My phone chimes with a new text message. I work my way around the “keep” section and to the “donate” pile, where my phone sits on top of an old camping cooler. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see that it’s a text from Julie and not Chavez, as I feared. He called twice last night, his messages simply requesting that I let him know I got home safely. I didn’t respond until this morning, and when I did it was via text, with only three words: “I’m fine. Thanks.”
If he had any doubt I was a bitch after the way I treated him last night, now he knows for sure.
I tap the screen to bring up Julie’s message:
Moms good. I’m not she rebemmbrs mixed of what halfback.
Translation: Mom is good. I’m not sure she remembers much of what happened.
Grateful tears prick my eyes. Much like Chavez, I felt the need to check up on someone last night too. I wanted to call Mom directly but, given the late hour, decided it would be better to reach out to Julie instead. I sent the message just before midnight, and though I could tell it had been delivered to her phone, I had no way of knowing if she’d actually read it, and if she had, if she would answer it—
You’re just as guilty of using people to get what you want as I am.
Snippets of last night’s confrontation with Dan start cycling through my thoughts again, this time his horrific accusations about my relationship with Julie.
I don’t use her.
I don’t enable her dependence on me, do I?
No!
I shake my head, pained by the thought.
I help her.
I don’t use her.
That’s not what our relationship is about.
I love my sister.
I take care of my sister.
That was just Dan spouting off—that’s not how she feels.
It can’t be.
Can it?
Shit.
Heart twisting, I pull up her number and press the “Call” button. She answers on the first ring.
“Hey.”
“Hi,” I say, my greeting weighed down with as much trepidation as hers. “So . . . Mom’s okay?”
“Yeah.” She pauses for a long, uncomfortable beat, then says, “She was pretty wound up after you left, but then The Love Boat came on and she got distracted.”
“That’s good.”
“Tony Danza was the guest star, so she was happy.”
I smile sadly. “She loves him.”
“Yeah.”
Silence smothers our already-awkward conversation. I scrub an anxious palm across my brow, uncertain how to proceed. We’ve never had a fight like that before—
“I’m sorry, Janie.”
Her apology catches me by surprise. “What?”
“I’m sorry—”
“No, Julie. You don’t have anything to apologize for. I’m the one who lost my temper and stormed out—”
“Not just for last night—for everything.” The resolve in her voice suggests I wasn’t the only one up thinking last night. “You were right. I’m way too dependent on you. I need to start taking care of myself more.”
I’ve been waiting years—a lifetime!—for her to come to this conclusion, but now that she’s actually saying it, and I can hear the disappointment dragging down her words, it doesn’t feel as rewarding as I imagined it would.
I drop my head and sigh. “I’m sorry too. If I’ve ever made you feel like you can’t take care of yourself, or made you think that you weren’t capable enough to be more independent—”
“What? No. You never do that.”
“Well, if you ever do feel like that, please know that I’m sorry. That was never my intention. All I ever want to do is help you, even if sometimes it doesn’t seem like that.”
I hear her swallow hard before she responds. “I know.”
Fighting my own emotions, I clear my throat and say, “Any chance you’re available to come over tomorrow and help me do some cleaning? I’m clearing out the bonus room above the garage. Dan’s moving out here.”
“Really?”
The sudden lift in her voice makes me smile.
“Yeah. I actually made a few decisions last night—”
The sound of a car pulling into the driveway steals my attention. I scurry over to the window and look down to see Avery climbing out of Michelle Clark’s SUV. The sleepover is officially over. Time to face real life.
“Hey, Jules, I’m sorry, but I need to go. Avery just got home, and Dan’s going to fill her in on all his . . . stuff.”
She makes a whimpering sound. “That poor kid. Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow. Tell Avery I love her.”
“I will.”
“I love you too, you know?”
I smile broadly, my chest swelling beneath her endearing words and the sight of my sweet, naive little girl hopping out of the car and running toward the house.
Dear god, please let her be okay . . .
“I know,” I say. “I love you too.”
A solid forty minutes pass—all spent pacing, praying, and gnawing on my fingernails—before Avery finally emerges from the house. I try to assess her mood as she crosses the driveway and heads toward the garage, but her hair is hanging loose from its usual braid, shielding her face from my sight.
Nervousness nips at my spine as I hear her climbing up the wooden stairs, her little footfalls pounding against my heart with every step she hits.
I’m sorry, sweetie.
I’m so sorry we’re putting you through this.
Hoping to appear stoic and stable in the midst of her chaos, I pull my hair back into a ponytail and blot at my cheeks and eyes with a paper towel.
The door swings open and she steps inside.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, honey.”
I study her face, expecting to see her blue eyes bloodshot and clouded with tears, but they’re not. They’re as crystal clear as they always are. And there’s not a hint of color on her cheeks either. She doesn’t appear to have been crying at all.
Maybe he didn’t tell her . . .
I take a tentative step toward her. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” she says, surveying her surroundings with interest. “What is all this?”
“Oh, it’s, um . . . just a bunch of random stuff,” I say, confused by her demeanor. He must not have told her. Asshole. “These are all really old medical dictionaries,” I say, motioning to the stack of boxes beside me, “and there’s some camping equipment over there, and some old dishes and pots and pans, and there’s a big container of all your old baby clothes back there—”
“My old baby clothes?” She glances toward the corner where I’m pointing. “You kept those?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “They’re fun to look at sometimes—to see how much you’ve grown.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re so weird.”
She wanders through the stacks and piles, dragging her fingers along their dusty lids, still no evidence that she’s just had a difficult, life-changing conversation with her father.
Thanks a lot, Dan.
Now I have to explain what I’m doing up here.
“So, how was the sleepover?” I ask.
“Fine. We didn’t really do anything—just watched movies and played on our phones. So, Dad’s really going to move up here, huh?”
I blink hard, startled by her frankness.
“Um . . . yeah. He is. I guess he told you the plan, huh?”
Still eyeing the room, she nods.
I take a tentative step toward her and say, “How do you feel about that?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know.”
Not exactly the heart-wrenched response I was bracing for, but it’s probably the truth. I imagine it will take some time for her to figure out how she feels about all this. Dan and me too.
“Did he tell you anything else?”
She must tune into the apprehension in my voice because her lip pulls up into
a strange little smirk before she turns to me and says, “You mean about him being gay?”
My eyes spring wide, another blunt question catching me by surprise. I nod.
“Yeah. He told me.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
She shrugs again, her gaze slowly wandering away from me down to the floor. “I don’t know. There are some kids at school whose parents are gay. Parker’s got two moms; they seem pretty cool whenever they volunteer, so I guess it’ll be okay.”
Despite her optimistic response, there’s a heaviness weighing down her words. A kind of bulky sadness that suggests she’s doubting everything she’s ever known about her father: whether any of the lifetime of memories they’ve made together have any meaning at all, or if they were just another facet of his lie. At least, that’s how it felt when I first heard that same tone in my voice.
Blinking back a tear, I close the distance between us, gently pressing my palm against the back of her head.
“It will take some time to get used to,” I offer, stroking her golden hair. “But it will all be okay. The most important thing is you know that it doesn’t change the way he feels about you. He still loves you and thinks that you’re the best thing in the whole world.”
“I know,” she mutters. “He told me that like a thousand times.”
She inhales a deep breath while easing closer. I wrap my arms tight around her petite frame and hold her against my chest, savoring the warmth of her skin beneath my fingers: so soft and delicate, just like when she was a baby.
“I sort of feel like I don’t know him,” she says quietly.
My heart twists at the sadness in her voice, and despite my disdain for the man in question, I suddenly feel compelled to sing his praises.
“I know, honey,” I say, nuzzling my nose against her hair. “But I promise he’s still going to be the same old Dad he’s always been. He’ll still be the guy who likes to help you with your science projects, and who sings along with every contestant on The Voice, even when he doesn’t know the words—”
She laughs a little.
“He’ll still make that annoying humming sound while he brushes his teeth, and even though it looks stupid, he’ll always eat his pizza with a fork—”
“He’s such a freak,” she chuckles.
My throat starts to ache as I nod in agreement. “Yeah, he is,” I say, eighteen years’ worth of memories weighing down my voice. “And he’ll still be the guy who wants to watch the Bulls with you while you eat banana splits.”
She glances up at me. “So maybe it won’t be so different after all . . .”
My heart wrenches at the naive hopefulness in her eyes: the same hopefulness I once saw in my own reflection. I offer up my most encouraging smile, then lean down and kiss her forehead. “Yeah,” I say. “Maybe it won’t be so different.”
CHAPTER 21
I ditch my Monday meeting in the city—grateful that Dr. Daniel A. Osborne, MD, was generous enough to provide me an excuse note nearly identical to Burty’s (considering Bates never even glanced at Burty’s note and knows me only as Holliday, there’s no way it will be an issue)—and instead spend the morning clearing out the bonus room with Julie and the afternoon interviewing potential contractors.
Contrary to Dan’s insistence that no one would be available to take on our job for at least a few months, I land a guy who’s willing to start our little renovation immediately and has assured me the space will be move-in ready by next week. Of course, he’s charging me double his normal rate to make it happen—triple time over the weekend—but money’s not a concern when my sanity is on the line. Despite the front we’re putting on for Avery, the tension between Dan and me is on the rise. Now that we’ve finally aired our true feelings, neither of us can stand the sight of the other. The sooner he moves out, the better for everyone.
Iris calls later that night, concerned because I wasn’t in class. It’s no surprise that the gory details of my weekend don’t rattle her. She’s supportive and encouraging through them all, even when it comes to telling her about the things I did to Chavez. Which, along with the regretful incident at the salvage yard and my abandonment of him on the highway, now also includes ignoring the text message he sent yesterday afternoon in response to the curt one I left him yesterday morning:
I’m fine. Thanks.
That’s all you’re going to give me? I was worried, Jane.
We need to talk about this.
“Well, that explains why he was hanging out in the lobby before and after class today,” Iris says over a heavy sigh.
My heart sinks to the floor. “He was?”
“Yep. And you could tell he was on the lookout too. He was just standing in the corner with his arms folded in front of him, staring at the door. You know he’s going to be waiting for you again on Friday, and you have to go on Friday, Jane; it’s the last class. Bates will fail you if you miss more than one.”
“I know,” I say over a pained breath. “But what am I supposed to say to him? How can I possibly rationalize what I did?”
“Just tell him the truth. Tell him that your life is a shit show and you have to get your own head on straight before you can even think about getting involved with someone.”
Just tell him the truth.
It sounds so easy when Iris says it. And considering how much lying I’ve been forced to do over the last few months, you’d think I’d jump at the opportunity to be honest for once. Unfortunately, though, this is one instance when I’m pretty sure that telling another lie would be a whole lot easier than coming clean.
“My life’s a shit show. I can’t get involved with someone right now. It wouldn’t be fair. My life’s a shit show . . .”
For the last four days, I’ve been reciting the explanation that Iris so bluntly, and astutely, provided like a mantra, hoping it will boost my confidence when I undoubtedly face Chavez this morning. Up until this moment, it’s been doing a decent job of settling my nerves, but now, as I pull into the police station parking lot, it’s not doing me a damn bit of good. My palms are slick with sweat—sliding all over the steering wheel—and my stomach is wrenching like I swallowed a jackhammer.
I don’t want to do this.
I don’t know how to explain this!
Dread building, I climb out of the car and head for the station.
The day fits my mood. Dark, heavy clouds hang low in the sky, making it feel more like dusk than morning, and the air is so crisp there’s almost an edge to it, like little barbs are riding the wind, nipping at my nose and cheeks.
I nestle down deeper into the folds of my wool coat. The weatherman said our first snowfall of the season would likely roll out later this weekend, but I’m thinking more like this afternoon—it’s freezing!
Unfortunately, my homeless friend still isn’t back on his corner. It’s been a full week since I’ve seen him. Hopefully that means he’s safe and warm in one of the area’s many shelters, though I must admit I’m more than a little disappointed he’s not here. Of all the days I could benefit from one of his toothless smiles or funny signs, it’s today.
I make my way across the street and up to the building. My heart thunders hard as I lay my purse, phone, and keys down on the conveyor belt and walk through the metal detector, eyes nervously searching the lobby for Chavez. He’s not in the back corner by the elevators, where he usually is, and he’s not leaning up against the information desk either.
Maybe he didn’t come.
Maybe he realized the only truth he needed to know was that I’m a bitch.
A cold, unfeeling bitch—
“You’re all set, ma’am.” The officer at the security line motions for me to pick up my things at the end of the belt.
I grab my stuff and quickly head for the stairs. I manage to get a foot on the first step when I see Chavez emerging through a door behind the information desk, my toothless friend following close behind. Startled, I stop dead in my tracks.
H
e brought him into the police station?
Is he okay?
“It’s Reggie’s birthday,” Chavez, clearly unaware of me, says to the female officer behind the desk. “I told him we’d get him a change of clothes from the lost and found. Maybe hook him up with something to eat?”
“Absolutely,” the officer says.
“All right, Reggie. You have yourself a great birthday, okay?” Chavez says, giving the man a gentle pat on the shoulder. “And I don’t want to see you outside anymore. It’s too cold. You need to head down to the shelter on Riverford.”
“Yeah, okay. I will. Thankth, Detective,” Reggie agrees over a gummy grin before his dark eyes shift my way and he says, “Oh, hello, pretty lady.”
My breath catches as all three of them turn to look at me, Chavez’s expression instantly transitioning from festive to something much less happy.
Shit.
My brain begs me to kick it into high gear and disappear up the stairs, but my heart knows better. I need to have this conversation, no matter how desperately I don’t want to.
“Jane, can we talk for a minute, please?” Chavez says as he circles around the side of the desk to the foot of the stairs.
His tone is as rigid as his demeanor, forcing my breath to get cinched up in my lungs. I hike my bag a little higher on my shoulder. “Yes, of course.”
My life’s a shit show.
I can’t get involved with anyone right now.
Not until I know it’s for the right reasons.
Nerves rattling, I mentally recite my mantra as I follow him around the stairwell and to a small alcove that sits in the far corner of the lobby.
He settles in beside a tall potted plant, his back to the lobby, and in a restrained voice says, “What the hell happened to you?”
Though almost verbatim to the question Dan greeted me with the other night, Chavez’s tone isn’t angry; he sounds . . . concerned.
See Jane Snap Page 26