I’d had enough of pretending everything was fine.
My “Evil Twin” had planted her feet, just as Jenise had five years earlier.
"I'm going up to shower." After freshening up I spent some time deciding what to wear. I put on a sweatshirt and the sweats Ryan gave me at Sammy’s. He needed to see the way I liked to dress—sweats, loose T-shirts, and sneakers.
Underneath it all I wore my pajamas. I had to be prepared, in control, and ready to anticipate Ryan's next move. He'd need to decide whether or not he could be with someone who wouldn't wear the low cut, tight clothes he was used to when he dated.
After I wrote in my journal, I went downstairs.
As soon as I entered the hallway I smelled something delicious. When I entered the kitchen, Mom had just taken a dish from the oven and set it on top of a potholder on the table.
I was saddened she hadn’t asked me to sit and eat with her.
The older my sister and I got, the less we were at home. It was only natural; life unfolded that way. The strange thing about it was that as unemotional as Mom could be, she seemed to struggle having no one to make dinner for any longer.
“Want some company, Mom?”
It was about eight thirty. I was counting down the minutes, hoping Ryan would show up, but knew the possibility was remote. All that happened at Sammy's could still be an extension of the joke I thought might still be in motion.
He exposed his heart for you. Told you about Samuel Junior and showed you his tears. Stop doubting him.
“Sure.” She looked relieved. “Are you hungry? It’s just macaroni and cheese and some applesauce, but . . .”
"I'd love some. Is Dad here?”
“He went upstairs a few hours ago." Her voice was monotone.
As Mom plated our food, I wondered if she winced deep inside when she so casually said he’d gone upstairs. Had it happened so many times by now that she was unmoved?
"Looks delicious." I rubbed my hands together ready to dig in.
“I wish you'd have made plans with Ryan during the day instead of so late at night.”
“I couldn't. He's leaving tomorrow and his game isn't over until ten. Well, hopefully it doesn't go extra innings, but somewhere around ten. We're out of time to be choosey. Mom, I’m going to spend the night with him. We're having a pajama party! He's bringing popcorn and movie—isn't that romantic?”
“Oh?"
"Yeah! He's such a fun boy."
"Wait. You're going to a twenty-six-year-old man's apartment? Are you being careful? I mean with sex?”
Oh yuck, here we go. I wasn't even talking about sex and here we are. I hate this.
“We haven’t had sex. It’s too early in our relationship.”
“You think so?” Her voice was thick with tones of doubt.
“You didn’t care I was at Jerry’s all night. What’s the difference?”
“Well, for one thing, Jerry’s parents were there.” She scooped a big dollop of applesauce on her plate. “The biggest concern I have is that Ryan is a man and used to getting what he wants from women. Jerry’s just a boy. He doesn’t have anywhere near the charm and experience of your Mr. Tilton.”
“But it’s not like that, Mom. I know it doesn’t make sense how he could be, but in so many ways, Ryan is just as innocent.”
Plus, I'm not sure Jerry is as innocent as I thought.
“Well,” she snorted. “Regardless of how you see him, he’s a grown man with physical needs. Try not to let him overwhelm you. Who wouldn’t be wide-eyed for a professional athlete? Even your sister and I were enchanted the other night.”
I know you were! He hypnotizes everyone.
“I think the way I’ve handled myself over the years speaks volumes,” I reminded her.
As my mother continued to ask me about sex, I couldn't help but think how odd it was she was so at ease with this normally awkward conversation, but never thought to ask how I felt about our family secrets.
Why didn’t she want to know about my fears when my dad took Jenise and me to bars and then drove us home drunk?
* * * * *
Many a night, my sister and I sat in our father’s sky-blue, Chevy step-side pickup truck alone, outside of The Sundowner Club. The bar was located across the street from one of Municipality’s car barns where my father worked.
Jenise and I entertained ourselves while waiting in his truck. The patrons—mostly men—walked by and glared. I knew from the ways alcohol affected Dad, some that came out drunk were slowed in thought and their vision was blurred.
I wondered if they made it home.
Did they have children who waited in their car, too?
Other men—the ones that caused Jenise and I to double-check the door locks of the truck—seemed aware. A few stopped, pausing, leering, perhaps thinking about going back in and reporting us to the bartender or calling Mom.
We knew better than to run in the bar if we were uncomfortable or needed help. We had done it before and Dad shouted at us with a firm, "Stay out," and a good push on the back emphasized his point. He wasn’t concerned another possibility of darkness might come into the lives of his little girls. He felt safe surrounded by co-workers and friends—and his addiction.
Dad did come out every hour . . . or two. When he did, he brought candy, nuts, and sodas to keep us happy. Even at so young an age, we understood their meaning. Maybe it was the only comfort our father could give us as he searched for a way to soothe his own body with the liquid candy he needed.
The gesture of bringing treats to us was not an act of kindness. Dad wasn’t concerned about his daughters on nights like those. It was nothing more than an attempt to shut us up so he could continue to drink—a bribe to keep us “happy,” an exchange for our silence, making sure we promised we wouldn’t tell Mom.
My dad lost his soul when he drank.
When he finally stumbled out of the bar and into the truck, I sat in the middle and Jenise rode by the window.
As he drove, my sister and I held hands.
The truck weaved, crossed the centerline, and crawled slowly on the road home. In some ways, we were all injured animals in my family: crawling, desperate, confused, and trying to get to safety. It was sheer luck or divine intervention that we weren’t hurt or killed—or he didn’t kill someone else.
That sad scene played out over and over again for my sister and me, until John, the bartender, and a good friend of my dad’s, died in front of him one night.
I overheard Dad say that John had gotten a warning by his doctor, advising him that the years of drinking had made his body raw inside. A warning hadn't been enough. John's esophagus ruptured and he vomited blood all over the bar counter.
What did the lesson teach my father?
Just like the gun held to his head at work, it became an excuse for another drink.
Although my dad got worse, at least John’s death caused the end of Jenise and me being driven back and forth to the bar.
Strangely, his friend’s death may have saved our lives.
Perhaps we received a twisted gift.
A new fear settled inside me, although I hadn't realized it until I was older: Because our own father put our lives in danger so many times, I believed no one could really love me.
Why would anyone else treat me differently?
Why would anyone care about me if my own father didn’t love his own daughters enough to keep us safe?
* * * * *
As I put another fork full of macaroni and cheese in my mouth, new feelings surfaced for Mom. Now that I was older, maybe I was beginning to understand her a little differently. Perhaps I could look beyond my own suffering and see the hurt she felt, too. I'd always blamed her as much as I had my father for what happened in our house.
That night, while she wasn’t looking, I studied her.
Didn’t she need to be stoic?
Wasn’t she in a kind of shock?
By moving purposefully and routinely in her live, wasn
't this how she kept herself sane?
Although I embraced gaining my independence, a part of me still wanted to be my mother’s little girl.
When we finished eating she went into the living room to read. I cleaned the kitchen and washed the few dishes we used.
“Mom, do you want to leave a plate in the oven for Jenise?” I yelled.
“No, she’s staying at Sean’s.” Then I heard her say in a much quieter voice, “Nobody stays home anymore.”
I went up to my room to grab my face wash, journal, and a change of clothes. I tucked them into my backpack. Pulling Ryan’s jacket from the hanger, I went downstairs to sit next to Mom. I lay his jacket on top of my bag.
“I might as well wait here with you. He might not come at all. I still . . ." I shook my head.
"What?"
"Can't believe he likes me. If he doesn’t show, how about I give you a pedicure? You must have some gnarly calluses that need sanding down.” I teased her, because when I was little I used to cut and file her nails, massage her hands and feet, pumice her heels, rub them with lotion, and rub her neck and arms.
“It’s too late tonight, but actually, I hope he doesn’t show. You need to rest more.” Mom put her hand on mine. It was a rare display of affection from her.
“I don’t know his dating habits yet,” I remarked. I don’t even know my own dating habits.
“I don’t think there’s any hesitation with that boy,” Mom said. “When he talked to us the day you sang the anthem, we could see he was proud of you and happy to be your friend. It was like you were together already.”
Ooh, that’s a yummy reveal.
“We’ll see. I promise I’ll try and rest a little more.” I didn’t mean a word of it. I only wanted to relax her and steer the conversation away from Ryan and me.
My mother said goodnight and went up to bed around 10:30.
It was almost eleven when I saw the lights from Ryan’s car pull into the driveway.
Chapter 33
Two Nights, Two Boys: Night 2
I grabbed my backpack and Ryan’s jacket, turned out the lights, and opened the front door. When I saw him get out of the car, I took a couple of deep breaths.
Look at him. Oh damn, my throat is already tight. Just watching him walk toward me takes my breath.
“Hey, Ryan, how’d you do tonight?”
“We won,” he announced proudly. “I pitched the ninth and shut ‘em down. You didn’t watch?”
“No. Mom and I got into a deep conversation and we talked right through it. We usually do watch the game together when the Goliaths play, but she was in the mood to talk, so . . .”
“Did you talk about me?” He raised an eyebrow.
You know we did.
“My parents are asleep and I’ve got my stuff, so let’s go.”
“Actually, I thought I’d spend the night here. I brought my toothbrush, see?” He pulled it out of his pocket to show me.
Ooh you’re too cute.
“I don’t have a game tomorrow since it’s a travel day. I just need to get up early enough to go home and pack. You’ll be a good girl and make sure this good boy wakes up on time, won’t you? Unless . . . you want to go on the road with me. In that case, we could leave from my apartment. Yeah, come to think of it, grab your stuff and come stay over.”
“Uh-huh. Sure, Ryan.”
He put his hands on both of my cheeks and kissed my lips. “Delicious.”
Not as delicious as you are.
“We have a sleeper sofa in the living room. It’s really comfortable. I've tried it, so I know. I can get some blankets when you’re ready to sleep. Or if you want, I can get a sleeping bag and we can open the sofa and then watch the movie downstairs. Did you come straight from the stadium?”
I was off and running, talking as if I were a string of firecrackers that had just started to spark, one igniting the next.
The only thing to stop me?
A luscious arm around my shoulder and a kiss on the cheek—once those came, I melted.
“Thoughts of you have been running through my mind all day.” He tapped my nose with his fingertip. “Of course, I came straight here.” Feeling this man’s kiss and hearing his masculine voice caused places inside my body to stir. I wanted to give them a tickle—badly.
“Do you want something to eat or drink?” I asked as we walked back inside.
“I ate in the clubhouse. They have food ready for us after the game because we’re growing boys,” he smiled. “But I’ll fix us the hot chocolate and popcorn I promised.” He tossed me a DVD. “You didn’t tell me what kind of movie you like, so I took a chance based on what I know about you. Hope you like my choice.”
You brought a movie to the ballpark with you? Oh, you’re a sweet, sweet boy.
“Get into your PJ’s and I’ll be up in a minute. I can’t wait to see you in them.” He paused a few seconds. “Nicky?”
“Yeah?” I stopped halfway up the stairs.
“Don’t bother making up the sofa. I won’t need it.”
“I thought we were going to spend the night together, but okay.” Damn it, I was looking forward to spending the night with you.
He laughed his sexy laugh. “Uh-huh, we are.”
“Ryan, I um . . . where uh . . .” His comments stacked up fast. I knew he wanted to make me weak, and he wasn’t missing any opportunity to do it. Embarrassed and desperate to change the subject, I looked at the DVD and saw he’d brought Love Affair. The 1939 original, later remade as An Affair to Remember, was one of my favorites. “Oh, I love this movie! Charles Boyer and Irene Dunne are so perfect together! I can't believe you brought the original.”
“Are you a sucker for love like me?” I felt his voice was like a snake, slithering and winding sideways, analyzing and watching me, ready to strike at the right time.
“Oh yeah! I love romance novels, movies, and TV shows. Look!” He laughed as I suddenly reached under my sweat pants and showed him the waistband of my pajamas. “I put on another layer of clothes so I’ll be protected if you try to get sly.”
“Get sly?” He cracked up.
“Yeah, this way if we were going to your place, I could just hop on your sofa and start watching the movie. Then I could take off my sweats when we went to sleep and I’d pop ‘em on again in the morning. I am a woman who is prepared.”
“Whatever you do, don’t leave anything to chance." His eyes sizzled. "What's wrong with a little dare?”
“No. I don't do that. Absolutely not.”
"One thing’s for sure,” he said casually as if floating on water.
“What’s that?” Did I just hear a warning in his voice?
“If we were at my place . . .” He lifted his head slightly and looked at me from the corner of his eye. “We’d be watching the movie in my bed, not on the sofa.”
What happened to sitting next to each other?
“The mugs are in that glass cabinet by the refrigerator, and the cocoa is in the pantry.” I began to race. “The spoons are in the top drawer, to the right of the stove. I think we have milk. Do you need milk or do you just have the powder? I'm not saying it matters. Whichever you have is fine. The pots are—"
“I, uh,” he interrupted. “I see . . ." his eyes took me in from head to toe. "I see everything I need. You know, I make hot chocolate the old-fashioned way. You ever made it that way?"
"Nope."
"I'm an old-fashioned boy."
I’m going to have a heart attack.
“That's good. I like old-fashioned boys.”
“Yeah, I know how to make it . . . and I'll make it so you’ll like it,” he shot me a suggestive look.
Oh . . . does he mean . . . oh, damn!
“Remember,” I swallowed. “Old fashioned boys don’t make unwelcome advances.”
“Well then, it’s a good thing you’ve welcomed me, isn’t it?” His grin was confident and alluring. I couldn't turn away.
“My room is the first door on the r
ight.” I'll stop this conversation right here. Chicken. I know, Evil Twin but I'm barely holding on.
My legs were gone but somehow I made it up the stairs. I put in the movie and left the remote control on the oversize chair at the end of my bed where I assumed we’d sit and cuddle. I slung my backpack on my desk and folded his jacket on top of it, brushed my teeth, and while checking my hair, I heard Ryan coming down the hallway.
Quickly, I turned out the light and stood near my sofa.
What do I do, just stand here? I feel like I'm posing. How should I react? Oh there he is. Can he even fit through my doorway?
“The remote is on the love seat at the end of my bed.” I pointed. "We can put the popcorn in between us so it won’t spill. Just put the hot chocolate on the table. Do you need help with anything?”
His low, sexy laugh bounced off my body.
"I'm in control of this." He put the popcorn down.
I know! I'm trying to have some say so!
The size of my bedroom was larger than average, especially for an older home. I was lucky to have the space along with my own bathroom. I'd decorated it in silver and pink striped wallpaper, pink and white towels, and hung old-fashioned photos on the walls. Against the cream colored walls of my bedroom was a Birchwood cadenza. My TV was on top of it. My full-sized bed was covered with a white down-style comforter. Stuffed animal toys were scattered over it and on each side there was an oak nightstand with a lamp on top.
The beige love seat at the end of my bed was accented with lavender and pink lacy pillows, and in front of it, an oak hope chest also served as a coffee table. Inside were old journals, stories I'd written, trinkets I’d collected from family vacations, high school yearbooks, my sewing projects, and other memories and gifts.
“What’s this?" He nodded to my hope chest.
"It's my coffee table." Suddenly I was embarrassed and didn't want to reveal what it really was.
"Yeah, but it looks like . . . is it some kind of chest?" He flipped the latch. "You store things in there?”
“Yeah.” I felt silly and suddenly girlish. “It’s a hope chest.”
Shadow Heart (Broken Bottle Series Book 1) Page 21