Her eyes sharpened on me. “That tongue of yours will get you into trouble.” She popped the cap on another diet soda and I wished I had rescued one before she could destroy it. “I’m just saying that it would be nice to see you actually go on a date. He’s not even on your Facebook or Instagrams.”
“No one is.” Which was the one thing I had going for me, to give this boyfriend ruse any weight. My social media was dedicated only to my personal pursuits, which meant people only when it was for a project or a purpose.
“Well, since he’s not your boyfriend, it wouldn’t hurt you to go on one date with David.”
“Were you as shameless at hooking Angie and Layla up with would-be suitors?” Where was Tori?
My mom had the nerve to behave like she was shocked. “I’m not hooking you up, Hollis. Don’t be so foul.” But she knew, deep down I was right. “It’d be nice to see you on a date with anyone.”
“I’m not going to be seriously dating anyone until I’m out of school, Mom.” It was probably peculiar to anyone on the outside looking in, to hear of a parent pushing their daughter to date. I was only twenty-one, after all, but my mom sometimes behaved like Elizabeth Bennett’s mom—not in personality, but in the rush to have her children married. My dad wasn’t any better.
“You’re so much like them,” my mother said, referring to my sisters. “I just wish they’d meet someone to settle down with.”
I laughed. “Angie lives barefoot most of the year; I don’t think she can settle down much more than that, Mom.”
She grimaced, but no lines formed thanks to the fillers she routinely got. “I don’t understand how she thinks sometimes. I wish I could.” She looked at me when I scoffed. “I do. I’d love nothing more than a peek into her head, just to understand her.”
Angie was the youngest child for eight years and then was shoved into that sometimes-overlooked middle child role—I didn’t need a peek into her head to understand why she exhibited classic youngest child tendencies, tamed mildly by middle child ones. She wanted to set herself apart from her sisters, and at the same time wanted an escape from my dad. Something I wanted myself. I thought staying north for college when my parents retreated to their three-season home south would give me the freedom I craved, but surprise! I was still close enough for an unwanted drop-in visit, especially when they spent the fall in Amber Lake. “I don’t think Angie is going to be a mom any time soon,” I said. “And I don’t think Layla will let a man close enough to her to touch her hand, much less impregnate her.”
“Which leaves you,” she said quietly. The volume of her voice carried the same weight as if she’d shouted it. And it was the same expectation I had been made aware of shortly after I left for college. Despite the fanciful origins of their children’s names, our parents had laid out expectations for each of us from as young as I could remember.
Mom named her kids after songs she loved. Layla for the Eric Clapton song, Angie for the Rolling Stones and me? Well, I was expected to be a boy. So I was named after a Bob Dylan song. The Ballad of Hollis Brown, which chronicles the eponymous farmer who goes on to murder his family.
I should note here that my parents weren’t always so uptight. It must have been long before I came around, but judging by their choice of music I knew they must have gotten down in their day. I mean, they named us after songs they loved, but still, I was named after a fictional murderer.
“Well, let me just pop out a few kids before I graduate college then, spice up your Christmas cards.” I could only speak with my mother this way. My father wouldn’t allow it.
She narrowed her eyes, albeit briefly. “There’s your attitude again. And you know that’s not what we mean.”
“But it kind of is.”
“We don’t want you to have a child until you’re done with college, of course not. But, baby steps wouldn’t hurt. Maybe make the guy you’ve been dating—whoever he is—make an honest woman out of you. Have him come to events, holidays, so we can get to know him. I mean, really, Hollis. I don’t even know his name.”
Nothing made me feel more ridiculous than my mom asking me when I was finally going to bring a boy around. “I have zero intentions of bringing him around.”
“Who?” My father’s booming voice reached us from behind me, at the kitchen doorway.
“I’m just talking to Hollis about getting a boyfriend.”
He looked at me long enough to make me want to squirm. All the fight I’d given my mom drained out of me at that look. He had the power to make a little girl out of me with just eye contact. “I thought you had a boyfriend.”
I sighed. “He’s not my boyfriend. I’ve been dating him for a while now, but we’re not official.” The lie was so familiar to me that it almost felt real. An image of Adam flashed through my brain and I tamped it down.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and stood beside my mom. “Really? Can’t seem to snag him then?”
I didn’t think it was possible to feel more embarrassment. “I’m focused on school.” So I can finally access my trust fund and get the hell away from your clutches and do my own thing. “Boyfriends aren’t important to me right now.”
“That’s too bad,” he said, rubbing my mom’s back. I watched her lean into it, her eyes close for a moment, as if she was bracing herself for a battle and needed that half second to reenergize. “The mistake I made with your sisters, I think, was not properly preparing them for their futures.”
I sat down at the island, unease settling over me like blanket covered in needles. “What do you mean? They had trust funds.”
“Yes, but I didn’t ensure their future by giving them immediate access to it,” he said.
Panic flitted over me. Panic born from privilege, I knew, but panic nonetheless. Was this the moment my parents would tell me the trust fund they’d promised me upon graduation no longer existed? The terms had always been that I would have access to it upon completion of my undergrad degree.
I swallowed but a hard lump remained in my throat. The trust fund was more than just money; it was freedom. Freedom from his clutches, to pursue an education that I wanted—unconventional, but still valid. Freedom to be me, finally, without the restraints of my father’s expectations wrapping me up tight. “Are you saying there’s no trust fund?” Better to rip the bandage off, I thought, bracing myself for their response.
“No, of course not. The trust fund exists.” My dad and my mom exchanged looks. “But it’s a revocable trust.”
My chest was heavy, my breaths labored. It was as if I had just run up a mountain, and I could hardly keep my breathing normal as I processed all of what they were saying. “That makes it sound like you’re able to take it away.”
He nodded. “It’s a living trust. The terms can be changed.”
Frustration sunk deep, like an anchor, into my stomach. “What do you mean, Dad?”
“I mean,” he exchanged another look with my mom, “that since I am footing the bill for your schooling, giving you access to those funds isn’t necessary since you’ll be going to law school after graduation anyway.”
My cheeks warmed and it wasn’t thanks to the oppressive St. George heat. I had to temper my own anger when I asked, “So, when would I be able to access it?”
“Your mother and I have spoken at length about this and what makes the most sense, given your situation. We have concluded,” he paused and looked at my mom again—ensuring that I knew she’d agreed to whatever plan he no doubt had concocted all on his own. “That the funds would be best utilized for a wedding or for starting a home with a future husband.”
The anchor in my belly pulled me down. I laid a hand on the island for balance. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that we’ve changed the terms. You’ll access the funds when you’ve announced your engagement.”
4
Adam
“You promise?” Even if I hadn’t promised my little sister, the big brown eyes and perpetual disappointment that lingere
d in their depths would have made me deliver an emphatic yes.
“Duh.” I tousled her hair and she shrank away, moving to the fridge and pulling out the lunch our gram had made for her. When she reached her hand into the juice box carton and came out empty, I dug out a few singles from my wallet. “Here,” I said before she could ask.
“Thanks,” she said and stuffed them in the pockets of the jacket that was suddenly looking so small on her ever-growing frame. She was nearly thirteen going on eighteen, and the clothes dad had bought for her seemed to be shrinking every day. A trip to the mall for new clothes was imminent, but the money to make it happen wasn’t here. With our grandma in the hospital and our dad … well, not here, it was up to me to make the money appear. I braced my palms on the worn linoleum counter and stared at my knuckles, which were adorned with the name of my band, a homage to the city I had grown to love. But guilt bit at me, reminding me that I had been away from home for the last few years, chasing a pipe dream in Colorado. All while my sister and grandma had been doing their best to make it month to month, on my gram’s limited income. Unless my dad decided to drop in and play Best Dad Ever for a week or so. That’s usually the longest he ever lasted.
Casey pulled her hair into a low ponytail, securing it with a worn rubber band. She should have clothes that fit her better and actual hair things. It didn’t seem like a lot to ask, but she wasn’t asking. No, Casey was the best goddamn thing my father ever gave me. It was a miracle that Dad was a product of my grandma—who was a saint.
I glanced at the clock on the stove. I’d have time to drop Casey off at school and swing by the hospital before I headed to work. With my wallet still in my hand, I fingered through the remaining bills to see if I had enough to get Gram a few daisies, one of her favorites.
“Dad called me,” Casey said, interrupting my thoughts. “Wants to take me out for my birthday in a couple weeks. And,” she wagged her eyebrows in a hopeful way, “he said if I get an A on my first report card in math that he’ll pay for gymnastics.”
I stared at her blankly for a minute until it sank in. Birthday. Casey. Mentally, I calculated. The thirteenth of September was two weeks away, right on the nose. That meant I had one more paycheck coming right before then. Keeping my voice even, I replied, “Oh yeah?” Casey, though older in many ways than her thirteen years, still believed in my dad and his often-empty promises. “That’d be nice.” No, what would be nice would be if dear old dad got his shit together so his ailing mom didn’t have to take care of his child. But telling Casey… that would be like ruining Santa. She believed so much in him, and me, though we’d both failed her too many times to count.
I didn’t know how Casey’s grades had been for the last school year, but I wasn’t surprised that they had been bad enough for dad to offer an incentive for her to get them up. An incentive he wouldn’t follow through with, but one nonetheless. Gram had been sick for a long time, and I didn’t blame her for Casey needing tutoring. No, the only person I could blame—apart from my father—was myself. For not being here. “Is math hard for you?”
Casey shrugged, her light jacket slipping over her shoulder. “It’s just confusing. They moved to a new way to teach it this year, and so I’m not allowed to do it all in my head like I’m used to doing.” There must have been some look on my face, because she quickly added, “But don’t worry. I’ll get it figured out.”
I hated that she felt that way. That she saw my worry and had to console me. Once again, I was hit with a wave of disappointment that things had gotten the way they had.
“We’ll figure it out,” I corrected her.
Casey nodded and a few flyaway hairs escaped her ponytail. Tucking them behind her ear, she said, “Okay, but anyway, you should come to the birthday dinner. I bet he’d love to see you.”
My back was to Casey as I dug through the fridge for breakfast, so she couldn’t see me wince. I thought of the last time I had seen our dad, when I’d grabbed him by the collar and shoved him against my car hard enough to leave a lasting dent in the side panel. “I’ll have to look at my schedule,” I told Casey as a compromise, though this was one of the few things I couldn’t commit to, even for her. “Do you have everything you need?” I asked, wanting to move on from all talk of Dad. “Backpack, lunch, homework, gym stuff?”
“Yes.” She shoved a bite of peanut butter and jelly toast into her mouth. “Remember, you have to pick me up for my appointment at noon.”
“I know, I promised.” I grabbed my backpack and herded her out the door, to the car. Being that it was the end of August, the morning was still warm enough that getting in the car wasn’t a hassle. But in the coming months, when winter sent frost across the car, I would need to make sure the radiator was fixed enough to defrost the windshield. I really should start a list of the shit I needed to take care of. Whether I liked it or not, I was going to stay in Idaho for the long term. I tried not to let that thought affect my mood because I knew Casey would sense it and start on her little I’m a burden freakout once again. The last time she had, when Gram had been first hospitalized, my reaction had been anger. Not because I was mad at her, but because I was angry with myself. Casey wasn’t a burden. Our father, on the other hand, was.
When I tried to turn the engine over, the car sputtered and shut immediately off. Panic quickly prickled my skin, but I tried again. It took four times before the engine rumbled and we were able to get on the road. Having the car break down now would be the icing on the cake that was the last month since I had gotten back into town. It was like I was constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. For my gram to pass away. For my car to fail on me. For my dad to come back. All three would be just about the worst thing to happen, and unfortunately, the first one was proving to be not so much of an if but a when. And when it happened, someone would need to become Casey’s primary, legal guardian. Even though gram had been taking care of Casey for most of her life, my dad still retained custody. The agreement with my gram was an agreement made by word of mouth and not through any legal channels. But Casey deserved more than my father. She deserved more than me. But Gram, dad, my brother, and I were the last four people in her life and I would fight my own father for my sister before I let him take her.
I glanced over at Casey, watched her take the sights in as we drove out of the little piece of land Gram owned and onto the main road. She looked so much like our mom. Acted like her too. If she hadn’t died when Casey was a toddler, all of our lives would look much different now. Better.
Shaking the thought from my head, I turned the music up and was thanked with an eye roll from my passenger.
“Do we have to listen to this?” she asked.
“It’s better than that country crap you like,” I said, teasing her.
“We don’t have to listen to country.” She dug into the center console and produced a homemade CD. “We could play this…”
I swiped the CD from her and shoved it into the side door. “That’s even worse.”
“But it’s your band,” she protested.
“Yeah, and there’s a reason why it’s not on the radio.”
She scoffed and crossed her arms over her chest. “They can’t be that bad. You tatted the name of one of those songs on your fingers.”
My knuckled flexed on the steering wheel, the words Mile High flashing in the early sunlight. “They’re not bad. But they’re not for thirteen-year-old ears.” In truth, the content of the music wasn’t the issue. It was my sister listening to the music that was problematic for me. She was the only one whose opinion mattered. And my music had been my life long before I had left Idaho to pursue it. Since I’d left my sister. If she hated it, I’d know. And I’d hate myself a little more for abandoning her for it.
“It’s not like I haven’t heard it before,” she said. “My friends have phones, you know. And there’s this website called YouTube. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of it before, but you can listen to music on it.”
I tousl
ed her hair again, earning a ‘Hey!” before she quickly smoothed it back into a ponytail. “Okay, smart ass. But that stuff,” I pointed to the location of the disc, “is the new stuff.” The stuff that means more, I added to myself silently. The early shit we had on YouTube was just practice. Also known as: actual shit. If she hated the new stuff, I’d probably toss my keyboard out the window. But, considering that the keyboard cost more than this car, I might rethink it—if only for a moment.
“I mean, it’s still the same people. It can’t be much different.”
Casey didn’t get it, but how could she? The first album had been produced in the garage of a place we’d rented on Airbnb. One week. Ten tracks. A thousand bucks in rent and equipment rentals and booze. Each song was fueled by this need to impress but the actual production of it left something to be desired. When you hear that a band is better live, that’s how we felt about our band, too.
That is, until the new album. We’d rented a studio. We’d invested in better equipment. But more than money, our hearts were in it. We weren’t trying to impress. We’d failed and we’d fallen apart and come back together and we’d built something to be proud of. I was more proud of this album than I could’ve been of anything else.
But that didn’t mean I was ready for anyone else to hear it. My moving back to Idaho had sort of put all our plans on halt. We were just sitting on this album until we knew what was going to happen. Considering that it had been a month and I still had no idea about what was happening, our album’s release date was firmly TBD.
“Come on,” she protested. “We’ll only have time for one of your songs before we get to school anyway.”
I raised an eyebrow and glanced at her “No.”
Casey reached over and switched the station to country.
With daisies in one hand and an energy drink in my other, I entered Gram’s room. The window shade was pulled down and her breakfast sat untouched on the table beside her bed. I set the flowers beside the tray and moved to the window, checking back at her as I raised the shade. Light washed her face, emphasizing the cracks and hollows in her skin. She looked better today than she had the day before. But still, three days in the hospital was wearing on her. The lack of appetite and the dark circles that colored the paper-thin skin around her eyes told me all I needed to know.
One Little Lie: a hate to love rom-com Page 6