Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series

by Pogue, Lindsey

  “Hey, how are you feeling? Sore yet?” He laughs on the other end of the line, and I wish I could, too.

  “Ah, yeah, a little. Now’s not really a good time, Nick.” The backs of my eyes begin to sting. I hate that I let my dad get to me, but he’s like poison, bleeding in.

  He’s quiet for a heartbeat. “Are you okay?”

  His sincerity and concern makes it difficult to breathe, but I force my vocal chords to work. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  There’s movement on the other end of the phone. “Jesse forgot his jacket, I just thought you should know.”

  “Oh, okay. Thanks.” I can barely manage the words as I let out a suffocating breath. “I’ll get it later.”

  “Hey, I know you said you were going to work on our summary tomorrow, but—do you want to do something fun?”

  “Something fun?” I ask, wiping the moisture from beneath my eyes. All I can think about is the look of censure on my dad’s face at the idea.

  “Yeah, the gang wants to go to the beach tomorrow. What do you say? Feel like acting your age for a day?”

  I nod, eyes blurred with tears. “Yeah, actually, that would be really great.”

  Thirty-Six

  Bethany’s Journal

  April 21st

  I’m not sure why I keep trying to please people who will never be happy. I’m tired of having to explain myself. I’m tired of their assumptions. Sometimes I feel like my parents done don’t care much about me one way or the other. But, if that’s true, why do they micromanage my life so much? How can they not see that they’re pushing me away, or is it that they don’t care? I don’t even think their anger with me is about grades anymore. Not really, anyway. It’s about how far I’ve somehow fallen in their eyes, and how I’ll never live up to what they want.

  Leaving seems like the only thing to do, and I know I would be happier, even if I’d hate being away from Jesse. But, I have to get out of her here, and that’s what I plan to do, after I take the GRE. If I can wait that long. –B

  Thirty-Seven

  Nick

  The moment I walk into my parents’ house, the tension in my body triples, despite the smell of homemade cookies that fills the air. Normally, it’s a comforting scent that makes my stomach rumble and my smile stretch from ear to ear. After my phone call with Bethany, though, and hearing the reediness of her voice, something tore open inside me. I’ve heard her scared and angry and frustrated, but never desperate to hold herself together like that. I know it had something to do with her parents, especially after seeing that text from her dad, which makes me think of my own and how screwed up this situation is. It’s hard to imagine how this family dinner will go.

  “Nick, sweetheart, is that you?” My mom’s voice rings from upstairs. “I’ll be down in a minute. I’m just freshening up.”

  “No prob.” I head into the kitchen to snoop. There are chocolate chip cookies on the counter, some on a small, decorative plate, and two Tupperware containers beside it—one for my dad and one for me, I assume. I wonder if it’s easier for her now, not having to hide the truth.

  Opening the fridge, I reach for the carton of orange juice. It’s light and almost empty, so I spin the cap off and chug what’s left.

  “I see not everything’s changed,” my dad says from behind me, and I nearly choke in surprise.

  Wiping off my mouth with the back of my hand, I glance over my shoulder. He’s in his workout clothes, like he’s just coming home from the gym. But then, this isn’t home anymore, not for him. He sets the newspaper on the counter and walks over to the cabinet and pulls out a glass.

  “Nope, not everything.” I toss the empty carton into the recycling.

  My dad eyes my ranch clothes. “How’s Sam?”

  “Good.” I don’t feel like elaborating, not while there’s no trace of remorse on his face.

  He pours himself a glass of water. “I’m glad. She’s a good kid.”

  “We’re not kids anymore,” I remind him. “We’ve been adults for a long time now.”

  My dad shakes his head, as if he’s amused. “You’ll always be our kids, Nick. We’ll always want to protect you.”

  I step over to the sliding glass door, biting back my resentful comments. I’m not sure if I should start in on him now or wait until my mom’s present so we can hash it out together and be done with it.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d join us tonight,” he admits. The laughter in his voice I remember so well as a child has been gone for a very long time, I realize.

  “Yeah well, here I am.”

  When my mom strides into the kitchen, she smiles at me, wraps her arms around my shoulders as best she can on her short little legs, and then she squeezes me tightly. “Hi, sweetheart.”

  I squeeze her back. “Hey, Ma.”

  “How much time do I have before dinner gets here?” my dad asks and chugs down the rest of his water.

  My mom looks at her watch. “Ten minutes or so,” she says, sparing him a glance. But it’s not awkward the way I’d expect it to be. “You have time for a quick shower.”

  My father excuses himself to run upstairs.

  “You’ll be happy to know,” my mom says, rinsing out my dad’s glass, “that I decided to spend my time baking cookies today instead of worrying about dinner.”

  I tilt my head, confused.

  “I’ve order dinner from Giovanni’s. It should be here soon.”

  My stomach rumbles at the thought, and her smile widens. “I thought you’d like that.” She hands me the two cookie containers. “One’s for Bethany and Jesse. Make sure they get it, okay?”

  Surprised, I take them from her. “Sure.”

  “I mean it, Nicholas. You,” she says, pointing to one container. “Bethany.” She points to the other one. “Don’t touch.”

  “I got it, Ma,” I say with a laugh. “I’ll make sure she gets it. I have some self-control, you know.”

  “Good.” She smiles at me. “I really enjoyed having them here the other day. I hope Bethany decides to come back for another tutoring session.”

  “I do too,” I admit. “She said it helped her a lot. I think she really appreciated it.”

  “I’m glad I could be helpful.” I can see it in my mom’s eyes—a sense of purpose. It lightens her expression and her eyes smile. I don’t know if my dad notices those things anymore or if he even cares, but it makes me happy.

  “So, this cookie business,” I say, inching closer to the cookie plate. “Are they strictly an after-dinner snack or . . . ?”

  “You can have one now.” She chuckles softly and pats my shoulder. “How can I resist that handsome smile of yours?”

  “I wish everyone thought that,” I semi-joke.

  My mom’s brow furrows, and I don’t like the sudden sympathy in her expression. “So, you’re still not dating then?” she asks, folding her fabric napkins just the way she likes them for the table.

  “No, we’re not dating,” I say easily enough. “I don’t really know what we are.”

  “I see.”

  “You do? Because I sure as hell don’t.”

  “Language, Nicholas.” My mom opens the fridge and pulls out two brand new jars of pickles.

  My salivary glands kick into overdrive. “Are those for me?”

  “Of course they are. Do you think I’m going to eat two jars of Claussen’s on my own?”

  I snort. “I could.”

  “I’m aware,” she grumbles. “They were on sale at the grocery store, so I picked up a couple.” She nods to the cookies. “Put them with the rest of your things. I don’t want you to forget them.”

  “Oh, I won’t. You got the best ones.”

  “So you’ve told me.”

  I scoot my to-go pile to the end of the counter, out of the way, and my mom points to the cupboard. “Pull out plates and glasses for dinner, Nick, and set the table, please.” She holds out her fabric napkins. “Use the nice ones this time.”

  I do as she says, but par
t of me thinks pretending we’re going to have a nice dinner together is stupid. They don’t have to keep up the charade anymore, it just makes me uncomfortable.

  “Did you see the roses your father brought me?”

  I glance at the vase on the buffet and the white roses that fill it.

  “Are you guys working things out or something?” I ask, because it’s weird that he’s still getting her flowers and they’re acting so normal, when everything is anything but.

  Then the doorbells rings and my mom hurries toward the door; my dad jogs back down the stairs.

  “Just in time,” he says and pays the delivery girl. He brings the takeout into the dining room and sets it on the table. Clapping his hands together, he says, “Ravioli, salad, and pesto bread sticks. Dinner is served.”

  “It smells delicious,” my mom coos. “I’m ravenous.” She opens the plastic lids. The smell of rich Italian herbs waft over the table and my stomach rumbles again. “Serve yourselves,” she says and disappears into the kitchen. She returns with an uncorked bottle of rosé, and I feel a pang of sadness, remembering how things were just a few days ago, how they used to be.

  “Would anyone care for a glass?” she asks as she opens the curio cabinet.

  “Please,” my dad says, scooping food onto my mom’s plate for her.

  I glance between them, awed by whatever is going on right now, and shake my head. “No, I’m good, thanks.”

  “Suit yourself, it’s Saturday after all.” She pulls out a glass for her and my dad. “Are you going to work tonight, sweetheart?”

  I smooth my napkin in my lap. “Yeah, at eight.”

  “Well then, I won’t be a bad influence on you, not tonight, at least.” She smiles at me, knowingly. I like to have a glass of wine with her now and again, but only with her. It’s sort of our thing.

  “So, Nicky,” my dad starts, “how is your project going up at the ranch?”

  Shrugging, I take a sip of my water. “It’s going fine.”

  “Just fine?” He stabs his lettuce onto his fork, like it’s just another dinner.

  “Yeah.” I set my fork down on my untouched plate. “So—why did you buy Mom roses?”

  They look at each other, confused. “I always buy your mother flowers before family dinner.”

  “Yeah, but why? You guys aren’t really together and I know that now, so it’s weird.” When they exchange another glance, I can’t take it anymore. “Why am I here, exactly?”

  “You’re here for dinner, of course.” My mom takes a bite of her ravioli.

  “Are we really going to sit here and pretend like we’re a happy family—asking me about my projects . . . Dad’s dishing up your food for you, like that’s normal.”

  “It is normal, Nicholas,” my mom says.

  “Yeah, but, aren’t we going to address the elephant in the room, because it’s creeping me out that we’re pretending I didn’t see Dad groping some woman in his office.”

  “Nick, that’s enough,” my dad says, and the grasp I had on my emotions when I walked in loosens, it’s almost overwhelming.

  “You two have been lying to me for, what, three years or something? You want to just brush it all under the rug and that’s supposed to be okay?”

  “We’re not brushing anything under the rug, Nick.” My dad’s voice is stern and demanding, but it doesn’t faze me. He lost that power over me when he started screwing his coworker.

  “What do you want to talk about, Nicholas?” my mom asks. “What do you want to know?”

  “I want to know why you are both still acting like you’re married when you haven’t been for a long time. What happens now? Dad, are you moving out—really moving out?”

  “We haven’t decided what we’re going to do next,” he explains, but it’s not a satisfactory answer.

  “Are you sorry about what you did?” I ask.

  “Yes, of course I’m sorry about what happened. I never wanted to hurt your mother, or you.”

  “Nick,” my mom says, “we just wanted a nice dinner with you. We wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  “Well, I’m not okay,” I tell her honestly. I see the hurt fill her eyes, but I’m not sure why she’s surprised. “How did you really think this was going to go?” I shake my head and sit back in my chair. “I feel like I’m in The Twilight Zone.”

  My dad folds his hands and rests them on the table. His expression is unmoved, and it feels like I’m talking to a wall.

  “Do you have anything else to say?” I ask him.

  He clears his throat and glances at my mom. “I don’t expect this to be easy for you, Nick, and I understand why you’re angry, but your mother has forgiven me—”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” she says into her wine glass.

  “Look,” he says, impatient. “Nick, I wish you knew how sorry I was. I didn’t want this to happen. It just did. I can’t undo it, no matter how much I want to.”

  My mom fingers the edge of her napkin.

  My dad rubs the side of his face.

  I stare between them, and the three of us sit wordless for what feels like eons as the grandfather clock ticks back and forth, measuring the silence.

  “You know what I wish?” I ask him. “I wish you could see yourself the way I’ve seen you my whole life. I wish you knew how shitty it feels to know the man you’ve aspired to be is really a selfish asshole who blew off his son and broke his wife’s heart. I wish you knew what it felt like for me to walk in on you with another woman. Or that you acted like it was nothing more than some awkward misunderstanding. You cheated on your family—you lied.”

  “Yes, I know I cheated!” he finally says with some emotion. “I know I screwed up and I’m sorry. I truly am, but I can’t undo it, Nick. I know you wish we could rewind and go back, but we can’t. This is just how it is now, even if it’s uncomfortable for you.”

  I blink at him, processing.

  “And she’s more than just another woman,” he says more quietly. “I care about Carrie, even if that’s difficult for you to hear.”

  I glance at my mom. She’s staring into her wine glass like she wishes she could crawl inside and lose herself to a sea of oblivion. I don’t care what she says, she’s not completely over what he’s done to her. Maybe my dad’s not either and this is how they’re handling it—pretending or wishing things were different.

  “Fine. You guys do whatever you want. It’s your lives and if you want me to accept it, I won’t bring it up again, even though this feels beyond wrong.” I try to formulate my final words, but all I can think about is anger. I glance at my dad. “But, let’s be really clear about something. If you still want a relationship with me, I’m not going to make it easy for you, like Mom has.” I stare into his eyes and tell him as fervently as I can. “You don’t get to just show up and pretend. I’m not a kid anymore. If you want my respect, you actually have to earn it this time.”

  His eyes shift over my face and he looks away.

  “Remember that the next time you blow me off or drum up some lie about why you can only act like my father when it’s convenient for you.”

  My mom’s eyes are wet with tears when I look at her again, but as much as it hurts to see her upset, I’m upset too. “Sorry, but I’m not really hungry anymore.” I stand up from the table as my phone vibrates in my pocket. When I pull it out, I expect to find Brady’s name on the screen, but it’s Savannah’s. “Enjoy your dinner,” I say and head for the door. “See you next week.”

  I accept the call, thankful for a distraction. “Hey, Red.”

  Thirty-Eight

  Bethany

  I glance at my phone. The hour-long drive to the beach has been quiet. Nick and I don’t say much, but then, I didn’t sleep last night, and Nick is in a strange mood today. I try not to let the fact that I’ll be spending the day with the entire crew get to me, but it’s daunting, no matter how I look at it.

  “Your destination, my lady,” Nick says as he pulls into the parki
ng lot. I see Reilly’s big red truck and Mac’s Jeep and know they’ve likely been here for a while. Nick isn’t an early riser, I’ve determined, which, given his job, is understandable.

  “Do me a favor, would you?”

  I blink at him.

  “Shut your phone off. I don’t want anything ruining your day. This is supposed to be fun.”

  I roll my eyes but do as he asks, because he’s right. Today is supposed to be fun.

  We unpack our things from the Explorer, and steadying myself for what will probably be a trying but hopefully fun day, I hang my beach bag over my shoulder and grab the other end of Nick’s ice chest.

  I blow an errant strand of hair from my face as we lug it through the parking lot and over the grassy dune, to the path leading down to the beach. “What did you put in here, exactly? Bricks?”

  “No, ice,” Nick says with a smirk.

  “You’re so funny.”

  “And our sandwiches and snacks . . . and some waters and a few beers. And a jar of pickles, of course—the usual.”

  “You can’t forget the pickles.”

  “Nope. Never.”

  My steps are uneven in the sand, but it’s warm and soft as it falls around my sandals and between my toes. The air is fresh and intermittently cool against the heated rays of the sun.

  Mac brushes the sand from the back of her legs as she stands up and heads for their ice chest next to the barbecue pit, her dark hair piled messily atop her head. I watch the rest of the gang milling around on the beach, oblivious to us as we make our way toward them. This is the first time I’ve been more than just an outlier, looking in.

  Back in high school, hordes of us would come down here for volleyball games and bonfires. I brought Mike out here one day after meeting him at a dinner party with my family. His dad was a bigwig friend of my dad’s, and I’d offered to show Mike around since he was new in town. We flirted and laughed, and the way he looked at me, like I was some precious, intriguing creature worth knowing, had me eating out of the palm of his hand.