I'll Be Yours

by Jenny B. Jones

  Things were not right in my world.

  But they were pretty darn close.

  Even if Ridley never spoke to me again, breaking up with Andrew had been the right thing to do.

  Michael and Cole were playing basketball in the drive when I pulled in. I wiped my eyes, blew my nose, and put on some gloss. A tearstained face might say I’m a disaster, but with the addition of lipstick, it at least said I’m a disaster who still believes in hygiene.

  Lipstick said all was not lost. And I had to believe that was my new theme.

  “Mom’s been calling you for hours.” Cole sank the ball in the bucket. “You’re in major trouble.”

  “You’re holding up lunch,” Michael said.

  “Okay.” I just kept walking.

  Michael caught a bounce pass and shot. “Dad lost the Mississippi gig.”

  At that I stopped, walked back to them, not bothering to hide my face.

  Michael rebounded his own ball. “Geez, Harper. Are you all right?”

  I sniffed. “Tech pulled their offer?”

  “Yep,” Michael said. “The job offer somehow got leaked to the press. Their coach wasn’t even fired yet, so it’s a pretty big deal. It’s basically a PR disaster for them, and they’re out.”

  “That’s awful,” I said, uncertain what it all meant for us.

  “I guess we’re not moving right away,” said Cole. “That’s a perk.”

  Michael threw him a pass. “Did you hear Ridley’s playing next week?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Charges against him were dropped. Coach called him at home. He plays next Friday.”

  The first night of state. At least something had worked out.

  Cole threw the ball and hit the rim. “You better get in there and tell Mom and Dad you’re alive.”

  I walked away from their game of one on one, only to get halfway to the front door and stop. I took a moment to look at my two brothers. Really take them in, see them as my siblings, my family. They annoyed me to no end. They read my diary, ate my share of the snacks in the pantry, and expelled way too much gas. But they were mine.

  “I love you guys,” I called.

  Michael paused on a shot. “Huh?”

  “I said I love you.”

  The boys exchanged looks. And I just laughed.

  Inside I found Mom and Dad in the office.

  “Harper, where have you been?” Mom’s cheek was dusted with flour, and gravy spotted her blouse.

  “The university. With some pit stops.”

  “Of course.” She rolled her gaze heavenward. “I’m sure at least one of those involved a dog.”

  I looked at my dad right in the eyes, something I had barely been able to do in weeks. “I’ve come a long way.”

  “I know you have,” he said hesitantly, uncertain where this was heading. “You’re a far cry from that broken girl we picked up seven years ago.”

  “I mean in the last few days. Between breaking up with my first boyfriend and kissing Ridley—”

  Dad frowned. “Run that last one by me again—”

  “To finally telling Becky Dallas how I felt and how wrong she was, to being reminded what a good man you are by a football player who doesn’t know you buy his cleats every quarter.”

  “Marcus?” Dad ran a hand down my shoulder. “Harper, what exactly are you talking about?”

  “You spoke to Becky?” Mom asked. “I’ll be calling that counselor on Monday.”

  I would have to explain all of that later. After pie. “I think I believed that if Becky Dallas didn’t want me, then surely no one else truly would either.”

  Dad’s face softened. “That couldn’t be further from the truth.”

  “But all these years it’s like I’ve walked around with the word rejected stamped on my forehead. I guess this was my way of proving to myself I really was enough.”

  Dad dropped to his knee before me. “That’s not what it says. It says loved. Wanted. Adored.” He held my hand, and his warmth permeated through my skin, my bones. My heart.

  “I hate the abuse Becky put you through,” Mom said. “And if I could erase it, I would. But it brought our daughter home, where she belonged. Before you met us, you were looking for your mother’s acceptance. But, Harper, we were looking for you.”

  “I’m so different from you guys though.”

  “No, you’re not.” The corners of Dad’s mouth lifted as he looked at Mom. “You’re so much like your mother. You’re smart and beautiful like her. You have her love for the arts and her sassiness. You’re both bookworms and travelers. And you can kick my butt at Scrabble.”

  Mom smiled at her husband. “Sometimes you and your dad are so alike, it’s scary. You’ve been this inseparable two-person team. You both have this laugh that just turns my head. Makes me laugh, even if I have no idea what the joke is. You have your father’s sensitivity, his heart for people. You’re both helpers, fixers. People are drawn to you because you have an innate gift of making them feel special. You have your dad’s way of encouraging.” She dabbed at her nose and laughed. “And neither one of you can make a piece of toast without burning it.” Mom ran her hand over my hair. “And you’re courageous.”

  “No. I’m not.” Though I hoped I was getting there. “I’m afraid of everything.”

  “Not every girl could survive what you’ve been through,” Dad said.

  Mom squeezed my hand. “And come out the incredible girl you are.”

  “I see bravery in you every day,” Dad said. “You were the girl who fought invisible demons, ones we couldn’t slay for you.”

  “I worry they’ll never completely disappear.”

  Dad’s blue eyes steadied on mine. “We all have them, Harper.”

  “Maybe I didn’t get a lot of Becky’s characteristics, but what I did get from her is fear. This need to stay in my bubble of security. And it’s robbed me of so much. You guys, I want to skydive.”

  Dad frowned. “Let’s not get crazy.”

  “I want to sing karaoke.”

  “That’s more like it.”

  “Last year I wanted to run for student council, but I didn’t. Because who would vote for me? But what if I had ran? I had good ideas. I want to dance and not care who’s watching. Tell the jerk behind me in econ that I know he’s copying my answers. I don’t want to be the girl who plays it so cautiously, who sits and watches the world from the safety of her bedroom window. Girls my age are—they’re on a different yard line than me. I’m always on the fifty.”

  “Is that so bad?” Dad asked.

  “Yes.”

  “But, you’re too young for”—Mom searched for a word—“touchdowns.”

  “Should it have taken me this long to like my first boy? I’m sixteen!”

  Dad patted my hand. “I kind of like this problem.”

  “Other girls just know what to do. They flirt, they date, they—”

  “There’s no rush,” Mom said. “You just take your time. The right guy’s going to understand that.”

  “And you give me the names of any guys who don’t.”

  “The wrong boy will bore you or annoy you,” Mom said. “But the right one? He’ll make you laugh, make you feel special.”

  Dad watched his wife. “And even sometimes make you cry.”

  “It’s like I have all this catching up to do, and it scares me. Six years later and Becky is still controlling my life, making me live in fear.”

  “It’s time to unlock that door and come outside,” Mom said. “You’ve got a whole world waiting for you. And it will be scary. You’ve heard your father sing karaoke.” Eyes wide, she shook her head. “Sometimes it will be scary for all of us.”

  “But for some things you’ve just got to push through the fear,” Dad said. “You don’t want to miss out on anything in this life.”

  “Unless it’s your dad’s version of ‘Paradise City.’”

  The three of us laughed, and it felt like old times. Before the affair
, before I resurrected the ghosts of my past. Before I screwed up everything with Ridley.

  “And what about me?” Dad’s tone turned serious. “Do you have a little courage left to believe in me again?”

  “I never thought you’d be a risk, Dad.” This healing was a process, and it was going to take some time. “You hurt me, and it brought me to a place I didn’t want to be.”

  “I’m sorry, Harper. You can’t know how sorry I am.”

  Time would tell if what he said was more than just pretty words. But for now, he was my dad. The man who had slayed dragons for me, who had been my champion. I hated what he’d done. But I couldn’t let it destroy me. And I couldn’t let it undo all the good that I knew he was.

  “Maybe we could go to the Mainstreet Grill for breakfast Saturday?” I smiled at the man whom I’d missed so much. “Get a double order of hash browns?”

  “Hold the bacon,” Dad said.

  He pulled me to him in a hug, and soon Mom joined in.

  “So no more Andrew?” she asked when we finally stepped apart.

  “We broke up,” I said. “I think I liked him more before I got to know him. Before I realized there wasn’t much of a spark.”

  “You fell for the ideal,” Mom said. “But it’s not like in the movies, you know. You don’t kiss someone and fireworks explode.”

  “Except at your Aunt Myrtie’s Fourth of July picnic our junior year,” Dad said. “Remember that, Cristy? I was meeting the family for the first time, and your mom’s miniskirt caught on fire. Burned it in very indecent places.”

  The two of them shared a laugh, a look. And I wished on moonbeams, falling stars, and every penny I’d ever tossed in the downtown fountain there was hope for them yet.

  “I just mean it’s normal not to feel that Hollywood version of romance with the boy you like,” Mom said.

  “And maybe you’re not ready,” Dad said. “But the right guy shouldn’t make you avoid his calls and reroute in the halls so you don’t have to see him.”

  “If Andrew doesn’t make your heart sing,” Mom said, “he’s not the right one.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Is there one who does?”

  Dad groaned. “I do not want to know.”

  “There is one.” Ridley’s laughing eyes danced in my mind. I saw his arms around his sisters. His arms around me as he taught me to dance. To kiss. “But he’s . . . a risk.”

  Mom sighed. “Sometimes those are the best kind.”

  My parents loved me. That was really all I needed to know right now. And maybe Becky had totally screwed me up. But little by little, day by day, I could turn that around. I was an O’Malley. And we were champions.

  “I’m sorry the Mississippi job didn’t work out,” I said.

  Dad patted my back. “You can support the family on your shelter paycheck.”

  “What’s going to happen?” I asked.

  “We don’t know.” Dad rested one arm on my shoulder. “Right now we have faith, each other, and one very big Thanksgiving dinner. Can you handle that?”

  I looked at my mom and my dad, a fractured couple, but 100 percent parents who adored me. I was theirs, and thank God, they were mine. “I think I’m ready to try.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “How did the big breakup with Andrew go?” Molly followed me to my car after school Monday. Today she wore a neon pink sweater, an electric blue skirt, and tights that looked like she’d skinned a zebra. She was a sharp contrast to the gray skies above us, a source of her own light. I had filled her in on quite a bit of the last few weeks, leaving out only a few details.

  “He took it well.” I swung my backpack to the passenger side. “I gave him back his necklace and told him the truth.”

  “Which was?”

  “That I didn’t feel for him like I should.” I pulled a hat from my purse and settled it over my flyaway hair. “He’s a really great guy if you’re interested.”

  “Girlfriend code—never date someone your friend once liked.”

  “I’m about to break that.”

  Her frosty pink lips smiled. “Ridley.”

  “He probably won’t have anything to do with me. I’ve texted him a few times. But so far . . . nothing.”

  She leaned against my car and crossed her arms. “I guess I can quit Photoshopping his face into our wedding pictures.” Molly didn’t seem too disappointed. She kept a ready list of crushes, and I knew she would just move on to whatever guy was lucky number two.

  “He’s pretty mad at me,” I said. “And besides, I’m not even his type.”

  Molly waved at a boy from band. “That’s what makes it fun.” She pushed off from the car, her side ponytail flapping like a wind sock. “Don’t chicken out on this, Harper. If Ridley is what you want, then go after him.”

  “What if he just wants to be left alone?”

  “You keep trying until you know for sure that being left alone is what he wants.”

  “And how will I know that?”

  “For me, it’s usually when they throw out the words restraining order.”

  Our laugh was a balm to a hard day, and I pushed away the thoughts of the eventual time when I’d have to pack up and leave my best friend behind.

  “You can do this,” she said. “If he’s worth it, you risk the hurt. You just have to ask yourself if Ridley Estes is really what you want.”

  Last night I had even gone to Blue Mountain Lodge, then his house. Nobody would let me see him. “He won’t talk to me. Won’t take my calls. He’s completely ignoring me.”

  “Then”—Molly rubbed her hands together and arched her brow—“we’ll just come up with a way to get his attention.”

  * * *

  “You have a delivery to make.” Mavis smacked her nicotine gum and handed me a monogrammed cell phone. “Take this to Angela Smith.”

  After leaving Molly to her plotting, I reported for duty at the rescue. “The lady who wanted Trudy?”

  “Yep.”

  She tossed a slobbery ball to Larry, a three-year-old lab who was still waiting for his forever home. “Why did she come by?”

  “Wanted to discuss why we rejected her adoption. Again. Asked that we consider her for a different dog. Remind me again why you put Mrs. Smith’s file in the no way pile?”

  “I told you, her house was too perfect. She was too put together.”

  “Uh-huh. So you’re looking for something else for one of our strays?” Mavis had the voice of a chain-smoking man. “A crack house perhaps? Maybe the home of a drug cartel?”

  “You trust me,” I said. “You know my gut for the animals is never wrong.”

  She slid on her pair of red rhinestone bifocals, watching me over the rims. “And how’s your gut with people?”

  “At the moment, a little irritable bowel syndrome–ish. But I know these dogs. Didn’t I deliver Henrietta Tucker’s schnauzer to you last night, as promised?” Yes, it was duplicitous, but Mrs. Tucker was on her way to a posh senior living center in Atlanta, five minutes from her son, and her beloved Mr. Wiggle Bottoms was enjoying homemade dinners from the kitchen of the nearest convent. He had ten nuns spoiling him, and so far, hadn’t whined once. Both animal and owner were safer, and I had my fiancé partially to thank for that.

  “Good work, Agent O’Malley,” Mavis said. “But let’s move on to the next thing before I choke on all my appreciation. Mrs. Smith visited with me for a bit today, and I’d like you to deliver her phone.”

  “She could just come and get it.”

  “She could.” Mavis reached for a file on her counter and flipped through it, done with the conversation. “But you’ll deliver it to her.”

  “Fine.” I snatched up my keys, not even bothering to turn down the volume on my dramatic huff. “I do have stuff to do here. This is a total waste of time.”

  Mavis winked one wrinkled eyelid. “We’ll just see about that.”

  * * *

  I rang the doorbell three times, praying for a
plague of hives to cover Mavis for sticking me with this job. Why couldn’t we have just called Mrs. Smith’s house and had her pick up her own phone?

  My finger reached for one more courtesy ring when the door inched open.

  And I took a gigantic step back.

  “Yes?” Mrs. Smith smoothed back her hair, no longer in a French twist, but now wrestled into a mess of a ponytail—with lumps, bumps, and, if I wasn’t mistaken, a glob of cookie dough. She had exchanged the prim and proper sweater set for a pair of gray sweats with a ripped knee, and a stained T-shirt that declared she was a proud Stanford mom. On her feet were socks, one solid pink, the other adorned with frogs. But it was the eyes that got me. Red-rimmed, swollen. It looked like the remains of yesterday’s mascara had attempted an escape, but had died in Gothic streaks beneath her lower lids.

  “I’m Harper. I’m from—”

  “I remember you quite well.” Gone was the singsong bird chirping voice.

  “You left your phone at the rescue yesterday. Mavis wanted you to have it.” I held it out, and Mrs. Smith watched it sit in my hand a moment before finally taking it.

  “He never calls anyway.” She sniffed and ran her knuckles beneath her red, runny nose. “It’s not like I needed it.”

  Sometimes you see those land mines and walk around them, saving yourself from all the mess. Other times you know they’re there, but step on them anyway, taking one for the team. If Mrs. Smith had been a schnauzer, I would’ve said she reeked of loneliness and despair. Something I hadn’t caught at all on that first visit. And obviously the woman needed a listening ear. “Who doesn’t call, ma’am?”

  “My son. Went away to college and hasn’t looked back. Never mind.” She blew her nose on a ratty Kleenex. “I know I’m a fright. Thank you for returning the phone.”