Maybe This Time

by Kasie West

  “These are dire consequences for a joke,” Andrew said. “Letting you near my eyes with such a sharp object.”

  “You don’t trust me?” I asked.

  He raised one side of his mouth into a half smile and said, “No.” But he also lowered himself off his knees and turned to face me. My heart was racing and I tried to ignore it.

  “Do you want the I’m a lead singer in a rock band look or the I’m Captain Jack Sparrow look?” I asked.

  “I want the minimalist look, whatever that is.”

  “He wants the just make these baby blues look even bluer look,” Micah said. “Seriously, I don’t know why more guys don’t wear makeup.”

  I leaned closer to him and his eyes were intent on me. “You need to look down,” I said.

  He followed my direction. Never before had I analyzed how I put eyeliner on someone until that moment. The edge of the palm holding the liner had to rest on his cheek and my free hand went to his chin to hold him steady and control his movement.

  “I’ll be right back,” Micah said. “I need to make sure Dad doesn’t need help.”

  I gave her wide eyes as she left but she just shot me an innocent smile, then closed the door behind her. My breathing went shallow, but I tried to steady it. I continued lining his right eye.

  “You smell like chocolate,” he said.

  “Yes, I ate a …” I trailed off.

  “A what?” he asked.

  My cheeks went hot and I knew I couldn’t say the word kiss without completely giving myself away. “Some chocolate,” I said. “Look up.”

  His whole head went up.

  “No, just your eyes.”

  “Oh.” He readjusted, and I lined the bottom of his right eye. Then I dropped my hand and leaned back to assess.

  “How does it look?” he asked.

  This very handsome boy in front of you is leaving. He always leaves, I reminded myself. “Um … yeah, so blue. Let me do the other side.”

  He looked down without me having to ask and I now had to rest my palm across his nose.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “The lengths we go to for beauty.” His hand brushed my knee and I nearly smeared liner across his temple.

  I managed to steady my grip on the pencil. “Look up.” He did, and I finished off the last of it. “There.” My hand that was still on his chin moved his face one way, and then the other, so I could make sure I got it even. “You’re a babe.” I didn’t know why I said that—it just flew out. I pretended like it was a completely normal thing to say. It actually probably was. It was something Micah would say to a friend. He would think nothing of it unless I acted weird. Which I kind of was. I dropped my hand and scooted away from him. “Have a look.” I pointed to the mirror.

  He turned to look at his reflection. “How much do you want to bet nobody out there even notices I’m wearing it?”

  “You already owe me so many things, sir, but I will take that bet.” I held out my hand.

  “You with your shaking of hands.” He took my hand and gripped it tight, meeting my eyes. That eyeliner really did make his eyes pop. They were gorgeous. He shook my hand several times, then hopped up from his sitting position and pulled me up with him.

  “How are things with Micah?” he asked, not letting go of my hand.

  “Getting better. And you? How are things with your dad?”

  “Getting better as well. He actually apologized if you can believe that. Said he’s been under a lot of pressure.” He finally dropped my hand.

  “You were right about that, then.”

  He shrugged. “It’s not a good excuse, but maybe he needed to blow up at a little kid to see how bad he’s gotten. He seems to be trying.”

  “Good.” We stood staring at each other. My stomach was fluttering with a million winged insects that seemed to want to escape. And I wanted to escape with them.

  So I did.

  “We better go help in the kitchen.” I turned on my heel and left the room too fast to pull off casual.

  The kitchen was a bustle of activity and I dove right into it, needing the distraction. Mr. Williams was stirring some gravy at the stove and I sidled up next to him.

  “I’m a really good stirrer,” I offered.

  He handed off the chore and moved to slicing up some butter to add to the mashed potatoes. Micah was getting plates from the cupboard and taking them to the dining room next door. Jett was standing in the middle of all the action, but he looked more lost than I’d ever seen him look in a kitchen.

  “Jett,” Mr. Williams said, obviously not for the first time. “You are my guest today. You can join the others in the living room.”

  Jett probably didn’t want to be in there with my mother, and I wasn’t sure if it was because he was worried she might yell at him or flirt with him.

  He didn’t listen. He moved to a bowl on the counter and tossed the salad, which looked like it had already been tossed. “I still don’t understand why you aren’t catering today,” he said to Mr. Williams. “People pay triple the amount on Thanksgiving.”

  “It’s a family day, Jett. That’s why,” Mr. Williams said. “Sometimes it’s not about the money.”

  Jett harrumphed.

  “I also won’t be catering on Christmas.”

  “Your loss,” Jett said.

  “I’d like to think of it as my gain,” Mr. Williams said. “You’re welcome to join our family for Christmas Day if you’d like to as well.”

  “Since you’re not catering, I think we’ll go home for Christmas,” Jett replied.

  “To Manhattan?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Sophie wants to go to college in Manhattan,” Mr. Williams said.

  “Maybe,” I responded. Lately, I’d realized something in all my realizing—the city wasn’t going to turn me into this sophisticated person that I had always thought would emerge once I was there. Who I was, who I was going to be, depended on me, not where I lived. “I’m going to apply to a lot of places.”

  Micah’s head whipped toward me as she headed for the door, carrying four glasses. “What?” she said. “No New York for you? Since when?”

  “Since … I don’t know. One day. I still want to be there one day.” Maybe I needed to be surer of myself first, so I didn’t completely lose what bits of myself I was finding in all the chaos.

  For the first time … ever … Jett looked at me with a hint of interest.

  Micah pushed through the door with her hands full of glasses.

  I stopped stirring. “I think the gravy is done,” I said.

  “Good, good,” Mr. Williams said. “Pour it into the boat over there and let’s start putting food on the table.”

  I carried the single boat of gravy into the dining room. The first thing I saw was the flower arrangement I had made the day before sitting in the center of the long table. It was mostly calla lilies, framed by some palm leaves. The note Caroline had left for me from the call-in request had said: An orange calla lily arrangement, your discretion. Will be picked up on Wednesday evening.

  I’d gotten off work at four yesterday, so I had no idea who’d come to pick it up. Had Mrs. Williams ordered it? I looked around, but I was the only one in the dining room. I could hear laughter coming from the living room.

  “I have paid off one of my debts,” a voice said from behind me. “A flower arrangement, bought by me and arranged by you. Orange calla lilies.”

  I turned around to look at Andrew, a bit of gravy sloshing onto my hand. It was hot and I sucked some air between my teeth, then set the gravy on the table and wiped off my hand.

  “They’re pretty,” he said when I still didn’t speak.

  “They’re my favorite.”

  “Because they’re pretty, or do you have a history with them?”

  I did have a history with calla lilies. There’d been a daddy-daughter dance at school and my dad had brought me a single calla lily. My mom had threaded it into my ponytail. It had b
een a good night. We used to be a pretty solid family. My dad had thrown that all away. He was continuing to throw it away. After his I’m sorry text, I’d called him and he’d confirmed all his lies. He hadn’t saved a dime of money for me. He said that he was planning to do it. He kept hoping he’d catch up. He just wasn’t there yet.

  “I’m sensing history,” Andrew said.

  I realized I was staring at the arrangement. Probably not kindly. I turned to answer him when a train of people came into the dining room, carrying food dishes.

  “Thank you,” I said to him quietly.

  “I haven’t stolen a flower since February, by the way. I’m reformed.”

  I smiled.

  “Let’s eat!” Mr. Williams said.

  My plate was empty for the second time and my stomach was beyond full. I groaned and leaned back in my chair. Mr. Williams had made fried turkey, mac and cheese, fresh dinner rolls, green beans, and more, and I’d sampled almost everything.

  “You didn’t pace yourself,” Andrew said from beside me.

  My brother was on my other side, shoveling mashed potatoes into his mouth.

  “I know,” I said. “Rookie mistake.”

  Andrew picked up the bowl of ambrosia salad and held it out for me. “You didn’t even get any of this,” he said.

  I had been purposely avoiding that salad. It would remind me of a certain hot day by a certain shed kissing a certain boy whose mouth tasted like cherries. I didn’t need to think about kissing Andrew right now. I was trying to remind myself that he was leaving, not that I wanted him to stay.

  “No thanks,” I said.

  Micah sat on Andrew’s other side, and she leaned forward and looked at me. She hadn’t said anything about my New York declaration in the kitchen earlier, so I waited for what she was going to say now. But all she said was, “I hope you saved room for dessert.”

  “Ugh,” I said, rubbing my stomach. “Hey, Micah. Do you still have that karaoke machine?” I hadn’t seen it in a couple of years.

  “Yes,” she said warily. “Why?”

  “Because my mom would rock at karaoke.”

  “You think I haven’t done karaoke before?” Mom, who sat across from me, said.

  I shrugged. “I’ve never seen it.”

  “Well, you’re right. I am fairly amazing at it. We could have a sing-off.”

  I smiled and Micah gave me another confused look. It wasn’t what we normally did on Thanksgiving. Normally, after dinner, Micah and I walked the neighborhood or threw a football around the backyard while the adults chatted inside, but new traditions could be fun too.

  Micah looked at her mom, who gave a smile and a nod. Then Micah said, “Okay, I’ll set it up after we clear dinner.”

  Andrew took a small bite of the corn pudding on his plate.

  “Not a fan?” I asked.

  “It’s interesting.” He set down his fork. “By the way, what do I win?”

  “For what?” I asked.

  “For nobody noticing my beautiful eyes.”

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  A playful glimmer came into his eyes.

  “I owe you five dollars,” I said, before he gave voice to whatever was causing that glimmer. “Which really just wipes out the five dollars you owed me before. So it’s a wash.”

  “You’re no fun.”

  “This is true.” I smiled and stood.

  My mom was having fun singing her heart out to Carrie Underwood. I tried not to think about what was going through Jett Hart’s mind as he sat on the armchair in the corner, with not even the hint of a smile on his face. That was what had gotten me into trouble in the first place, caring too much about how other people felt. I needed to care more how I felt. And I enjoyed seeing my mom so happy. My mom was right, she had a good voice. Probably better than Gloria and her daughter.

  “You should’ve sung the national anthem in high school!” I called out to Mom over the music.

  “Right?” she said into the microphone. “Some people are national anthem hogs! Jesus take the wheel!” she added, rejoining the song.

  Andrew laughed. “Your mom is hilarious.”

  “She really is,” I said.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. Since everyone I usually talked to was in this room, I was curious. I pulled it out and looked at the screen.

  Dad.

  I stood and let myself out the sliding glass door and onto the back patio.

  “Hello?”

  “Soph!” my dad said. We’d only exchanged a couple of texts since our last painful conversation, and I was surprised at the anger that coursed through me at the sound of his voice.

  “Hi,” I said tightly.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, kid. Are y’all at Micah’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  “I miss the Williams family Thanksgivings.”

  “Do you?”

  “Of course I do.”

  The back patio wrapped around both sides of the house, and I followed it past several large potted plants to a porch swing tucked in an alcove. I sat down.

  “You still there?” Dad asked.

  “Is that all you miss?” I knew I was fishing, needing to hear him defend himself without coming out and saying what I wanted. But these feelings were very new to me. The chats with my dad were normally surface level and light. I hadn’t really realized that until now either.

  “I miss a lot of things,” he said. “But mostly you and your brother.”

  I nodded even though he couldn’t see me. “But you’re happy?” I asked.

  “What’s going on, Sophie? Is everything okay?”

  “Things are actually going really well. I think maybe I picked the wrong side all these years.”

  “I don’t understand what you mean,” he said.

  “Between you and mom.”

  “There aren’t sides,” he said. “We both love you.”

  “I get that. But one of you is showing it more than the other.”

  “Is this still about the money?”

  “No,” I said, meaning it. “It was never about money, Dad. It was about the lie. It was about me, thinking all these years that Mom was embarrassing and hard on me and selfish. But she’s a single mom trying to support us. Of course she’s always late. Of course she needs help with Gunnar. She has to do everything. And you just have to call occasionally and say a few nice things.”

  “Where is all this coming from, Sophie?” Dad asked. “Let me talk to Larissa.”

  “It didn’t come from her. It came from me. Way too late, but I got there eventually.” I pushed myself on the swing and took a big breath. “I love you. I always will. You’re my dad. But you need to step up. It’s not too late. Come out here and visit, or fly Gunnar out to see you. Do something.”

  “Unbelievable,” Dad said, then he hung up. It surprised me so much that I thought maybe I had imagined it. But my phone showed the call was over. I closed my eyes for a second. He was a runner, I reminded myself. When things got hard, he bailed. I pulled my knees up to my chest and rested my chin on them.

  That’s when I heard two people around the corner, talking. They obviously didn’t know I could hear every word they said. The voices belonged to Micah and Andrew, and they were talking about me.

  Was it me who got in her head or you?” Micah asked. She must’ve batted at the leaves on the potted plant that blocked their view of me; I heard the smack and watched the overgrown bush shake.

  “What are you talking about?” Andrew asked. His voice was quieter but I could still hear it clearly.

  “Was it you with all your talk about how she wouldn’t fit in in New York? Or me with the whole you hate our town and people speech?”

  “I never told her she wouldn’t fit in in New York.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  I strained forward on the porch swing, holding my breath.

  “I may have said something about it being a hard place to live or that it eats people alive, but I wasn’t talkin
g about her. I was mostly talking about me.”

  “She thought you were talking about her.”

  “She probably wouldn’t fit in there,” Andrew said. “But New York is the kind of place you should want to stand out in. And she would definitely stand out.”

  “You need to tell her that.”

  “She thinks I was telling her not to move to New York? No wonder she hates me.”

  “She doesn’t hate you,” Micah said. “You just broke her, that’s all.”

  “What happened to the idea that you broke her with all the you’re a snob talk?”

  “You’re right. I broke her too.” Micah sighed. “We both broke her and now she doesn’t want to go to New York anymore. This is her lifelong dream and she’s just giving up. She’s quitting. She’s settling or something.”

  “I’m not settling!” I called out.

  Micah screamed, then poked her head around the bush to the alcove where I sat, pushing the swing ever so gently with my foot.

  “Soph, you are such an eavesdropper,” she said.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be talking about me behind my back.”

  “I always talk about you behind your back. Mostly good things. Or in this case getting advice on how to fix you.”

  “I’m not broken.”

  Micah walked over and lowered herself onto the swing beside me. “Then why? Does this have to do with what I said at the Fall Festival?”

  My eyes flickered to Andrew, who hung in the background, as though unsure if he should leave or not. My thoughts about New York versus Alabama had nothing to do with what Micah had said. It had to do with the fact that I had been feeling unworthy ever since the city, in the form of Andrew Hart, walked into my life, seeming to say my designs, me, weren’t good enough. But that was my perception. My own lack of confidence that I was projecting onto him.

  “It’s me,” Andrew spoke up. “If I made it seem like you wouldn’t survive in New York, I didn’t mean to. New York would be happy to have you.” He lowered his eyes to the ground before they met mine again.

  “No, it’s neither of you,” I said, looking from Andrew to Micah. “I promise. It’s me. It’s my stupid design journal full of nothing that is unique enough to do anything with right now. I just need to figure myself out a while and I don’t need New York to do that.”