Told You So_A Saratoga Falls Love Story

by Lindsey Pogue

  The way Nick was with Jesse on New Year’s rekindled something I’d assumed was only a smoldering crush from years ago. But like last time, I was dumb enough to allow myself the slightest bit of hope, only for him to jump to Savannah’s beck and call the moment his phone rang. It was a blessing, actually. I needed the reminder that kindness is not the same as affection.

  Eight

  Nick

  Savannah grabs us a table in the back corner of the deli, and I head up to the counter to order our favorite sandwiches. Having Savannah visit is nice, I’ve missed her laughing at all my jokes, and she’s always felt like one of the guys in a way, too. Even if we’ve become more than that—had been more than that? It’s hard to tell sometimes when we’re together. We’re easy and too comfortable, which makes my friends without benefits rule difficult, even if it’s necessary. Things don’t need to be more complicated between us than they already are.

  Without thought, I glance out the window at the Range Rover parked in the lot. Bethany’s working today, which doesn’t help my muddled thoughts any. Gratefully, my stomach grumbles and Schmitty hands me my salami and Savannah’s veggie sandwich, nicely wrapped and ready on trays.

  When I slide into the booth with Savannah, I notice she’s already got our drinks and chips set out, like she usually does, and she smiles up at me knowingly.

  “Aw, you remembered,” I say. I scoot her sandwich tray to her and pop open my Dr. Pepper.

  “Of course I did. I moved away, I didn’t lose my memory. Squirt during the summer, only, and Dr. Pepper the rest of the year. It might be warm out, but it’s not technically summer.” She winks. “I remember all your quirks. That’s why I come back every now and again, someone needs to make you feel special. Plus, I miss your smile.”

  “Yours isn’t too bad either,” I tell her and take a bite of my salami sub. “I could live on these,” I groan.

  Savannah takes a bite of her sandwich, more primly than I do.

  “So, what’s new with the parents and Hannington Beach?” I ask. “You haven’t talked about them much since you’ve been back.” I try to be somewhat of a gentleman and wipe the mustard from my mouth.

  She shrugs and crunches on a chip. “What’s there to say? It sucks not being able to hang out with people my own age on my days off.”

  “Just give it time, you’ve only been there a few months.”

  “Being at home with two retired parents is—let’s just say I didn’t think this was going to be my responsibility yet, especially since I have other, more qualified siblings. You know?”

  “Ah, yes. But you’re the most available one.”

  “Yep.” She growls out the word and takes another bite of her veggie sandwich. She glances at me, but I try to keep the conversation light and continuous, or risk a long silence that ends in should haves and I wishes and more I miss yous. “Bill’s dating someone now,” I tell her. “I haven’t seen him around Lick’s as much.”

  “Really? So, our regular isn’t so regular anymore, huh? What’s new with the crew? Have you finished your project yet?” Savannah’s eyes light up in the afternoon sunlight. “Is Sam micromanaging you?”

  I shake my head. “No, actually. She’s pretty far removed, in this part of the process, at least. She and Aunt Alison will dive in when it’s time to decorate. I’m just externing for a ‘highly-rated, horse boarding facility in need of an office remodel.’ At least, that’s what I’m telling my instructor.”

  “Well, you’re not claiming anything that isn’t true.” She pops another potato chip in her mouth. “They don’t have to know that you’re related.”

  “True.” I wink at her. “I like the way you think.”

  “That’s because I’m awesome.”

  “Also true.”

  She smiles and my heart warms a little. “So, what do you want to do tonight? I’m only here for a couple days.”

  “That depends,” I say, leaning back in my seat. “How much trouble are you planning on getting into? I’m getting old. I have responsibilities now.”

  She laughs. “So dramatic.”

  I take a couple gulps of my Dr. Pepper. “So, what’s the bar like where you’re working, anyway? Is it at all like Lick’s?”

  Her eyes linger on mine, and she sighs. “It will never be like Lick’s, sadly.”

  “What, no strapping young men to ogle during your shift?” I tease but the look in her eyes is anything but playful. She sobers, and her face is almost crestfallen. “I miss you, Nick. I miss you a lot. I wish—”

  “You’ve still got me,” I tell her, putting a quick end to any talk about us. “I’m just a little further away now.”

  I can tell she wants to say more, but to my relief she resists. I don’t want to have that conversation again, not today.

  Savannah puts both of her pickles on my plate as a peace offering.

  Happily, I take a bite of one, savoring it. “Now this I miss.”

  Nine

  Bethany

  I shuffle in through the front door after work, bags, books, and my purse in hand, greeted by the familiar welcome of Jesse shouting my name excitedly as he rushes down from his room.

  “Hey, J!” I call back, strangely glad to be home. While this house might make me crazy, it’s also familiar, and my memory foam mattress awaits me upstairs. “I have something for you,” I tell him. “Well, it’s from Anna Marie, actually, but—” The patter of his footsteps turn to slow creaks on the stairs. I smile over my shoulder to find him standing on the final step, staring into the kitchen.

  Following his gaze, I straighten. “Hey, Dad.” He’s standing in the kitchen in his “casual” business attire, though nothing is ever casual about Charles Fairchild. He doesn’t go by Chuck or Charlie, it’s Charles, always. His shirt is perfectly pressed and his jeans look brand new.

  I discard my coat and purse on the couch.

  It’s the first time I’ve seen him in almost two weeks. He didn’t make it for family dinner last night because his flight was delayed, and not surprisingly, he didn’t bother coming up for even a hello when he finally arrived home, late last night. By the look on Jesse’s face, it’s the first time Dad’s come out of his office today.

  “How was New York?” I ask because it’s the scripted way this conversation goes.

  “Arduous but productive.” He pours himself a glass of iced tea. “How was school today?” It’s a blanketed question meant for both of us.

  “Good,” I lie, because fine is his least favorite word. “I had three lectures today, so I’m glad it’s over.” I lean against the kitchen island. “And, I just finished my shift at the salon.”

  Jesse is quiet, as usual, and when he doesn’t say anything, I glance over at him. He’s sitting on the bottom stair and staring at the ground as he runs his finger along the smooth wood floor.

  “J?” I give him an encouraging smile when he meets my eyes, and, slowly, he makes his way over, dragging his feet until he reaches the barstool beside me. Jesse looks everywhere in the kitchen but at my dad.

  “And you?” my dad prompts, leaning against the counter as he brings his glass to his mouth and looks pointedly at Jesse. “How was school today?”

  Jesse shrugs. “Fine.”

  “Just fine?”

  “Yep.” He starts drawing invisible circles on the marble countertop, retreating into a safe place in his mind. It only takes someone with ears and a heart to know my dad’s tone is anything but loving, and Jesse doesn’t do well when my dad’s home.

  “Hey,” I say softly. “Tell Dad about your trip to the Exploratorium yesterday.”

  My dad sets his glass on the counter. “A fieldtrip, huh?” His words don’t resonate with Jesse, they’re too stiff and unyielding, like concrete. Each word is leaden with an unspoken censure, and Jesse shuts down every time.

  So, I change the subject. “What did you and mom do after she picked you up from school?” I ask and brush his sandy-brown hair from his eyes.

  J
esse’s entire demeanor changes in an instant, and he looks up excitedly. “Mom bought me new trading cards today!” The solemn drum of his voice is suddenly a falsetto, and he climbs down from the bar stool and runs for the living room. He stops at the coffee table and looks frantically around. “Where are my trading cards?” he asks in a panic. “Where are my cards?”

  “I had the cleaning lady put them away,” my dad says with no affect.

  “Where are they?” Jesse nearly shrieks.

  The garage door opens and my mom fumbles in, paper bags in her hands and her purse and briefcase hanging from her shoulder. “Evening, everyone,” she says with an exhale. She’s oblivious to Jesse’s turmoil and the brewing storm she’s just walked into. “Since I went back to the office for my briefcase, I stopped for takeout.” She sets the two paper bags down on the countertop.

  Mom meets my gaze first, then peers out at Jesse, who’s riffling through the living room in a whirlwind.

  Frowning, my dad watches him. “Calm down,” he says, but Jesse can’t help himself. In a panicked flurry, he opens the entertainment center drawers and the blanket chest. He looks in the cubbies under the coffee table and then in the writing desk by the bay window.

  “Where are they?” he demands, and runs up the stairs.

  My mom’s gaze shifts from me to my dad. “What’s going on?”

  He shakes his head, clearly annoyed. “Why don’t you ask your son?” he says, and he walks into his office.

  “Great,” she grumbles and drops her purse onto the floor. My sentiments exactly.

  She hurries upstairs after my brother. As meltdowns and spin outs go, that one took less time than usual, thanks to my dad. I bite back every caustic remark that comes to mind. We’ve seen him all of five minutes and the house is already in unrest.

  My dad’s chair squeaks from inside his office, and I hate him for acting so indifferent. No, he’s not acting, he is indifferent when it comes to his own children, and it’s sickening.

  Jesse’s muffled shrieks carry down the landing. I hear my mom’s low murmurs of reassurance, but it won’t help, nothing will—not until she finds his cards. I consider taking a shot from the bourbon bottle staring at me from the wet bar, before I brave the crap storm I’m likely going to start as I walk into my dad’s office.

  “You seriously don’t know where his cards are?” I ask him, storming into his office. He sits in his overstuffed office chair, like I imagine a pompous, self-absorbed politician would, pouring over documents in front of him that are clearly more important than my standing there.

  “No, Beth, I seriously don’t.” He doesn’t even bother looking up at me. “Probably in his room with all his other toys.”

  “Why couldn’t you just leave them where they were? They weren’t in anyone’s way.”

  That earns a narrowed look from him. The angles of my dad’s face are sharp, his face clean shaven, and despite the way his fingers flip through stacks of papers on his desk, his eyes are always fixed on something, always focused and thoughtful. And now, they’re fixed on me. I swallow thickly.

  “I told her to straighten the living room because that’s what I pay her to do. So, that’s what she did. Despite what you and your mother think, it’s not a personal attack on your brother.”

  “Whatever,” I grumble and decide retreating upstairs with the rest of my family is probably best. Just as I turn on my heels, he says my name.

  “Beth?”

  I stop in the doorway. I know big-wig investor and hard-ass extraordinaire, Charles Fairchild, doesn’t want to have a father-daughter moment, so I brace myself best I can and slide my armor into place for his impending lecture.

  “What is this your mother tells me about your grades slipping?” He stares at me, expectant. I like it better when he’s busy shuffling through paperwork.

  “They’re fine,” I tell him, my first mistake.

  “Fine?”

  “Yes.”

  He sits back in his chair. His gray hair is slicked back, and I can smell his expensive aftershave. It’s probably the most comforting thing about him. “I told you when you double majored this wasn’t going to be easy for you.”

  “Yeah, I remember the vote of confidence.”

  “Well, is it?” he counters.

  “No, it’s college. It’s not supposed to be easy.” I can’t help my tone, even if I know how this is going to end. I hate bullies, and my dad is a bully of the worst kind because I can’t escape him.

  “You’re right, it’s not, and by doing exactly what I told you not to do, you’ve set yourself up for failure.”

  “Bs aren’t the end of the world, Dad. They’re above average—they’re passing grades.” And there’s my second mistake. Mediocre is unacceptable in my house, that’s why Jesse and I are both black sheep; we’re both less-than in his eyes.

  Shaking his head, he clasps his hands in his lap. “So,” he says, deceptively calm. “Average and fine are still words in your vocabulary, I see.”

  My hands clench to fists at my sides, my nails digging into my palms as I try and fail not to bite my tongue. “It’s better than failing,” I point out to him.

  He glowers at me. “Well, Beth, when you’re forking out $20,000 a year for your brother’s private school and $35,000 a year in college tuition, you can stand there and tell me what’s acceptable and what’s not. You wanted to do both of these programs, even though I told you it was too much for you. You promised me you would make it work, that I wouldn’t be disappointed, yet here we are.” He rests his elbows on his desk and exhales like his life is so painfully hard, like my average grades are a blight on his existence—like I am.

  His stare cuts into me and his attention burns, just like his constant disappointment.

  Like so many times in my life, anger gets the better of me, and I take a step closer to him. “So, you’re upset because I have a job and I’m double majoring while sustaining a B average?” I clarify and grit my teeth.

  “Watch your tone.”

  “How is it that we’ve all failed you so miserably? We do everything to please you, and God knows, Jesse and I try. Even Mom does. Yet, we’re all failures in your eyes.” I throw my hands up. “I’m not sure why we even bother.” A voice in the back of my mind is telling me to reel the anger in or he’s going to explode, but everything about him enrages me. His presence alone makes my mom look like Parent of the Year. “What do you want from me?”

  “What do you want from me, Beth? Do you want me to be easy on you so that you have more time to party? So that you don’t have the pressure of keeping your grades up and actually doing something with your life? Why is it that everyone in this house thinks that I owe them something. After everything I’ve done for all of you.”

  “What is it that you give us, exactly? Money? Because it’s not love and affection—you can’t even make it home for family dinners. I don’t want your money, if you’re going to hold it over me the rest of my life.”

  He stands up, leaning his fists on the desk. “That’s enough,” he warns. The papers crinkle under his weight. “If you don’t want my money, then pay for grad school on your own.”

  I swallow the prickly ball rising in my throat. I’ve been expecting this—wanting the liberation of it, in a way—but the logical part of me wonders what I’ve just done.

  “Do whatever you want, Bethany,” he says, cinching the knot rapidly forming in my stomach. He sits back down, no longer able to look at me. “If you don’t care about your grades, then neither do I.”

  His easy dismissal of me and my life is like a serrated edge against my skin. It cuts and aches, and I want to scream.

  “Close the door on your way out.”

  Without a word, I slowly turn for the door. I don’t want to cry over him, not anymore, and I hate that I can’t stop the tears from forming.

  I close the door and stand outside his office for a minute, numb and exhausted from this constant battle. I’m not so spoiled that I don’t k
now other people put themselves through college all the time—students who have it harder than I do. I could figure out a way to pay for school without him, even if putting my apartment on hold for a little while was the compromise.

  Straightening, I take a deep breath, but it hitches when I notice my mom, standing in the kitchen watching me. Ignoring the tears quickly forming, I walk past her and up the stairs. I’m about to shut myself inside my room when Jesse opens his bedroom door.

  “Beth,” he whispers. There’s concern in his voice, even if his face shows no sign of it.

  I smile, hinging it into place. “Hey.” I walk over to where he hangs out the doorway and rumple his hair. “I was just going to find you.”

  “Mom found my cards,” he tells me. “Want to see?”

  “I’d love to see your new cards, J.”

  Ten

  Bethany’s Journal

  April 10th

  Mom and Dad, thank you for asking about my day. My professor singled me out yesterday in front of the class, like always, because he doesn’t know that I have a controlling mother who only wants to talk to me in the mornings as I’m rushing out the door, making me late. And remember how I was so worried about him failing my paper I worked so hard on for extra credit? I actually did better on it than I thought I would. Oh wait, you don’t remember any of it because you’ve never asked.

  Maybe one day I’ll actually write this. - B

  Eleven

  Bethany

  Lying back on my bed, I stretch the stiffness from my body and flex my fingers and toes. Sitting cross-legged isn’t as easy as it used to be. With a sigh, I glance at my alarm clock and want to throw up. It’s nearly midnight, and I feel like I’ve only retained half the information I’ve processed over and over for the last three hours.

  My Graduate Records Examination is coming up—only a couple weeks left before I know if I make a score decent enough to get me into an accredited psychology program . . . and I feel sick to my stomach.