Mistakes of My Past

by Emily James

  “I… I thought you were an intruder.” Feeling foolish, I put the knife on the counter and turn to fill the kettle from the sink. An involuntary sigh passes through my lips as I turn my thoughts to Dad and his pain. Dad must have told him I’d been travelling. Perhaps he was worried I'd be embarrassed if his friends knew I was in Hope, which, to be fair I was. Though to this guy, Dad's goodwill just made me seem a total bitch.

  “Look, I can’t give you the key because I’ll need to have access to this place while I run the construction. The drainage needs redirecting and that’ll affect this place. But I can call ahead so you can go out, or whatever.” He shuffles in his seat and adds, “It wasn’t my intention to frighten you.”

  I take this in for a moment, my back to him as the kettle boils. I take out two mugs as a peace offering and try to rationalise. He lives next door and my father must trust him to give him a key. I'm being paranoid. But, my paranoid self reminds me that everyone trusted Tommy. People are not always good judges of character. I've learned that the hard way.

  I put the second mug back in the cupboard and crouch to pick up the knives before Dad returns. As I stand back up I see him helping himself to a mug from the cupboard.

  “You won’t be staying long enough to enjoy a cup of tea.” I tell him, annoyed with his familiarity. “I can see that Dad gets the paperwork and you can get yourself home.”

  I smile sweetly at him, annoyed that he doesn’t seem to get that he is just not wanted here.

  “Actually, I’m more of a coffee man, myself.” He smiles back, mirroring my fake sweetness and sternly adds, “I’m waiting for Patrick.” He sits back at the counter, folds his arms and grins. He knows that he’s annoying me and he’s enjoying it.

  Exasperated, I switch off the kettle. I’m not making him coffee.

  “I’ll tell Dad you stopped by,” I say eyeing the door.

  * * *

  The front door swings open, making me jump and marking my Dad’s return.

  “Ah, I see you’ve met young Will.” Dad smiles and puts the pizza box on the island. “Amber, would you mind making coffee? I’m cold as ice.”

  My lips tightly widen to smile and I nod, and restart the process of making drinks.

  “You’ll stay for a coffee and a bite to eat, Will?” Dad asks.

  “Why sure, Patrick, that’s mighty kind of you. That’s if Amber doesn’t mind making one extra?”

  Even though my back is to Will, I can see his smug face, all chiselled jaw and pretty eyes. Eyes I want to jab my fingernail in.

  Taking two extra mugs out of the cupboard, and tipping instant coffee into them, I focus on my tea, making it just right while Dad and Will chat.

  “I got the blueprints back from Candace and I wanted to check you’re happy with the design layout before work starts. If this snow ever lets up, we’ll have you in the big house before spring.”

  “Amber,” Dad says excitedly as I put the coffees in front of them, “Will’s been arranging the build, his vision has been incredible.”

  “That’s great, Dad. Well done, Will,” I say wearily, Dad’s praise of Will annoying me.

  Dad gets paper plates out of the cupboard, and we hunch over the island to look at the latest version of the plans. Dad lifts the lid off the pizza and its delicious scent makes my hollow belly call out.

  Will’s hand touches mine as we grab the same slice. We both recoil as if burnt by static. He gestures with his other hand for me to eat it and I childishly screw up my nose—I don’t want it now.

  Dad seems oblivious to the tension as he chats about work. “I had a call while I was out. The Chicago office has had staffing issues. I’m going to be needed there sooner than expected.”

  Dad throws me an apologetic glance. “Will's going to be managing the construction, but it might just free up some of his time if you could sign for the deliveries? I’d love you to be involved and it might give you… something positive to focus on, if it’s not too much?” Dad looks at us both as if for permission, delicately questioning whether my mental health can sustain this small level of pressure. I pull at the long sleeve of my T-shirt, making sure my scar is hidden.

  “I can manage on my own, Patrick. I’ve got plenty of good people who can take deliveries if Amber will be put out.”

  I sling Will a death stare. The way he says, 'put out' irritates me, as though I’m too stuck up to get my hands dirty and help.

  “Of course, I’ll do it, Dad. I’d love to.” I smile sweetly. Will can think what he likes.

  “Right, that’s settled.” Dad smiles proudly. “I’ll be heading out early in the morning, but if either of you need anything you call me okay?”

  Will tells Patrick he’ll handle things and not to worry, and I reiterate that I’ll be fine to ease Dad’s worry.

  “One other thing,” Dad says. “I’ve arranged a driver to take me to the airport in the morning so I won’t need the car. I’ve asked Will to take you out, show you around and maybe give you a driving lesson. It’s different to driving in the UK and it’d make me worry less if you had a little help… acclimatizing.”

  I glare at Will. Neither of us wishes to spend any more time in each other’s company than is absolutely necessary, but if I refuse, I'll cause my dad to worry, something I'd caused quite enough of lately.

  “That’s so kind of you, Will. Thank you.” I smile sweetly for Dad’s benefit.

  “You’re most welcome, Amber,” Will deadpans.

  Chapter 7

  Will

  I leave Patrick’s wondering what the hell happened and also why I acted like such a jerk. Hell, I’d only just met her, having heard Patrick mention her over the years. I’d often wondered why we never saw her, but it’s not something you can straight out ask. The one time I did ask after Amber, he just said she was at a spa, after he’d gone all the way to England to escort her here. That seemed like quite a dick move. I gathered she was a spoiled brat. But, she’d looked so afraid, clutching on to that little knife as if she could protect herself. She didn’t look the sort of girl that flew from one five star resort to the next. Not that Patrick couldn’t afford to give her that, she just appeared to have simpler tastes.

  Sweats and a shirt just didn’t fit the stereotypical diva I’d imagined.

  I jumped the wooden fence separating our properties and considered how I knew she wasn’t that sort of girl—Ashley, my ex—that’s how; now she was high maintenance.

  Nope, I’m done with pampered, self-righteous women. I’m staying well clear of this one just in case.

  “Will, you're home!” Cody rushes me as I open the door, her long red hair swaying in her wake.

  “Hey sport, I thought you were on a sleepover?”

  “I was, but I got bored. I decided to come see you at Patrick’s instead.”

  Cody’s dimples make it difficult to go hard on her. I know better than most, that at seven years old, she can drive quite a bargain.

  “Hell, Cody, what did I tell you? You’ve got to be where you say you’ll be, and you don’t go next door. It’s a building site, no place for a kid, you got me? Does Megan's mom even know where you are?”

  “Yep, I said you'd text her. I had to come back, I want to meet her, and I already got my pumps on.” Cody points down at her feet, which she can barely keep still. “Is she cute? Does she speak the Queen's English? Does she wear a tiara?” Cody gushes without pause. She's starting to gush more and more lately.

  Ever since Patrick came over for the Red’s game, and mentioned that his British daughter was coming to stay, Cody’s been wired. It’s going to take some effort on my part to put her off. The last thing I want is Cody meddling and making a difficult situation worse.

  “She’s selfish and not any sort of role model for you,” I tell her. I'm becoming more and more mindful of how impressionable Cody is. Taking off and leaving her pa when he needed her is not the kind of family values I want installed in my sister, although, the way I gave it to her, she didn’t dese
rve that, her shoulders shrank as if a physical blow, and that small audible sigh—hell I feel such an asshole.

  “Will, were you rude to our new neighbour?” she says, reading my face. Cody’s more on the ball than most adults.

  “Come on, squirt, it’s time you went to bed,” I say, changing the subject.

  “She’s not Ashley, you know. I’ll bet she’s nicer than Ashley and Candace. I bet she’s better than Candace.”

  “Cody, don’t you start with your meddling. I’m not looking to date anyone. I’ve got far too much on my plate for women.”

  “You just haven’t met the right one yet, Will.” She swoons, reminding me of our mom, ever the optimist.

  “Cody Grace, you will not go over there and interfere. Now get yourself up to bed.” I try to tell her sternly, but she’s a good kid and I feel mean taking my bad mood out on her. It’s not her fault I allowed Ashley to screw with me. “Come on, and I’ll read you another chapter of Harry Potter.” Cody squeals and I wish the other women in my life were as easily pleased.

  * * *

  I had a rough night. Between a dog’s howling and the continuous replay of my run in with Amber, sleep was hard to come by. So, I got up and took some energy out on the home gym. After showering and throwing on some old work clothes, I fix Cody some breakfast and watch out the window for the school bus.

  It's still dark out and the lights are off over at Patrick’s place. I wonder if Amber’s had trouble sleeping, especially with the racket from the dog opposite. I haven’t met the guy who moved in last week, but if I see him, I’m going to tell him that he needs to take that dog inside. Poor mutt will freeze to death out there.

  The bus veers ‘round the corner and I yell for Cody to hurry.

  “Keep your hair on, Will,” Cody replies. “I packed my soccer stuff, so don't forget that I’ll be home late, okay? Mrs Stevens is dropping me off.”

  I sometimes thank God that Cody is as switched on and grown up as she is; it certainly helps parenting my sister somewhat easier.

  “Okay sport, I’ll see you around five.”

  Cody pulls on her hat and before she walks out the door she tells me, “You should take these leftover pancakes over to Amber. I doubt Patrick has much to eat and they’ll spoil if they’re not eaten soon.”

  At her request, I give her a well-practiced eye roll. Damned if I’m taking Amber pancakes, I make a show of throwing them in the garbage.

  * * *

  As I take the garbage sack out, I notice Patrick’s car sitting around back of the house and I remember I’d promised Patrick that I’d give his daughter some driving lessons. Of course, back then it was just a favour to Patrick, who’s a pretty good guy. This was before I found out she didn't give a damn about her old man. Sitting in close quarters with Amber for an hour would seem like torture, even though she’s easy on the eye. More than easy on the eye, she's got the most beautiful, expressive brown eyes I've ever seen. Yesterday was so awkward, I found myself mesmerised by those damned eyes and had to keep reminding myself to look away.

  I decide to go see her, to get it out the way. I’ll make the offer of the driving lessons, and if she chooses not to have them, well, that’s up to her. Although, judging by the snow, even getting down the hill of her driveway would be a risk for an inexperienced driver. I’d have to drill the danger into her. Patrick wouldn’t thank me at all if she was involved in a road accident.

  After knocking loudly on the backdoor and getting no answer, I turn around to head home. After yesterday, I figure it’s better not to let myself in with the key. I don’t want to start the day with a paring knife jabbed in my throat. I’m all set to go, when I hear throaty, low sobbing, in between yells of, “No, no.”

  I pull out my key and let myself through the door. Since she’s not in the kitchen, I wander through to the lounge, calling out her name as I go and stopping to listen for the direction of her tortured cries.

  I speed up, taking the stairs to the first floor two by two.

  Patrick’s already gone; his bedroom door's wide open. I open the door to the other bedroom, worried what is happening on the other side.

  Amber’s curled in a tiny ball on her bed. Her hair is splayed across the sheet, as she quietly sobs against her pillow, still fast asleep and apparently having some kind of nightmare.

  I'm uneasy watching her, invading her privacy like this. It makes my heart ache for her and my instinct is to try and stop her pain. She looks tortured and so vulnerable. I struggle between waking her and potentially causing her more fear, or leaving her to sleep knowing that she is in despair. I don’t want her to fear me, like she did yesterday.

  Feeling torn between two equally lousy endings, I turn and walk back downstairs. I lock the back door to the guest house and trudge back across the fence in the snow, all the while wondering what caused such a beautiful girl to suffer such a traumatic nightmare.

  Chapter 8

  Amber

  I wake suddenly, scared and alone. My face is wet from tears, no wonder considering the nightmare I just woke from.

  When Dad left this morning a little after three, I crept downstairs to take two sleeping pills and then went back to bed. The pills usually knock me out so deeply that I don’t dream, but, maybe yesterday’s ordeal disconnected my mind from the abyss of the meds. I decide to bring it up with my shrink when I see him.

  Once I’ve recovered from my nightmare, I go down to the kitchen and think about Tommy’s letter. When I asked, Dad said Tommy had given the letter to him at the hospital, to be passed to me once I was feeling more like my old self. It was the reason I struggled to get to sleep; that, and the incessant barking of a dog nearby. Both had made me twitchy. I remind myself Tommy’s not even in Ohio. He's living in my mother’s house, in England. He went to great lengths to get that house. Now he has it, there’s a reasonable chance he will leave me alone.

  I dread reading my emails, but Roxy keeps telling me to deal with things head on and so that’s what I’m going to do. Roxy and I made some serious agreements at Hope, she would try to be less angry, more like me; and I would be more assertive, ballsy even, like her. So, I decide, I'm going to read the damned emails, just as soon as I've made a brew.

  As I pour the hot water into the mug the phone rings, making me jump, and splash hot water all over my hand. Shit!

  Ring, ring. Ring, ring.

  I rush to answer the phone, in case it’s Dad, but can't find the handset. Dad had it last for a business call. When I finally locate it under some files on the desk in the lounge, the answer machine is just kicking in. The machine is set to loud, and I jolt as I hear a familiar voice,

  “Hi, Amber, it’s, um, Will.”

  He sounds different, not the same cocksure guy I met last night, “I wanted to come over, to check on you, to see that you are settling in okay and talk about those driving lessons. I’m guessing you won’t want to be stuck in the house, so I’ll, um, come over in ten.”

  The message clicks off and I panic to connect the call. I don’t want him coming here, and I don’t need driving lessons. There's a bit of snow—does he think I’m a complete idiot? I dial him back using the recall button, but it goes straight to his voicemail.

  I scramble up the stairs and fly into my bedroom, grabbing the first set of clothes I find—last night’s sweats and T-shirt. I do not want him seeing me in my pyjamas. Sue only packed me too short shorts and a tank top and I’d rather he thought I was wearing yesterday’s clothes, than see me like this. There’s a loud knock on the door downstairs, and then another sharp knock, for good measure.

  “Amber,” I hear Will yell from downstairs. He obviously thinks I’m deaf as well as stupid.

  “Be right down,” I reply, my fingers combing the haystack on my head.

  * * *

  Descending the stairs, I smell food, hot, sweet smelling food and my mouth waters. I ramble as I turn the corner to walk into the kitchen. “I don’t need driving lessons, but if it makes you feel b
etter I can just tell Dad we…” I freeze. He’s laid out food. It looks like he brought pancakes. The kettle clicks off and steam floats in the air.

  “Did I bump my head?” I ask, confused.

  Will slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shrugs awkwardly.

  “These we're going in the bin,” he says, without making eye contact.

  “Gee, thanks, you really shouldn’t have.” I reply more sarcastically than I intended to, but, after a rough night, my patience is threadbare.

  “I mean,” he shakes his head, “That came out wrong. I cooked too many, they’re a peace offering.” Will removes two cups from the cupboard, while I eye him suspiciously. I hold out my hand to stop him. After last night, this is too weird. Why would he make me pancakes? Is he some kind of masochist?

  “I should tell you I don’t… date. I mean, if that’s what this is for?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I feel ridiculous. As if he would want to go out with plain old, crazy me. I nervously wait for his rebuff while he pours the drinks.

  “I don’t date, either. And, if I did, I’d wait until after I was dating the girl before I bothered with breakfast. I’m trying to be… nice,” he replies tersely. I wonder why I keep rubbing him up the wrong way.

  “Good, okay,” I say nodding. It is good. I’m a train wreck, and even though he is what some might describe as gorgeous, I am not in the market for complications, distractions or attractions of any kind.

  “Good,” Will replies gruffly, interrupting my pep talk. He looks a little pissed and I wonder if I offended him, implying that he brought me breakfast to ask me out. I shake my head. He must have drawn the conclusion that I’m completely neurotic by now. “Eat your breakfast.”