by Lili Valente
Just like that, I know who gave Aria my old lease.
“You went through my desk upstairs, didn’t you?” I set my beer calmly on the bar, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me angry.
“Well now, it’s my desk, ain’t it? In my house, after all,” he drawls, smile still wide on his face. “And I figured that little girl had a right to go through your things after what you put her sister through.” His eyes narrow as his smile grows thinner, meaner. “Guess she must have found something, or you wouldn’t be drowning your sorrows, now would you?”
I let my eyes drift over his face, imagining what it would feel like to smash my fist into that smug grin or blacken one of those hateful eyes, to fully unleash, taking vengeance for all the times he dragged me down instead of lifting me up.
But I’m not drunk enough to start throwing punches.
Or maybe I’m already too drunk, buzzed enough that it doesn’t seem worth the effort. Nothing seems worth the effort. I might as well stay right here on this stool for the rest of my life. At least I’d be sure never to see Lark again. She doesn’t come to places like this. She probably doesn’t even know Buddy’s—the cheapest, shit hole bar in Bliss River—even exists.
“So what is it?” Uncle Parker smacks his lips, as if savoring the taste of my failure. “I thought those old poems were pretty embarrassing, but girls like shit like that.”
“The lease,” I say, unable to tear my eyes away from my uncle’s mouth as he smirks and smacks, lapping up his only nephew’s misery the way he licks his fingers after fried chicken. “I signed it before I asked Lark to marry me.”
“Ah.” He nods, grinning so hard his jaw creaks. “Well then, that would do it all right. She must have wanted to shove a pole up your lying ass.”
I nod slowly, triggering low laughter from him. But for the first time since I was a fifteen-year-old kid, my uncle’s obvious enjoyment of my failure doesn’t make me angry. It only makes me…confused.
“Why do you hate me so damned much?” I ask.
“What?” Some of the humor goes out of his eyes, but his smile stays in place.
“Why do you hate me?” I ask again, genuinely curious. “I’m your only relative left in Bliss River, and I was a star when I was a kid.”
He snorts. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do,” I say, refusing to let him off the hook. “Most uncles would have been proud to have their nephew playing first string on the basketball team, and graduating at the top of their class. Why not you?”
His smile curls, becoming something closer to a snarl. “You really think you’re something, don’t you?”
“A lot of people thought I was something. But not you, not Don Parker. Why not? Were you jealous?”
Uncle Parker’s eyebrows lift. “Of you?”
“Of me.” I stare him dead in his cold, flat eyes.
“I ain’t jealous of jack shit. I was you, boy,” he says, his smile returning. “I had a scholarship to play ball, but I gave it up to stay here and keep your mama out of trouble. God knows our mama couldn’t be bothered.” He laughs a bitter laugh. “If it were up to her, we’d have been out on the streets by the time I was seventeen. I worked my ass off after school to get the things me and Tanya needed, while Mama sat on her ass in front of the T.V. I paid for.”
“Did my mom ask you to give up college?” I try not to seem too interested. In all the time I lived with my uncle, he never talked this much about his childhood.
Or my mother.
He scowls. “Of course not. She didn’t have to. A real man doesn’t have to be asked. I gave up my chance at a better life to stay here and protect her, but she managed to get herself pregnant anyway.” He turns to his beer. “I saved up the money to help her get rid of it, but she said she was in love,” he continues with a sneer. “She and Mike Stewart convinced Mama to sign the papers they needed to get married underage. That lasted about six months before your daddy ran off and Tanya moved back in with us, bringing you with her. And then I had two more mouths to feed again and one ass to keep in diapers.”
His hands tighten around his glass as he looks back at me. “I could have been something. I could have played professional ball or been a doctor or whatever I wanted to be. Instead I got you, and your little nose in the air and that look in your eye that made it clear how much better you thought you were than the rest of us. Truth told, I think that’s why your mama ran off. She couldn’t stand to stay here and be looked down on by her own damn kid anymore.”
I blink. That should hurt. All of it. Everything he’d just said.
But it doesn’t. Not a word. I don’t feel hurt or angry, only numb and sad, and surprisingly, a little sorry for him.
“I’m sorry,” I say, taking another long drink of beer.
“What?” His face pinches, all his features bunching closer to the center.
“I’m sorry I fucked up your life,” I repeat. “Wasn’t my intention. Doubt it was my mom’s, either. She was only fifteen.”
He scowls. “I don’t want your apology.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I don’t want shit from you. Never have, never will.”
I lean in closer to my uncle. “Now you’re lying, Parker. You’ve been dying to watch me fail the way you did ever since I was a kid. But guess what? I’m not going to roll over and play dead. Never. No matter what you do to me, no matter how you gloat when I fall short of what I reach for. Never.”
Never, I think again to myself, resolve banishing the whiskey haze.
I’m never going to be like my uncle.
And I don’t belong in this bar.
Parker starts cussing, but I barely hear him. I reach in my wallet and toss a couple of twenties on the bar for the drinks, then step off my stool.
“Thank you,” I say, cutting through the stream of obscenity. “If you hadn’t come in here, I would have spent a lot more time feeling sorry for myself.”
“Go fuck yourself,” he growls.
“You’re going to need a new hobby,” I say, clapping him on the back in the same chummy way he’d greeted me on the way in. “You can’t touch me anymore.”
He has a few more choice words to say to that, but they drift in one ear and out the other, becoming a nonsensical hum that buzzes harmlessly around my head as I walk to the door and push out into the sunshine.
Outside, it’s quiet except for the soft rush of traffic a few streets over and the chatter of birds nesting in the ruins of the train station a hundred yards away.
It’s a beautiful day and I’m alive to walk around in it. No matter how foul I feel, no matter how miserable I am over what happened with Lark, I’m alive when so many aren’t. It seems like a simple thing to be grateful for, but it isn’t simple, not really. There are so many people in the world who waste their aliveness, who hang back when they should reach out, who sit out when they should join in, who hang on when they should let go, and I don’t want to be one of them.
It took years of hard work on myself to feel like I’m living my life right, and I’m not going to give up on that because a dream has died.
Even if it is the brightest dream, the best dream, the one thing I most want in the world.
I’m not going to waste the gift of being alive. I’m going to get up, brush myself off, and move on.
Even if I have to do it with a broken heart.
Chapter 25
Lark
Two months later
There’s nothing more miserable than a blazing Georgia afternoon in late July.
All day it’s been as hot as Satan’s kitchen. The bugs waged war against the appetizers (and nearly won) and the humidity pressed in on the wedding party like a dog’s hot, damp breath.
The bride spent half the reception rushing to the bathroom to spray more hairspray on her up-do in a vain attempt to maintain control of her naturally curly hair, and the guests consumed twice as much water as wine to keep
from passing out on the dance floor.
“Thank goodness that’s over.” Melody dumps a load of empty serving trays in the back of our new Ever After Catering van, the one we bought after booking four mega weddings in August, and two in September.
Business is good. Very good.
I can’t complain, even when grilling T-Bones in hundred-degree heat.
“Why any woman would plan an outdoor reception in July is beyond me,” Aria agrees, collapsing onto the grass by the truck and shrugging out of her tuxedo vest.
We were one server short tonight—Natalie called in sick—so Aria suited up to fill in. She finished the last minute touches on the wedding cake, then spent the rest of the night circling with drink and hors d’oeuvre trays. I offered to take over after the meal was served, but Melody insisted that Aria should stay on duty. She said something about Aria having a sunnier smile or something that I hadn’t paid much attention to.
I have a hard time paying attention to anything these days. It feels like I’m drifting through my life, going through the motions, but not plugging in the way I used to.
I don’t get a rush when I walk into the kitchen to start a job anymore. I don’t get nervous around fussy brides; I don’t even care when the old people complain about the gourmet salad dressing and ask for a bottle of Ranch, instead. The job just doesn’t seem to matter as much as it used to.
Nothing does.
“I’ll tell you what kind of bride,” Melody says in a conspiratorial whisper, glancing over her shoulder, though the bridal party left an hour ago and the last of the guests are drifting out to their cars in the front parking lot. “A bride with a bun in the oven.”
“No,” Aria says, wrinkling her nose. “No way.”
“Yes, way.” Melody plops down on the grass beside her. “I heard her mom talking after she’d had a few too many glasses of champagne. The bride was four months pregnant. They had to move the wedding up from the original date in November so she’d be able to fit into her dress.”
“God, but she was so tiny!” Aria shakes her head. “By the time I was four months, I looked like a snake that had swallowed an egg.”
“You totally did,” Melody agrees, giggling when Aria nudges her in the side with a sharp elbow. “Sorry, but you did. I would never have imagined your stomach could get as big as it was by the end.”
Aria lifts one shoulder. “At least I didn’t get stretch marks.”
“Good genes,” Melody says with a sigh. “I hope I got them too. Not that I would really care. Babies are worth a few stretch marks.”
“My friend, Hannah, calls them battle scars,” Aria says with a smile.
“Is there anything else left inside?” I ask, backing toward the outdoor kitchen at the edge of the botanical gardens.
I don’t want to talk about babies. It’s one of the many topics that remind me of a perfect night that I wish I could forget.
“No, I got everything. Sit and visit for a minute.” Melody pats the grass beside her and Aria.
I glance at my watch. “I really should get home. I’ve got to get up early and shine the silver for the bridal shower tomorrow afternoon.”
“No you don’t,” Aria says. “It’s my turn to prep the serving plates. Mom’s going to watch Felicity so I can take care of it first thing in the morning.”
“Sit,” Melody repeats. “Take a load off. It’s not so bad now that the sun is setting.”
I sigh and fiddle with the van keys. “Honestly, I’d rather head home. We’ve got a forty minute drive, and I don’t feel like—”
“Sit!” Melody and Aria say at the same time, sending a prickle of suspicion across my skin.
“I don’t want to Talk with a capital T,” I warn them.
“We don’t care,” Melody says pleasantly. “Sit your butt down. Now. I’m invoking emergency sister procedures.”
Grudgingly, I sink down to the sweet-smelling grass and sit cross-legged next to my sisters, watching the pink sunset light turn purple and the air begin to flash with sleepy-looking lightning bugs. Slowly, twilight transforms the garden into an even more romantic place than it is during the day.
I close my eyes against the beauty of the scene, only opening them when Melody puts a warm hand on my arm.
“This has gone on long enough,” she says gently. “We’re worried about you.”
“What’s gone on long enough?” I play innocent, though I have a good idea what my sister is talking about.
Melody is talking about the numbness, broken only by periods of intense sadness and bouts of prolonged crying I do my best to do in private, but can’t always, not when I spend up to twelve hours a day working with my sisters. Melody is talking about my inability to care the way I used to, and the way my smile has gone into mid-summer hibernation.
She’s talking about me mourning the loss of Mason.
“You know what I mean,” Melody insists, not letting me off the hook for a second. But then, I didn’t expect her to. “If you miss Mason that much, you should call him.”
“I can’t call him.” I roll my eyes. We’ve had this conversation half a dozen times already. It’s getting ridiculous. “And you know why. So give me a break, okay?”
“Then let us help you find someone to talk to. A counselor or something,” Melody says. “If you’re determined not to give that poor man another chance, at least give yourself one. You can’t live like this.”
“I’m fine.” I want to stand up and storm away, but I don’t have the energy.
That’s been happening a lot lately, too. I just…run out of steam, and can’t seem to get going again. It’s hard to believe I used to be one of those people who could go all day on three hours of sleep and a few cups of coffee.
It’s hard to believe I was ever the happy person in the picture on the side of the van.
“You’re not fine,” Aria says, chiming in. “Trust me, I know what depression looks like, Lark. I was there not so long ago, remember?”
I shrug. “Well, you snapped out of it. I will, too. Just give me some time.”
“No.” The heat in Melody’s tone surprises me. “You don’t get more time. Aria is dealing with an unrepentant asshole who’s too much of a jerk to send money to help support his own daughter, let alone come see his baby girl. You’re bringing this on yourself.”
My eyebrows snap together, anger stirring inside of me for the first time in weeks. “I am not bringing this on myself. You know what happened.”
I’m careful not to look at Aria. I went through a period where I blamed her for the misery cloud dumping rain all over my life, but I eventually came to realize that wasn’t fair. Aria might have stuck her nose where it didn’t belong, but Mason is to blame.
Only Mason, and that’s why I will never see him again.
Never.
Even if my soul shrivels up and dies while I’m trying—and failing—to get over him.
“This is what I know,” Melody says, holding up a finger and ticking it off. “I know Mason made a mistake four years ago that he promised never to repeat again. I know he went to counseling and said it changed him for the better. I know he loves you and treated you very well when he—”
“For five days!” I take a deep breath and continue in a softer voice, “Five days doesn’t prove anything.”
“What about the letters?” Melody presses. “I know he’s been sending you one every week since you told him to leave town. Have you even been reading them?”
I bristle. “How do you know about the letters?” I ask, refusing to answer the question.
I haven’t been reading them, but that’s none of my sister’s business.
“Mason called me and asked if you’d been getting them so I…checked your mailbox a few times,” Melody says, sitting up straighter.
“You talked to him behind my back?” I ask, outraged. “How could you, Melody? You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“We are on your side,” Aria says, laying a slim hand on my
back. “We love you, and we want you to be happy. That’s why we decided we had to talk to you tonight.”
“Gang up on me is more like it.” I still feel prickly all over. Like a cactus with needles that poke in both directions—jabbing out and in at the same time.
“Consider it a March family intervention. Because Mom and Dad are on board with this, too, and ready to add their two cents if necessary,” Melody says, showing no sign of backing down. “When Mason left the first time, we all put up with the crying and the moping and the feeling sorry for yourself for months and months on end, but this time it’s different.”
I flinch, too shocked and hurt by my sister’s words to respond.
“You were young before,” Melody continues. “And it was your first broken heart, and Mom and Dad told us to give you time to learn how to heal. But you’re twenty-five now. You’re a grown woman with a successful business, who’s already been down this road. Even if Mason had done the same thing he did four years ago—which he didn’t—there would be no excuse for the way you’ve been acting.”
“I’m ready to leave.” I stand, moving stiffly to my feet.
Melody pops up from the grass, moving to block my path to the driver’s side of the van. “Mason never should have run away without any explanation, but at least he’s done the work to make sure he’s not going to hurt someone like that again. Now it’s your turn, Lark.”
“My turn to what?” I ask, my voice rising.
“To do the work. To grow up and take responsibility for your feelings and realize no one is perfect. Not even you.”
“I never said I was perfect,” I say, more hurt by my little sister in this moment than I can remember being hurt in the entire time we grew up together. Even when Melody was four and colored in permanent marker all over my new chef costume. “And who are you to decide what I need to do with my life? You’re twenty-two, Melody, and you’ve only dated one boy for more than six months. You’re not—”