I think about it a moment, wondering. “Maybe.” I shrug. “I don’t know much about her, but if you leave your kids—after having three of them—I guess she’s capable of anything.” I run my fingers through my hair and stare down at the bar’s worn, maimed surface again. It’s less daunting than the concern in Nick’s eyes, the anger I see in them—the tepid anger that I feel. “I thought he was being weird because of Alison . . . or his health.”
“Aunt Alison? What does she have to do with anything?”
“Ha.” I forget sometimes that Alison is his aunt. “Oh, didn’t you hear? It’s the talk of the town. All the time they spend together—her and my dad—it’s quite the gossip. Sandra Jennings asked me about it in the grocery store a couple weeks ago, and Carmen Delacruz brought it up last week when she was dropping Louis off to get his car.”
“Really.” It’s not a question. “She hasn’t said anything to me, neither have my parents.”
“What, you’ve never seen my dad’s truck at the ranch? He’s been working on her Tahoe—or so I thought.”
He sort of shakes his head and shrugs at the same time. “Yeah, but . . . he’s a mechanic.”
I stare at the empty shot glass a moment, spinning it around in my hand. “I can’t wait to hear what the town has to say about this turn of events. That will get the gossip mill going again.” The bar is sticky against my skin, but unlike most days, I don’t care in the slightest. “What do you think she wants? My mom, I mean.”
“Hmm. Money?” Nick lifts a shoulder.
I can’t help the contortion of my face as I consider it. With an abrupt shake of my head, I sit up straighter. “I don’t think so. She looks like she has money.” I reach over to grab the whiskey bottle and pour myself a half shot. Brady would flip if he saw me helping myself—in fact, it’s probably illegal—but then I don’t really care. “It’s not money.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” Bill says from his slumped position at the end of the bar. “You gotta talk to her.”
Bill, like most people in this town, knows she left. Just like they know about Sam’s accident, the situation with the ranch, and how scandalous it is that my dad and Alison have been seen talking. Then it occurs to me that Bill probably knows more about my mom leaving than I do.
“Bill,” I say, angling to face him. “You’ve been around a while, since all of this happened. What do you know about her leaving?”
He purses his lips, his brow wrinkling, but I’m not sure if he’s trying to remember or knows something he doesn’t want to share.
“I’m serious,” I say. “You’ve seen tons of people come and go from this town, you know all the tittle-tattle . . . what do you know about my mom?”
Bill shrugs. “Sure, I know Katherine left, but I don’t know why or how.”
With a twinge of disappointment, I nod and turn back to Nick.
“Actually,” he continues, “I do remember her coming into the bank a few times—this was weeks before—and she seemed . . .” He hesitates. “She seemed sad, I guess. She stopped smiling and saying hi whenever she walked in. It was almost like she didn’t realize we were even there, like she was just going through the motions, depositing Cal’s checks with her mind somewhere else. We all knew she wasn’t okay, at least, we knew something wasn’t right.”
Bill does know more than me, and I realize it stings more than I thought. Biting back more emotional sludge I don’t want to process right now, I offer him a nod in thanks and turn back to my shot glass. I need to talk to my dad, but I’m not ready to do that just yet.
“I think he’s right, Mac. You gotta talk to her. It’s the only way you’ll ever feel any sort of closure. You can tell her off if you want, or just listen to what she has to say. After all your years of wondering, I think you’ll regret it if you don’t.”
As angry as I am that she has once again turned my life upside down, it’d regret not taking the opportunity to talk to her—eventually. “I just want to hide out here for a little while longer.”
Nick pours me another half a shot and a full one for himself. “You should just stay with me tonight. Give yourself some time to think. Whatever’s going on can wait for you to get a decent night’s sleep and some time to mull it all over.”
Gratefully, I peer up at Nick, wishing he wasn’t working so I could give him a big hug. Oh, fuck it. I stand up on the footrest of the bar stool and grab at his shirt, pulling him into me. He oomphs and wows but wraps his arms around me.
“Thank you,” I whisper and give him a quick squeeze. Then I sit my ass back down in the stool before it slides out from under me. “But I should go home and make sure Bobby’s okay. He was still in Benton when it happened, so I’m not even sure he knows yet. I don’t want to keep it from him.”
“Why don’t you call him? If you go home, you’ll end up staying and—”
“But what if—” I stop midsentence. Nick gives me the seriously? look and I’m instantly shushed. He doesn’t dole out serious, reprimanding expressions very often, so I hear him out.
“Mac, for once in your life, worry about yourself and take some time to think about this for you. Now that you know, I’m sure your dad will tell him. You can call Bobby after you’ve had time to think about it more. Please.” His gaze is pleading and I nod automatically. “You can have my bed and I’ll take the couch—”
“Definitely not, Nick. I’m not taking your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch if I stay, okay? No arguing.” The last thing I want is to be an inconvenience.
“So you’re saying you’ll stay?” A mischievous glint lights his hazel eye. “Sweet. I haven’t had a hot chick in my apartment in weeks.”
Somehow Nick can always make me smile, even when I’m not sure I even want to, but it quickly falters. “Wait, what? What about Savannah?”
Nick’s ever-present smile fades as he opens a box of beer to unpack into the fridge. “Well, you know. She’s been gone a lot, dealing with her parents. I haven’t seen her much lately. When she’s home, she’s pretty tired. It’s as simple as that.” His voice is distant, flat. It’s starting to take its toll on him, especially if he can’t perk himself up enough to lie about it. “But hey, we’re supposed to go to an ugly sweater party on Friday. That should be fun.”
“I’m sorry, Nick.” I try not to look at him too glumly. “That really sucks.”
“Oh well, it is what it is. It’s no one’s fault. But like I said”—he winks at me, trying to act like his normal self—“it will be nice to have a part-time roommate again. With winter break, I don’t even have school to keep me busy right now.”
Fleetingly, I think of Bobby. The fact that he has hockey all winter to keep him busy and focused makes me feel like a tiny bit less of a worrywart. “So, how are things with school? Are you tired of being so smart yet?” I pop a peanut into my mouth. “I’ll have you know, I’ve decided I’ll need a darkroom included in that list of must-haves we’re putting in that designer home you’re building me one day.” I smile, picturing how over-the-top it would be if he could build me every single thing I wanted. “It’s fun to think about, at least.” But my smile quickly fades the moment I look at him.
For the first time in my life, I notice Nick’s eyes dull, and it’s a little bit alarming. He wipes down a few wet pint glasses, leaving a heavy, pregnant silence suspended between us.
“What’s going on, Nick? Are you flunking out or something?”
“No,” he says with a humorless laugh, and he shakes his head. “Nothing like that.”
“Then what is it?”
He contemplates something for a minute before he answers. “My dad’s been weird lately. He’s said a couple things that make me think he doesn’t want me to work at his firm anymore, like we’d planned—that it would be a ‘conflict of interest’—which is fine, it’s just . . . weird.” He shrugs.
That is weird and doesn’t sound like Mr. Turner at all. I’ve known him since elementary school and he’s always been just
like Nick—happy-go-lucky with a big smile on his face, and he’d give you the shirt off his back. He’d do anything for Nick; he definitely wouldn’t blow him off.
“How strange. Have you talked to your mom?”
He shakes his head and gives Bill down at the other end of the bar a sidelong glance. “It’s nothing, probably a midlife crisis,” he jokes and crouches down to grab something from under the bar. I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about it, especially not with other eyes and ears in the room, so I let it go, for now.
Nick disappears into the back for a minute. The sound of the hockey game on the television by Bill is all that fills the silence as I sit there, thinking about Bobby and his next home game. For some reason, I picture my mom sitting there in the stands with us, cheering him on while I’m watching in horror, wincing at every thrash and pummel. But I don’t like her in my thoughts and peer down at the water glass that Nick set in front of me instead.
I vaguely register him running around behind the bar from the corner of my eye. I’m entranced, watching the perspiration collect on my glass. All those water drops just appeared and they’ll disappear just as quickly if I wipe them away. Part of me wishes memories were like that, so easy to erase when we don’t want them anymore. “Shouldn’t I be happy to see her?” I wonder aloud. It seems like after all this time, all the struggling and wishing I knew what the hell happened, I would want to talk to her more, to understand and get to know her. She is part of me, after all.
But Nick shakes his head, stacking glasses on the shelf behind him. “Your mom wasn’t away on vacation, Mac. She left a lot of shit in her wake for you guys to deal with, and she hurt a lot of people. I don’t blame you for being careful.”
I purse my lips with a half nod. Nick’s right. Some of what happened the night my mom left is sort of a blur in my nine-year-old mind, but I know what it’s been like since. The tension between David and my dad growing—tension between all of us. My dad worked crazy-long hours and wasn’t home much, and with his free time he did everything in his power to get Bobby involved in sports so he wouldn’t be listless and lost, like our brother. I was sort of just there, picking up the pieces, making sure that my dad and little brother were eating, that homework was getting done when my dad was at the shop late some nights. And some of those nights David would have his friends over . . .
The day I came home from school early flashes to mind. Those pallid green eyes and that wolfish grin will probably always haunt me. I shiver and rub my right shoulder blade, like it suddenly hurts. The visceral reaction I have every time I think of Sean never seems to lessen, and the scar on my shoulder is a constant reminder of how messed up it’s all been, no matter how many good days there have been in between. I push Sean and David from my thoughts with a shake of my head.
“Are you okay?” Nick asks, and I quickly smile, not wanting him to see my shame. “Yeah, just tension. I think I need another drink.” I wink at him.
Nick starts to pour me another when the door flies open, and I jump in my seat. Sam is standing in the doorway, eyeing me inquisitively before she walks inside with a cold breeze rushing past her.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, dumbfounded. Then, it hits me. I can tell by the look on her face that she already knows the gist of what’s happened, and it pisses me off that my dad called her, making her schlep down the mountain because he’s worried.
Sam walks up to me and immediately pulls me into a giant hug, nearly choking me her grip is so tight, and I feel something inside me split open.
“You okay?” she asks. Her question is padded with concern, but she’s prepared for any emotions I might unleash. I smile to myself. She knows me so well. I can tell by her desperate hug, by the tone of her voice.
“I’ll be fine, Sam,” I say.
Finally, she lets go and sits down on the stool beside me. I can’t help it, tears well in my eyes, even though I don’t want to cry about my mom. I spent too many nights as a child wishing she hadn’t left to waste any more tears on her now.
“What can I do?” Sam murmurs, her big brown eyes assessing me, wanting to draw out everything she can. She squeezes my hand in hers, rough from hammering and woodcutting and whatever else she does on that ranch of hers. My emotions swell even more at the understatement of how different we are, yet she’s been more like family to me than my own mother.
I offer her a grateful yet exhausted smile. “Honestly, Sam, I don’t know.” I wipe the dampness from beneath my eyes with my free hand. “I think I just need to figure things out—talking to my dad would probably be a good start.”
“Are you going to talk to him tonight?”
I glance at Nick, who’s pouring Bill another draft beer. “I’m not sure I’m ready,” I say. “I was planning on going home, but Nick had a good point. I should probably sleep on it, figure out what’s going on in my brain first.”
“As long as you aren’t worried it will make it worse—for you, I mean.”
I shake my head. “Besides, I want to have another shot.” I offer her a big fat grin as a thought forms. “Want to join me?” I lift up my shot glass.
Sam thinks about it for a minute, and I’m surprised when she nods. “Hit me,” she tells our bartender. Nick’s eyebrows raise in shock.
“It’s just one drink,” she says, brushing it off like taking a shot in the middle of the day is a normal occurrence for her. “Besides, Reilly can drive me back up the hill if things get out of control.” She looks at me askance, a rare mischievous smile forming.
“Music to my ears,” I practically chant. I love that she’s rallying to drink my sorrows away with me, which is all I could ask for in a best friend right now. “That means I won’t be sitting here alone like a pathetic lush all night, pouring my soul out to the bartender.” I peer around Sam, down at the other end of the bar. “No offense, Bill.”
He waves my comment away and takes a sip of his beer.
Nick pours Sam a shot. “When you check in with him,” I say to her, “you can tell him Nick and I are having a slumber party tonight.”
“My favorite,” Nick says playfully, and I hand Sam her shot glass.
Sam’s eyes narrow and she dips her chin to look at me. “Why would Reilly care?”
“No, not Reilly, my dad. You can mention I won’t be coming home tonight. I’ll be passed out on Nick’s couch. Hopefully dead to the world and drooling.” I wink at Nick.
“I haven’t talked to your dad, Mac.” She says it almost sheepishly, like maybe she thinks that will hurt my feelings. “Reilly called me. Colton was worried about you. He asked Reilly to make sure you were okay. I have no idea how your dad is holding up right now.”
It finally registers that Colton was standing there for the whole thing. He heard and saw it all. This time, when my stomach roils and I feel as though I might throw up, I wonder if it’s the alcohol.
Nine
Mac
A shiver shimmies down my spine as I walk through the shop. There’s been a permanent chill in the air today, but even on the brink of snow, I don’t think the weather is to blame; lack of sleep, too many wandering thoughts, anxiousness, perhaps.
For the most part, everything is quiet. It’s past five and the shop is technically closed, so most of the techs have gone home for the day. I rap my knuckles quickly against my dad’s office door and hear him grumble something from the other side. As if it were any other day, I open the door and step inside, clicking it shut behind me. When I turn around, my dad is already peering up at me, loose papers clutched in his hands. It’s time to talk, but the irritation and hurt I’d felt last night drains away the minute I notice his pinched features and the darkness around his eyes.
For the first time in my life, the disorganization around him—the uneven stacks of papers littering his desk, the pieces sticking out of the wall of filing cabinets behind him, and the mismatched customer folders in miscellaneous stacks on the floor—all seems a strange embodiment of our lives. Everything is sm
udged with grease and there’s little rhyme or reason to any of it.
The sound of an air compressor turning on somewhere in the shop shakes my focus and I meet my dad’s thoughtful, discerning gaze. His shadowed green eyes and drawn expression convey a dozen emotions—a hundred conversations we’ve never had for one reason or another. Conversations about our lives since she left. About David. About my parents’ relationship I’ve never known much about. Conversations about me and him. Everything. And all those unspoken words are readable on his face, etched in the creases around his eyes and beneath his graying goatee. It’s the face of a man who’s been the epitome of strength and protection my whole life, but who now seems defeated and perhaps a bit lost.
My dad clears his throat and discards the yellow repair orders in his hand, tossing them onto one of the piles on his desk before he looks at me again. “Go ahead,” he says quietly. His voice is tired, reedy for a man who generally commands everyone’s respect and attention whenever he opens his mouth. “I know you’ve got a few things you want to say.”
Really, there is only one. “I can’t believe you didn’t say anything.” I feel more disbelief than anger.
“I knew her being back would hurt you, after everything that’s happened,” he says simply. “I didn’t want you to have to deal with the chaos she leaves in her wake all over again.”
“What hurts is that I do everything I can for you. I work for you and make sure you’re eating healthy and the bills are paid and—” I shake my head because none of that matters. “I know I’m your child and you want to protect me, but after everything we’ve been through, do I not also have your respect as an equal?” My voice hardens. “You’ve been lying to me—each time I’ve asked you what’s wrong or where you’ve been or where you’re going . . . haven’t I earned the truth, at least?”
My hands tremble as I step up to his desk, grabbing onto it as I try to formulate the right words. “I know this couldn’t have been easy on you, either, but you didn’t have to deal with it alone.”
Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series Page 39