“I never thought you would,” she said, her face peaceful yet serious.
Leaning down, I placed kisses down her stomach. Veering over, I kissed her hipbone and down her leg, my fingers following behind the path of my mouth. When I reached her pelvis, I settled onto the bed, wrapped my arms around her thighs, and lowered my lips. As my tongue seared an upward path to her clit, she writhed against the rumpled sheets. Smiling, I repeated the process as I watched her reaction up the length of her body.
I left Dylan to hang out with his friends. I wasn’t in the partying mood, and I needed to go home to figure out what my daddy had said to his. Hearing that he’d actually contacted Dylan’s father in hopes that it would deter me from seeing him ticked me off. I expected my parents to freak out upon hearing about my new boyfriend, but a phone call, really? Dylan is twenty-one, and I’d be nineteen in two months; we were more than capable of making our own decisions.
When I pulled up to our house, I was surprised to find at least six cars in the drive. Was my dad having a party while my mama was in the hospital? On my drive home I’d been thinking about the last time I’d seen my father and our fight. Yesterday when I’d come home, he hadn’t been here. Now that I saw all of the company, my earlier anger at him came back.
Walking through the maze of cars, I inspected each one and noticed Mrs. Davies’s white Jaguar. She had no doubt told my father what had happened at the hospital today. As I climbed the porch steps, a smile came to my face as I thought about my night with Dylan. He was so much more than I originally thought. “I love you,” his voice penetrated through my head, and I smiled wider. He was the only bright spot in my otherwise gray world. When I spent those few days last summer with him, I never expected this to happen. I was just a silly schoolgirl with a crush and taking advantage of the opportunity to spend time with him. Gosh, that felt like eons ago.
I sucked in a deep breath and pushed the front door open. All of the lights in the downstairs were on. Chatting and clinking of glasses sounded from the parlor. My jaw instantly tightened as I took in the gathering. A picture of my mother, bruised and sleeping, flashed through my head. What was there to celebrate about? Rounding the corner, I glared at each and every person taking up space in my home. My father stood beside the window in deep conversation with Mr. Wheaton, while the others talked amongst themselves. Reverend Evans stood beside Mrs. Davies, his hand on her shoulder as she wiped the corners of her eyes. Was he consoling her? Seeing the act pissed me off more than finding my house full of my parents pretend friends. None of them cared what had happened to my mama, not really. Their condolences and sad faces were all for show. It was what was expected of them, and they wouldn’t miss the chance to stick their noses in our business.
Ignoring the charade, I headed down the hall to the kitchen. However, when I reached the door, the hushed whispers of two women stopped me.
“Did you know she was an alcoholic?” one woman asked, her tone insinuating just how vile she thought that idea was. I fisted my hands at my side as angry tears sprung to my eyes. I held them back as best as I could.
“Well, I had an idea,” the second woman whispered back. “She always seemed a little out of it during our meetings.”
One of the women clucked their tongue, and I could almost imagine their judgmental faces as they discussed my mother.
“Maybe that’s why Brooke is rebelling by seeing that Crawford boy. Poor thing.”
“It can’t be easy learning her perfect mother was an alcoholic.”
I’d had enough. I stepped into the kitchen and caught the eye of Mrs. Maguire. Her brown eyes widened in surprise, and Mrs. Anderson turned to see the cause of her shock. My gaze cut to Mrs. Anderson.
“How dare you two look down your surgically-altered noses at my mother,” I snapped. “She’s fighting for her life, and all you folks know how to do is talk behind her back. If anyone should be embarrassed, it should be you two.”
The two women looked at each other, their manicured eyebrows arching in question. Then their faces softened and their eyes returned to me, full of pity.
“Brooke,” my father said behind me.
I spun around and noticed how his mouth turned down in a frown, the tiredness in his eyes, and the missing anger from them. The gathering at my house made sense now. My stomach dropped, and I felt my head shaking back and forth, though the motion felt alien to me. The tears I’d been struggling to hold back sprung free and trickled down my cheeks. I heard footsteps scurrying away from the kitchen, and I knew it was just my father and I left in the room.
“No,” I whispered, still shaking my head. My daddy stepped forward, and I took a step back. “No,” I said louder, refusing to believe what I knew he was about to say.
“Brooke, let’s go talk in my office. He placed a hand on my shoulder and directed me down the hall. Silence had settled over the house as if every breath was held. My gut twisted. Tears flowed freely now. My hands shook. An unbearable sense of loss emptied me to a hollow, cold shell. I knew before my dad uttered a word that she was gone. I felt it as though a piece of me had been ripped out and taken with her. That emptiness, that unyielding darkness consuming me from the inside out, confirmed that my mama had lost the fight.
“When?”
“I got the call a couple hours ago.”
I’d been staring at the floor and snapped my head up. “A couple hours ago? Why didn’t you call me? Was arranging a prayer circle more important than telling your daughter that her mother had died?” I’d been angry with my father before, to the point of wishing I could run away and never see him again. In that moment, I was beyond that. I hated him.
My daddy, whose normal response was a bad temper, fell to the leather sofa and hung his head. I glared at him, waiting for a response. The longer I watched him, the more I noticed his shoulders trembled.
“Daddy?” I sat down beside him and placed my hand on his back.
“I tried calling,” he said, lifting his head to reveal red eyes. Tears caused them to look like glass.
Guilt penetrated through my anger. I remembered my phone ringing while I was having sex with Dylan. I’d been sleeping with a boy when my mother passed away. I should have stayed at the hospital until they kicked me out. I should have been with my father, should have known his heartless demeanor was just a protective tactic. I knew then that all of the anger I directed at him was really just for myself. One of the most devastating things had happened to our family, and I hadn’t been there.
Sobbing, I wrapped my arms around my dad and cried against his shoulder. He turned toward me, opening up his arms to hold me. Tears fell like rain as everything sank in. She really was gone. I hadn’t been there. Half of the town knew before I did.
Two soft knocks sounded at the door. I sat up just when Reverend Evans stepped through the door. He wore gray slacks and a sky blue polo with the church’s logo embroidered on the chest. His mud-colored hair parted on the side, and he held a bible in his hand. His presence should have been my first clue that something was very wrong. Walking over, he turned one of the chairs sitting in front of my daddy’s desk to face us and sat. Cornflower blue eyes turned soft as he looked at us. He’d been our pastor since I was ten, always gentle and sweet to his congregation. While I’d been away at school I hadn’t gone to church, and as I stared into his kind eyes, another sense of guilt filled me.
“I would like to pray with you,” Pastor Evans said, opening his bible. “Would that be okay?”
My father and I both nodded, bowing our heads as the pastor began his prayer. With my eyes squeezed shut, I tried to connect with my mama. I pictured her in happier times when she smiled and her eyes brightened. I visualized her golden hair, fair complexion, and soft voice. A time from my childhood filled my head. It was Easter, and we’d just gotten home from church. I wore a baby pink dress, my hair held up with a matching ribbon. Since we owned fifteen acres, my mother always held Easter egg hunts every spring. As I raced from egg to egg, I ca
ught sight of my mother watching me, a warm smile on her face. Rushing over to boast about how many eggs I’d gotten, she snatched me up and hugged me to her chest. I remember thinking that, with the sun in her hair and the light in her eyes, she looked like an angel.
“Amen.” Pastor Evans’s voice broke through the memory.
“Amen,” my daddy and I said in unison.
“If you need to talk, you know my door is always open.”
I nodded and watched my father rise to his feet and clasp Pastor Evans’s hand. While they talked, I retreated to my memories.
* * * *
After everyone left, I climbed the stairs and took a hot shower. My tears mixed with the water, masking my pain. The image of my mama’s bruised and sleeping body kept filling my head, the way her skin felt clammy and how her normally shiny hair was dull and limp. I cried more than I thought possible. Cried until all that was left was choking sobs and that all-consuming hollowness.
I walked to my bedroom in a zombie-like state and crawled into my bed. Hugging my pillow, I shut my eyes and shuddered at the absolute loss my mama’s death had caused. Even the house felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for her return. The one hundred year old beams holding the house together didn’t feel so strong now. I never realized our home had a certain type of warmth until the person responsible for it was gone. Like me, this house was now just a shell of its former self.
The past two days had been hell incarnate. Somehow, I got through all the condolences, sad smiles, and words of hope. Earlier today, I’d watched complete strangers lower my mother’s coffin into the earth, and I felt a piece of myself being buried with her. As everyone gathered around to put her to rest, I felt disconnected from the scene around me, like a spirit watching from a different plane. People cried, hugged, and talked while I stood frozen in front of a grave. Thick, gray clouds had shadowed the day. The December wind whipped through the cemetery, but its chill didn’t compare to the one already taking up space inside of me.
Over the past couple days I’d thought about all the times I’d complained about my mama, all the things I thought I knew about her. As I stared at the shiny mahogany coffin, I knew all those complaints had been that of a frustrated teenager. I didn’t know the first thing about my mama, her thoughts or feelings. Knowing she had been so drunk that she crashed into a tree spoke of all the things I would never understand about her. I racked my brain for a reason behind her careless behavior. What kind of hell had she been going through when she got behind the wheel? What made her spiral so out of control? All of the answers to my questions were buried with her today.
Dylan called yesterday, having heard the news. I told him I needed to spend this time at home with my father. He hadn’t put up a fight or tried talking me into opening up to him. Instead, he told me to take all the time I needed, and he’d be there when I was ready. The guilt over being with him when my mama passed still ate me up. I couldn’t use the excuse that I hadn’t heard my daddy’s phone call. I had, and I’d ignored it to be with Dylan. I knew it wasn’t Dylan’s fault, but I couldn’t help but think I would have been at the hospital if I weren’t with him. If I had let him go last summer, moved on, then maybe I wouldn’t have this unyielding guilt eating away at me. I should have been beside my mother’s hospital bed, talking to her, pleading that she fight for the life that was quickly fading from her. She shouldn’t have passed all alone in a hospital room.
“I’ll be back in a little bit,” I told my father as I wrapped a scarf around my neck. I’d spent the last half an hour finding room for all the food the townspeople brought for the reception. Some still lingered, talking about their memories of my mama. I needed room to breathe and think. My daddy excused himself from Mr. Davies and made his way to me where I stood in the entryway.
“You’re not going to see that boy, are you?” he asked in a hushed tone. Though he made it seem like a question, I’d heard it as a statement. He didn’t want me seeing Dylan.
“No, I just need some time alone. It’s hard to think with a house full of people.”
He studied my face for a few long seconds. “Okay, don’t be gone too long.”
As he turned, I said, “Daddy?” Looking over his shoulder, he stopped and waited. My eyes roamed around to make sure no one was paying attention to our conversation.
Moving toward him, I asked, “Why did you call his father? Why do hate his family so much?”
“Now is not the time.” And with that, he headed back into the parlor. I stared at his back, confused and angry. His response confirmed that he was hiding something from me, something that affected my relationship with Dylan. I hadn’t seen emotion on his face since that night in his office. His steely walls and mask of bravery were back in place.
Heading out of the house, I got in my car and went to the only place I could think of. As I drove through town, I passed Dylan and Jase’s garage. Dylan’s truck was in the parking lot, tempting me to pull over and seek comfort in his arms. Instead, I kept driving until I reached my destination.
The graveyard felt more disheartening in the cover of darkness. As I walked down the path that led to my mama’s new resting place, I caught sight of a shadow up ahead. Stopping, I squinted to try to make out who it was. The man-shaped shadow knelt down and reached his hand out to rest on the mound of earth above my mama. Though it was dark, I could tell that the man had his head hung as though overcome with sadness. Taking a step closer, I cringed when a branch snapped under my foot. But it appeared the man hadn’t heard the noise. I watched as he stood up and lingered by the grave, finally walking away. As he moved down the path, I moved forward. I didn’t recognize him, couldn’t make out his features to even form a picture of what he looked like.
Once I reached my mama’s grave, I knelt down and inspected the space. I didn’t have a clue what I was looking for, but my gut told me he had left something behind. Bouquets of flowers formed a blanket across the heap of dirt. It was so dark that even if the man had left something, I probably wouldn’t be able to see it, but as I shifted the flowers, one particular bouquet felt different than the others. Feeling around, I fingered a scrap of paper wound around the stems. In the process, I cut my finger on one of the thorns and hissed in pain. I brought my wounded finger to my mouth while I dug in my purse for my phone. When the screen of my cell lit up, I held it out to the flowers and gasped. I fell onto my knees and stared at the black and white sonogram photograph wrapped around a bouquet of red roses. Snapping my head up, I tried to see where the man had gone. The glow of taillights penetrated through the darkness as a truck headed out of the cemetery.
Bringing my focus back to the picture, a shiver racked my entire body. I’d dreamt of this picture, seen it clutched in my mama’s hand as she crashed into the tree. It was too eerie to be a coincidence.
It’d been almost four days since I had seen Brooke. It was a good thing I got her number the other night otherwise I wouldn’t have talked to her either. All of our conversations had been my doing. I told her we’d see each other when she was ready, but as the days dragged by I wondered just how long that would be. I texted that I’d be having lunch at the diner today in hopes she would meet me. She never texted back. I was starting to get worried. My thoughts tortured me into believing her daddy had talked her into walking away from me. If that were the case, she would have told me, right? I knew I was overthinking it, worrying over nothing. I knew the pain she was dealing with and how it could take a toll on your mind.
“What are you thinking about?”
I blinked, coming out of my thoughts. Dana sat across the table, her blue eyes scrutinizing me. She’d been talking about some college bar with live music, and my mind turned to Brooke and that night she confessed to writing and playing music. Last night I’d almost driven over to her house, but I knew her daddy wouldn’t like me showing up again.
“Nothing,” I said, picking up a menu. It was pointless though because I ordered the same cheeseburger every time I cam
e to the diner.
“So you and Brooke are a couple now?”
I nodded slowly. “Yep.”
“Does Ruby know that because she’s been watching you like she’s trying to get your attention ever since we came in.”
My eyes slid across the restaurant and sure enough, Ruby’s eyes were on me. I reminded myself that she deserved an explanation.
“Yeah, she knows, but I should probably talk to her.” Ignoring my sister’s skeptical look, I got up from the booth and made my way across the diner. Ruby stood behind the long counter, refilling napkins.
Hey, Ruby,” I said, taking a seat in one of the worn barstools. An older man with a balding head sat next to me, his focus zeroed in on the pie in front of him.
“You dump her already?”
I shook my head, already uncomfortable with this entire idea. “No, we’re still dating. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Ruby stopped what she was doing and stared at me. “Dylan Crawford cares about someone other than himself?” The sarcastic shock in her voice didn’t go unnoticed.
“I’ve always cared about you, Ruby.” It wasn’t a lie—I had—but it wasn’t the same as the way I cared for Brooke.
“Just not enough to settle down with me.” She shook her head, her full lips thinning. “I don’t understand you, Dylan. Brooke Kingsley? You have more in common with that fella sitting next to you.”
My eyes slid across to the man next to me. He looked up from his pie and smiled, revealing a missing front tooth.
“But when I mentioned settling down,” Ruby continued, “you said that wasn’t your ‘thing.’ You could sleep with me but not commit, isn’t that what you said?”
Turning Home (A Small Town Novel) Page 20