Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series

by Pogue, Lindsey

  The excitement in her voice warms my heart a little. “Sounds good. I’ll call you tomorrow after I talk to Kylie.”

  “Okay, honey. You have no idea how much this means to me. I can’t wait to see you!”

  “I know, Mom. Me too.”

  “I love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  And then she hangs up.

  I drop my phone on the cushion beside me and stare at the fifty-inch TV screen my parents sent me as a housewarming gift earlier this year, which I rarely use, except to watch Disney movies and cartoons with Casey. When I notice the Christmas tree lights are off and looking forlorn beside the bookshelf, I get up to turn them on. I take a step back and realize this is the first year Casey’s gotten so excited at the holidays, and imagining her glowing face on Christmas Day this year tugs on some long-buried heartstrings. This Christmas definitely feels a little different.

  I catch myself smiling, shake my head, and turn for the kitchen when I spot the stack of photos of Casey on the bookshelf. Or it could be Mac that’s changing everything. I glance back at the tree, the lights, the ornaments, the paper chain and popcorn garlands . . . all of it reminds me of her, laughing and playing with Casey. She’s probably next door, right at this very moment . . .

  I can still feel where her fingers traced my skin around my scars the other night. It’s like she knows what it’s like to feel tainted, alone, and stuck in the past. She’s so much more than I ever imagined.

  I tell myself I don’t need to drag her into this mess with my parents—she’s got her own issues to worry about—but I can’t help it. Whether it’s her perspective or just her presence I’m seeking isn’t clear to me, but knowing I might get to see her smile seals the deal.

  My phone is in my hand and my fingers are tapping and swiping the screen before I realize I’m texting her.

  Me: Are you busy?

  The instant I press send, I hold my breath and sit down on the couch again. I can’t help but wonder, if it wasn’t for my mom, what other reason I would’ve concocted to get her to come over. There’s a discomfort in that realization, but I push it down deep, imagining her laugh instead.

  The instant my phone dings, it’s back in my hand.

  Mac: Not really, just searching for places to look at tomorrow.

  Another text pops up.

  Mac: What’s up?

  Me: I could use some advice.

  Another couple of minutes pass, and then I hear a light knock on my front door. I jolt upright from the couch, feeling like a God damn giddy schoolgirl, perspiring and wondering if I shouldn’t run into the bathroom and rinse my mouth out with Scope—

  “Colton?” she calls through the door.

  I hobble over and open the door. Mac’s rubbing her arms as she steps inside. “It’s fucking freezing out there.”

  I can’t help but smile. The official Mac greeting. Her cheeks are rosy again and she’s already in what I assume are her pajamas—tight gray sweatpants and an oversized, pink faded sweatshirt that drapes off her shoulders. I’m not sure the strappy thing she has on underneath counts as a shirt.

  I clear my throat. “Ever consider putting on warmer clothes?” I ask with a slight, insuppressible grin. God knows she wouldn’t look so delectable if she wasn’t showing so much skin.

  She glares at me. “If I would’ve known I’d be standing outside in minus-degree temperatures for what felt like forever, I would have. But someone invited me over needing some advice, and silly me, I dropped everything . . . like always.” She grumbles the last part and a twinge of guilt niggles at me, because I’d secretly hoped that she would.

  “Well, thank you—for coming over.” I lean forward and press a kiss against her lips.

  Her eyelids remain closed a moment and she licks her lips. Finally, she smiles and opens her eyes. “An early Christmas gift?”

  I smile and gesture to the couch for her to sit down.

  Her gaze settles on me as she slowly lowers herself onto the cushion. I stand there a brief moment, off-kilter and silent, and I can’t help but remember Cal’s threat to kill me if I ever hurt her. I sigh and head for the closet in the hallway for a blanket.

  Mac’s face brightens. “Why, thank you.” She tucks it in around her, and I walk to the kitchen.

  “Care for a drink?” I know I could use one.

  “Well . . .” she drawls and I hear the scuff of her fur-lined boots on the floor behind me. “I guess it depends what you got.”

  I peek inside my fridge to find two pale ales. I turn around to offer wine and my breath hitches. She’s leaning against the counter, arms folded under breasts that are practically spilling out of her sweatshirt. “Jesus Christ,” I mutter and turn back toward the fridge. “You’re killing me.”

  “What?” she asks, completely oblivious.

  I want nothing more than to point out to her what I’ve been having to deal with the past five months, but instead I reach for a bottle of wine my mom sent me for my birthday. It’s no doubt expensive given the gaudy, golden etched label.

  I pull the bottle out of the mostly empty wine rack. “Is red wine okay?” I search the junk drawer for a bottle opener. I’m not sure I’ve used it since I moved in.

  “Yeah, that’s perfect, thanks.”

  I peel the casing off with a knife and take my time with the cork. Finally, it comes out with a suctioned pop.

  “You don’t strike me as much of a wine drinker,” she says. I can hear the amusement in her voice. When I glance behind me, she’s smirking. “But you did that surprisingly well.”

  “I, ah, have a mother who loves wine,” I say, recalling my earlier years as a troubled teen. “Needless to say, I opened some of her most coveted bottles as an underage, delinquent kid.” I pour us both a half a glass.

  “I can’t say I’m all that surprised.”

  “You’re not?” I chuckle and hand Mac her glass.

  “Thank you,” she says, wide-eyed and waiting for me to take mine in hand. “Cheers.” We clink our glasses together, not breaking eye contact for a single moment, and take a sip.

  When she heads back toward the living room, she stops at the Christmas tree. I watch her profile, appreciating the way her hair falls down past her shoulder blades and remembering how soft and silky it feels between my fingers and the scar on her back that she seemed to want to hide.

  Her silhouette against the tree is breathtaking as she reaches out and touches the pine needle fringe. “Are you pleased with the tree?” she asks, admiring the paper chain she and Casey made. She’s beaming, and when she looks at me and her smile broadens, I almost forget to answer her.

  “Uh, it’s one of the most pitiful trees I’ve ever had,” I say, truthful. It’s full in some places and pathetically lonely in others. “But yes, it’s perfect.”

  “Casey picked a good one.” Mac turns to me, oblivious to anything going on inside my head. “What are you going to get her for Christmas?”

  I’m prepared to make a joke and then wonder if I’m actually being serious as I consider my options. “It crossed my mind that maybe she’d actually prefer purple fingernail polish to anything I was going to make or buy her.” I shake my head because my five-year-old daughter wants to paint her fingernails now, and it’s only a matter of time until it’s makeup and shaving her legs. Then boys.

  I sit down on the couch with a groan. “I can see it now. Not only will we be watching The Little Mermaid on our weekends together, but we’ll be painting each other’s fingernails while we’re at it. She’s already asked me if she could play with my hair.” I give Mac a sidelong glance. “Of course I let her.”

  “Of course you did.” Mac grins and takes a sip from her glass. “That’s because you’re a good father.” She comes to sit down beside me. “My dad’s a softy at heart, too.” Her smile broadens. “He let me play with his hair a couple times, and he’s not opposed to clear fingernail polish.”

  Laughing, I shake my head. “Tattoos, hair pins, and
nail polish. Oh, the visuals.”

  She pulls one leg beneath her and tucks the blanket over her lap again. “So, is that what you needed my advice about? Nail polish colors?” Her voice is soft and I wonder how exhausted she must be with everything going on in her life right now. I find myself wondering if she’s talked to her mom and if she’s any closer to getting her own place. I don’t like the emptiness that fills me at the thought.

  I shake my head. “My mom wants me to bring Casey to San Francisco to visit her.” It sounds like a ridiculous problem to have the instant I say it.

  Mac looks down at her wineglass, thoughtfully swirling its contents. “I got the impression from Casey that she doesn’t see her grandparents much.”

  “My parents are—different than me. And my dad and I—we don’t get along well. In fact, I haven’t seen him since he told me he was tired of being disappointed, and I left.” I lean my head back on the cushion. “I saw my mom off and on when I was living in SF, but not since we moved here.”

  “Are you worried about how your dad will treat Casey?”

  I stare at the drips of wine, easing their way back down into the glass. “No, he’s not really a violent or mean man. I guess I’m more apprehensive about seeing him for the first time in nearly seven years and what that will be like. I don’t want Casey to be uncomfortable or witness what our unhealthy relationship looks like.”

  “Are things that bad between you?”

  I laugh bitterly. “My dad thinks I’m a fuckup. And that was just the last time I saw him. He’s got a lot more ammo now.”

  Mac’s silent too long and I look at her from the corner of my eye. The way she wears incredulity is enough to make me feel like the biggest of fools. “You have a stable job, a nice apartment, you’re a good dad . . . you’re in Casey’s life, Colton. Not all kids can say that about their parents. What part of all of that says fuckup to you?” Her expression shadows and she frowns.

  “It’s taken me a long time to get here,” I say, recalling dark, unwanted memories of a brokenhearted kid who did desperate things to make the pain go away. It inevitably almost killed me. “I stopped caring much about anything for a while.”

  “The accident.”

  Her expression houses a hundred questions she’s burning to ask. I appreciate her willpower to keep them to herself now more than ever.

  “The scars,” Mac whispers, and for some reason the emotion I hear in her voice makes my stomach drop and the memories come rushing back, more vividly than usual. The shame. The anger I felt for my parents for making me feel like less of a person, unworthy of them; my anger towards Kylie, and my own self-loathing.

  That day was so long ago, but I still remember the insatiable itch to do something to distract myself, the need for fear and fury and to drive faster. The naïve notion that I didn’t care what happened. They wanted to be disappointed, so I did my best to show them just how disappointed they could be.

  “You think about death differently after you’ve felt it creeping in on you,” I say, staring at nothing in particular. “I didn’t care if I died that day, that is until I realized my clothes were covered in flames and I wasn’t just going to die, I was going to burn to death.” The sharp scent of charred flesh is branded in my memory. “My dad never even came to see me in the hospital.” I look down at my right palm, flexing my hand into a fist, feeling the muscles twist and turn, the scars moving on my skin. “I’m not sure his sentiments could get much clearer than that.”

  Malcom’s big, toothy smile and kind hazel eyes flash to memory. “I got the tattoos because I was ashamed of the scars and my stupidity.”

  “Do they mean something?” Mac’s voice is quiet but stirs me back to now, to Mac and me, sitting in the living room together. To her.

  I clear my throat. “Malcom, the guy who owned the shop I was working at during the time, was Maori. He told me to wear my scars with pride and as a reminder of how strong I am—and who I’ve had to be to become who I am. I just wanted to cover up my scars, so he designed the tattoo for me.”

  She watches me a moment, measuring her thoughts or perhaps what she’s going to say next, then she shuts her eyes and parts her lips. “The scar on my back is from my brother, David.”

  I’ve never heard any of them talk about David, but I already don’t like him.

  “At the risk of sounding like a sixth grader, if I tell you something,” she starts tentatively, “do you promise to never tell a living soul?”

  I stare into her eyes for a few breaths and recognize the vulnerability reflected in them. I nod, my heartbeat quickening for a moment as I brace myself for whatever comes next.

  “I was a junior in high school and track practice was cancelled.” She twists her wineglass around and around, studies her fingernails—anything to keep from looking at me. “I got home earlier than usual from school, and David was home; he’s three years older than me and was supposed to be at work, but he had a group of friends over instead. Sean was there.”

  Mac pauses, and when she looks at me my body tenses. “He’s the one,” she says, and I know immediately what she’s referring to. “He was an asshole, I knew that, but David let him flirt with me and say inappropriate things all the time—he acted like he didn’t care at all that his friend treated me like I was just some random chick he could demoralize and harass every time I walked by him. Now, when I look back, it’s obvious David was always high or drunk, but at the time, I just knew he was a horrible brother who’d always treated me like crap, and I knew I didn’t deserve any of it. I wanted to hurt him, the way he always hurt me, but it backfired.” Her cheeks redden and she takes a sip from her glass.

  “The moment I let Sean touch me, I regretted it. I hated everything about him—he was the worst type of guy—but at the same time I didn’t have the guts to stop it.” She cringes, and it’s all I can do to stay seated and control my disbelief and anger and hatred for a guy I’ve never met. I set my glass down so I don’t crush it in my hand.

  “David walked into the garage, and I got what I wanted. He was furious.” She glances up at me. “He beat the crap out of Sean. Then, he came after me. I ran upstairs, but he caught me outside my room. He pushed me so hard I fell back—cut my shoulder open on the corner of the chest at the end of my bed. When he heard the smack and saw the blood, he snapped out of it.” I see the distance in her eyes turn to shimmering memories I can almost feel, and an incomprehensible hatred fills me. “My dad doesn’t know that I’m the reason David left that day, and it’s because of me and what I did that he’s barely been home since.”

  Adrenaline hums through me, and I lean forward. The last thing I want to do is upset her more, but the fact that Cal is ignorant about what happened to his own daughter is almost too much to swallow. “He doesn’t know about any of it?”

  Her gaze drifts to mine. “No one does. Not even Sam.” Before I can say anything else, hurried words fall from her lips. “It doesn’t matter that it was my fault, he would’ve killed Sean, I know it. My dad would be in jail if he’d found out and then what would’ve happened to us? My mom was gone. I begged David not to tell him. Plus, I was too ashamed. Just knowing that David knew made me hate myself even more; I didn’t want my dad to think about any of that every time he looked at me.” Mac’s pointed stare is striking and wraps around me. I can actually feel her anger and resolve. “And I also know that if I would’ve let David tell my dad, he might’ve stayed.”

  “I doubt it,” I say. I can’t help it. The words are as calm as I can manage, but I have to look away from her.

  “Now who’s the disappointment?” she asks.

  “Are you serious right now, Mac? He should’ve protected you. He’s your fucking brother.”

  Her expression is unchanging. “Yeah, and when he saw what was happening, he did. He could’ve killed Sean. And that would’ve been on my conscience, too.”

  “What does Cal think happened to your back?”

  “He thinks I hurt myself at trac
k practice, jumping over one of the hurdles. I was clumsy enough, so it was easy to convince him.” An incredulous look blankets her face. “I don’t remember it hurting, strangely enough, even though I had to get stitches.” With a humorless smile, she shakes her head. “So, if you’re a fuckup, then I am too.” Her cheek twitches and her smile falls.

  I shake my head. “That’s different—”

  “Would you have had Casey if you’d made different decisions?”

  The question surprises me, and I stare at her. “I don’t know, probably not.”

  “Then it sounds like you had to go through what you did to get here,” Mac says easily. “Just like for some fucked-up reason, I went through what I did, so that maybe I would meet you.”

  “And how do you figure that?”

  She shrugs. “Maybe if I didn’t have this mental block around guys, I’d have a boyfriend right now or be married already. Maybe I wouldn’t be working at my dad’s shop, and I never would’ve met you.”

  I study her a moment, watching the way her eyes assess me and the way she’s lost in some thought I cannot see. She sets her wineglass down on the table and leans closer. “Even though it makes me sort of sick that you know, it feels good to finally tell someone,” she admits.

  My heart climbs up into my throat, and I watch as Mac reaches for my tatted arm. When she pushes up my sleeve, my arm tenses. Her fingertips traverse the swirls and shapes inked on my arm and I have to catch my breath. Everything about her makes me feel alive, and the simple brush of her soft fingers against my skin is no exception. I revel in the moment, so chaste and disarming; I shut my eyes to memorize the sensation.

  I’m not sure how much time passes, but eventually, the pressure of her fingers disappears and, slowly, I open my eyes. Her lightly freckled nose is mere inches from mine, and the green in her eyes pulls me in, beckoning me to stay in this moment with her forever. “So,” she says. Her voice is almost too quiet to hear. “What are you going to do?”