ever agreeing to pick him up from the airport. Ignorance is bliss, sometimes. I lean back against the countertop and cross my arms, watching her unload the new top of the line stainless steel dishwasher Patrick Hale treated her to. He's treated her to a lot of things, including the matching double door fridge that does everything except hand you what you need.
“This is all so crazy, Mom. Do you realize that?”
She leans up with a handful of silverware. “Nova, it's a few days. The poor guy can barely breath.”
I roll my eyes. “Get him a mask. He’ll be fine.”
She shakes her head in disapproval and pulls open the cutlery drawer. “Don't be snide.” Forks, knives, and spoons clatter into the drawer. “A few days, Nova, that's it.”
“Ready?” Ethan’s deep voice sounds in the entryway to the kitchen.
Mom smiles at him and leans over to kiss my cheek. “Just a few days.”
Sighing, I push off the counter and avoid looking at him. This truly isn't going to work. There has to be a hotel somewhere that will take him. I'll search every single one within a hundred-mile radius when I get home. Heck, he could have one built. He could build it. I mean, that’s why he’s here so early, to help with the new house. I’m sure he can throw together some type of hut.
Outside, I pop the trunk, and he tosses his bag in. To my surprise, this time, he slides into the front seat. About a mile down the road, he changes the radio station to alternative. “Thunder” by Imagine Dragons fills the car. He taps his hand on his thigh to the beat, and my eyes flit to the ink covering his forearm. This is sort of how the fantasy was supposed to go.
“Would you like me to stop and pick up anything for you?” I offer.
“Condoms,” he answers.
My eyes snap to him. Everyone knows Ethan Hale has a reputation as a bad boy, but if he thinks for one second, he's going to parade women in and out of my house, he's wrong. “Extra-large.” He winks. “We should probably do it before we become brother and sister.”
I pull to the dirt shoulder and slam the brakes, creating a plume of dust.
“Get out,” I tell him.
For once, since he's arrived, Ethan Hale no longer has the smug look on his face.
“Oh, come on. I was only kidding,” he says with humor in his eyes. “Besides, I’m not getting out, there’s bears and shit. How will you explain to the media you let me be mauled by a grizzly?”
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. Grandma used to tell me over and over, ‘Nova, there’s good in everyone. You just have to find it in those assholes.’
“Listen, somehow we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. I refuse to believe you’re this much of a jerk.” I mean, he’s been here three hours, and I’m throwing him out of my car. I look over at him. “Let’s start over and pretend this didn’t happen.”
“Sure,” he agrees.
I’m not certain how to take that. Sure can be so open ended. “Is that a ‘Sure, let’s do that,’ or a ‘Sure, that won’t ever be happening’ kind of thing?”
“Who’s that?” he asks, giving a chin nod to my driver window.
I look over to see Beau James, one of the local deputies, stopped beside me in his black patrol cruiser. He pulls in front of me and gets out, removing his aviators and hooking them on the shirt pocket of his brown police uniform.
I roll down the window. “Hey, Beau.”
He rests his hand on the door, peering in at my passenger. “Everything all right?”
“Yes, great. Just stopped to take a call.”
Ethan chuckles beside me. “People go to hell for lying,” he whispers.
I shoot him a glare before returning my attention back on Beau.
“You working today?” Beau asks, rubbing a hand across his close cropped black hair. “I could use a cut.”
“In the morning. I’ll pencil you in.”
He gives a tap to the door. “No more stopping on the shoulder without flashers,” he says before walking back to his car.
“So, what do you do?” Ethan asks as I ease back onto the road.
“I’m a hairstylist.”
“Ah,” he says as if that explains something.
I’m sure he thinks it’s boring.
“I also work part time for the local news.”
His head whips to me. “I knew it,” he says.
“Knew what?”
“Come on, I’m not new to this game. Rope the dad, get access to the famous son. Set for life.”
“Is that what you think?” I guess I shouldn’t be shocked, but I am. And more than that, I’m offended. “I’ll have you know my being the local fun girl has nothing to do with you.” His ‘give me a break’ look offends me further. “I’m serious. My mother may make bad choices but she’s not shallow.”
I feel like I’ve said that a million times. Same defense, different day.
“Bad choices?”
“Ok, if you want to be really real here, your dad wasted no time proposing.” I point at him. “What’s that about? Two months? It’s not like she has some magical vagina that put a spell on him. He can have sex without marrying her.”
“Ugh, stop,” he cringes. “I don’t need that visual.”
Me neither. “We can just agree to disagree for now.”
We ride a few minutes in silence before I try to lift the oppressing tension in the air.
“So how long are you here for?” I ask.
“Not sure,” is his cryptic answer.
And that’s the end of my questioning. Sometimes you just know when someone doesn’t want to go there. And he’s giving off all the signs: crossed arms, head turned toward the window, and most important, silence.
The open land whizzes past without another word from either of us. I make the right turn into my neighborhood and pull into the short driveway of my one-bedroom rancher. That nagging self-consciousness pricks at me again as he follows me to the front door of my modest home. I’ve seen his house—correction, mansion— on one of those entertainment shows, and it’s the house of someone with millions to spare. There is no cute front porch like mine with a bench from Walmart to watch the sunset, there’s an infinity pool with designer furniture to gaze out at the ocean.
He follows me in and to his credit, doesn’t look put out by his less than luxury accommodations. Not that my place is squalor. The rooms are large with fresh goldenrod paint and cherry hardwoods. My grey microfiber couch is fairly new, and comfortable. Although the coffee and end tables are second hand, I refinished them to a glossy dark oak. It’s not Restoration Hardware, but I did restore it and use a screwdriver. So, there you go. Looks just as good as the expensive stuff.
But, the outside could use some tender loving care.
The busted patio light, the rickety step up to the front porch, and the chipping paint are all on my list of things to get around to doing.
I give him the short tour, and when he goes onto the patio to return phone calls, I find my laptop, searching the internet with vigor, trying my best to find a hotel. The closest one with any vacancies is a hundred miles away. That’s not too far, is it? I’m beginning to think a hundred miles is not far enough.
Chapter 4
Ethan
Nova was already gone when I woke this morning, but she left a Post-It on the fridge that read:
What’s mine is yours. Help yourself. If you need anything, you can text me. 555-759-6789
Except, there’s really not anything to help myself to other than yogurt. And it’s the plain kind. Fuck. In LA, I have someone who takes care of that stuff. My fridge is always magically fully stocked. I mean, I’m not helpless, I shop for things, but it’s just something that kind of got handed off by my manager to various people.
I close the fridge, snatc
h the note off the door, and send her a text.
“I need something.”
“What’s up?” she replies.
“No hello for your brother?”
“Is that what you needed? To harass me?” she answers back.
I smile a little that she’s so easily riled up. Honestly, I don’t know what to think about Nova’s denial yesterday when I asked her about her news job. She looked pretty truthful, like I had just morally offended her character. But, I’ve encountered some damn good liars these last few years.
“No, I need a key. I’m going out.”
I’m not meeting my father till late this afternoon, and already I’m bored. I don’t really know what to do with all this down time.
“It’s ok, you don’t have to lock up. It’s safe.”
“WHAT?” I reply, unable to believe she just texted that. “You don’t lock your doors?”
“Not all the time.”
This may be small town America, but there’s crime everywhere, and I’m a little shocked no one's told her this.
“Starting today you do. Where can I find a key?”
“I have to get back to work. Under the doormat,” she texts back.
“WHAT? Why don’t you just tape it to the door?” Seriously, what is she thinking? Why has her cop friend not explained this to her?
“You’re not my big brother… yet,” she replies.
I let that slide and resist the urge to tell her just how big I am. For about a second.
“Oh, I’m big alright ;)”
“So is your ego.”
I let her think that and pull up Google Maps to figure out where I’m going. It’s a small town, so might as well walk and burn off some energy. It’s a pretty straight shot to the nearest supermarket a couple of miles away.
I throw on jeans and a t-shirt, shades, and a ball cap. After I lock up, I take a left out of her driveway and set off down the two-lane road. Things are a lot different here than in LA: the sky is a shade bluer, and I can actually hear birds chirping. There’s a charm to the brick houses spread out on each side of the road. Makes me want to sit and drink lemonade or some shit I would never do.