I hate to admit that my dad is right in a sense. Double majoring seems like the dumbest idea on nights like these, but then, psychology is what I really care about. It’s what I want to do, and it wouldn’t be so stressful if that wasn’t the case. Design, that’s more for my parents—for my mom’s firm. I enjoy design, but I don’t want to work for her, and that type of work, well, it isn’t my passion.
School can’t be this difficult for everyone. Even double majors. Can it? I don’t understand why I struggle so much. It’s not for lack of trying. Too much on my mind and too many distractions, maybe . . . or, too much pressure. I heave out a sigh. All of the above.
I stare at my highlighted notecards and open textbooks. All I know for certain is, I need a break. Trying not to let my precarious notecard piles slide around, I climb off my bed. Milk and peanut butter cookies sound magical, and it just so happens, we have both.
When I open the door, I’m happy to see that Jesse’s bedroom light is off, which means he’s finally sleeping. Sleep isn’t usually a problem for him, except for nights after a big upset. Jesse’s always less predictable when my dad is home; his presence is a disturbance in the Force and Jesse is all about routine.
Tightening my ponytail, I make my way down the stairs and into the kitchen. I relish the quiet hours when the house is silent, and I feel like I’m in my own little bubble. I hear a few muffled words in my parent’s master suite, though, and I’m not the only one awake. My parents rarely argue these days—they barely talk to each other—so when they do, I know things are bad. Unable to resist, I take a step closer.
“ . . . you be a little more understanding?” my mom asks, and I like that she’s annoyed with him, even if she’d never confront him in front of us.
My dad doesn’t say anything, and for a minute, I panic that they know I’m outside their door.
“If I’m easy on him, he’ll stop trying to do better,” my dad finally says, and I roll my eyes. For being such an intelligent man, he’s stupid in so many ways, it’s actually cruel. I wonder if he’s ever once stopped to think about how his actions translate to Jesse.
“It doesn’t work like that, Charles,” my mom says evenly. “If you were around more, you’d actually see how well he’s doing. Every time you come home, you get him all riled up—” She stops abruptly, and I hear muffled movements before she speaks again. “If you’re angry with me, Charles, be angry with me. Leave the kids out of it. It’s not their fault,” she says more softly, maybe even a little desperate. “Jesse’s a boy, he needs a father, not a drill sergeant.”
“This is who I am, Laura. You knew what you were signing up for when we decided to make this work. I could’ve left, but I stayed—for you. For them.”
While the sharpness in his tone doesn’t surprise me, his words do. My parents are dysfunctional, but I didn’t realize my dad had made a decision to stay.
“You can’t make me a man I’m not, not after everything that’s happened. If you want Jesse to have a different father, then go find one. This is me, this is how I am. Period.”
My heart beats fervently, and I’m not even sure why. We’d all be happier if my mom left my dad, but something about this conversation doesn’t feel right.
“What about Bethany?” my mom asks.
“What about her?” The knot in my stomach returns and tightens at the coldness in his voice.
“You weren’t home ten minutes and you nearly had her in tears.” He doesn’t say anything.
I straighten and wipe away the unexpected dampness from my cheek.
“She’s still struggling, Charles.”
A dresser drawer closes, and my father finally speaks. “She’s always struggling.”
“She’s trying to make you happy.” My mom’s tone is almost frantic, and I can tell she’s exhausted, trying to make him understand, like me.
“No, she’s doing whatever the hell she wants. If she wanted to make me happy, she’d listen once in a while. She would’ve quit her job when she decided to double major—she wouldn’t have assumed she could handle a double major in the first place. Her grades would be up. She’s been fighting me the whole way, and look where it’s gotten her.”
“Maybe if you’d help, instead of throwing money at her—”
“Oh, and your relationship with her is so much better? When was the last time you even had a conversation with your kids? You work just as much as I do, so don’t try to make me the asshole.”
“You don’t need any help in that department,” she mutters.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
I take a step backward, caught somewhere between shock and fear of what they might say next.
“I’m trying to make this work,” my mom finally says, wearily.
“Yeah, since when?”
There’s a sudden chill in the air as I back further away from their room. The acid in my dad’s voice—the desperation in my mom’s—makes my heart ache for them. For me, and for Jesse. I don’t know how it came to all this, but we are beyond broken.
Twelve
Nick
If my dad hadn’t stormed out of our family dinner a couple nights ago, I wouldn’t have taken his blowing me off for breakfast this morning so personally. Should I be worried about him? The more I think about it all, the angrier I get. He hasn’t just been distant, lately he’s been almost absent.
As I pull into the parking lot at the U, my phone rings again, his fifth attempt to reach me this morning, and I finally pick up.
“Nicky?” he says, and I hear the surprise in his voice.
“I’m heading into class,” I tell him and shut the Explorer off. “I can’t talk right now.”
“Well, we need to, and soon.”
“We could’ve talked this morning,” I remind him. “I was there, waiting for you.”
“I know. I’m sorry, son.”
“What’s going on with you, Dad? This isn’t like you, at all.”
He heaves out a breath, and I can practically hear him shaking his head. “There’s a lot to say, and now’s not a good time, okay? I’m at the office. We’ll talk tonight.”
“Yeah, okay.” I don’t expect him to bear his soul in a room with his subordinates, so I don’t push him. “I’m gonna be late for class, I gotta go.” I end the call, staring at the darkening screen for a moment and wondering if I shouldn’t try harder to get some insight out of my mom. Thinking back, I wonder how I couldn’t tell something was wrong sooner than this. Clenching my hands, I let out a deep breath. Whatever is going on with them, it isn’t good.
When I look at the dash, my mom and dad fade away, and I grab my bag. “Goddammit.”
I hop out of the Explorer and slam the door shut behind me. I’m fucking late. I jog through the parking lot toward the quad. I know I won’t make it there in the two minutes I have until Professor Murray’s class officially starts, but I haul ass anyway. By the time I get to Building C, there are only a few students hustling around, which means I’m officially screwed.
When I get to Professor Murray’s lecture room, I brace myself and open the door. He’s addressing the class, writing down names as they shout them out. He glares at me as I hurry to an open seat in the second row, his eyebrow raised. “Nice of you to join us, Mr. Turner.” He looks back to the rest of the class.
“And, Miss Martinez, who will your partner be?” he asks as I pull out my notebook and peer at the person’s desk next to me to see what they’re talking about. There’s no handout and no one’s books are open yet.
“Debra Hess,” she replies, and the young women exchange a grin. Professor Murray calls out a few more names before the lecture room door opens again. Everyone stops chattering as Bethany walks in, her chest is heaving and her hair mussed, probably a lot like mine.
Professor Murray looks from Bethany to me. “Since you and Mr. Turner don’t seem to care who your project partners are, the two of you can work together.” He smiles with false amusement and
writes what I assume are our names down on his paper. “We’ll see if between the two of you, you can get your project completed on time.”
Heaving out what little air is left in my lungs, I lean my head down on the desk and silently groan. There are worse things than being her partner for a project, but this isn’t what I need right now.
I can smell her perfume before I hear her footsteps and apologies coming down my row. She slides into the empty seat beside me and pulls out her things.
“Partners?” she whispers. “For what?”
I look at her, already exhausted from this day. “I have no idea.”
Bethany glances at her phone, adjusting it to silent, when I see a text message pop up on her screen. I don’t mean to pry, but I read the message without thought.
Mom: Your father and I have late meetings tonight. I need you to pick up Jesse after class.
Heaving a sigh, she shoves her phone into her purse.
“If you’ve learned anything in this class this past semester,” Professor Murray begins, “it’s that design is mostly about planning. It’s about the bigger picture and, even more than that, it’s about making your client happy. Luckily for you, there is no real client, however, I expect a full mock-up of a room design, as if there were. I want a written proposal, an estimate, and a budget of no less than ten thousand, complete with an image board, list of possible vendors—the whole gamut. I want to know what your project is, what purpose it’s serving, and what it’s going to look like and cost in the end.”
“Professor Murray?” one of the students asks a few seats down.
“Yes, Mr. Mallory?”
“When’s this project due?”
“I want everything on my desk by May first.”
The class groans and his eyes narrow. “I’m happy to move the deadline up a little, if you’d like.”
“No, May first is great,” Chuck says regretfully. “Just checking.”
“Good. Three weeks should be plenty of time for this, especially given you all have partners.” Professor Murray’s eyes land on Bethany and then on me, and I glare back at him. This is an elective for me, and I don’t have the patience for this today.
“This is going to act as one of two final grades for this class,” he continues. “So, prioritize it accordingly. I’m going to give you the rest of class to meet with your partner to outline and plan. If it looks like you aren’t using your time wisely, we’ll dive into the next chapter in your Integrative Theories coursework and focus on historical architecture trends in modern societies.”
Everyone groans.
“Riveting, I know.” His gaze shifts around the room. “Well, then, get to it.”
This isn’t happening. My tolerance has reached its limit this morning after only two hours of sleep, spilled coffee on my jeans, my non-breakfast with my dad, and because of him, being late to class. I don’t have the bandwidth to deal with Bethany right now, too.
She turns to face me fully. “Well,” she says, her voice as prickly as I feel, “this is going to be interesting.”
“Yep.” I lean back in my seat and cross my arms over my chest. Then, we stare at one another. Her eyes are duller than I remember, with dark shadows, like she’s exhausted. “Late night?” I ask, though I’m not sure why I care.
“Something like that,” she says, brushing off my comment. She picks up her pencil, poised for note-taking. “We’re going to need time outside of class to work on this. Maybe we should start by figuring out a meeting schedule.” She pulls her teal-cased phone from her bag and scans her calendar. “Thursdays are out, those are my nights with Jesse. I could do Saturdays, though—mornings are best.”
I nod. “Fine. I’m assuming we should meet at the Falls Library?”
“That works. We should meet this weekend so we can get started, if you’re available. We can divvy up the tasks and just check in through email or texts after that.”
I only half-hear her as I make a note to meet up with her this Saturday, then a text pops up from my dad.
Dad: Crap. I can’t do tonight.
Of course he can’t. I shove my phone into my pocket.
“Study date on . . . Saturday,” Bethany mutters and her fingers flutter over the screen. “I’ll bring the coffee.” She clicks off her phone.
A study date, really? The absurdity of our situation is too much, and I can’t help but laugh, which only makes Bethany’s frown deepen.
“What?” Her eyes turn to slits, and she heaves out a breath. “What’s the problem?”
“This is hilarious. Me and you—partners—planning study dates. It just proves my theory.”
Bethany lifts a perfect eyebrow and pulls her glossy bottom lip between her teeth. It only irritates me more. “Do I even want to know?” she asks.
“Sure—it’s like a game. The powers that be are toying with us. They’re testing me. It’s really funny, if you think about it.”
“You know what, Nick? You can laugh about this all you want, but this isn’t a joke to me. I need a good grade on this project, and if that means we have to suck it up and get over our shit, then I’m willing to do that. Are you?”
I’m a little stunned by her severity. “Our shit?”
“Yes,” she bites back. “Our shit. This—you. Your attitude.”
“This is because of you, one hundred percent.” I gesture between us.
“Really? And what did I do, exactly?” Bethany huffs and leans back in her seat.
“I have a whole list,” I tell her easily. “How much time do you have?”
She almost looks disgusted with me. “What are you, five?”
Knowing she’s feeling an ounce of the frustration I feel around her gives me a teensy bit of satisfaction, even if I know it’s juvenile. I’m tired of her indifference toward me, and right now she’s a captive audience.
When I don’t say anything, a sneer parts her lips like I’ve never seen. “You’re unbelievable. Did you drop your rose-colored glasses this morning, and on top of that, you have to have me as a partner? I’ve made your mood worse, haven’t I?” She tsks, mocking me.
“You don’t know anything about my morning,” I grind out.
“Yeah, your perfect life must suck.” She leans forward again, a venomous gleam in her eyes. “I’ll figure this out on my own. I don’t have time for this . . . Find a new partner.”
It all happens so fast, I don’t realize she’s gathered her things and exited the room until the door slams shut behind her. I don’t even have time to process anything before Professor Murray walks toward me.
I silently curse myself.
“Mr. Turner,” he drawls, glancing around the room at the students huddled in pairs. “Is there going to be an issue working with Miss Fairchild?”
I can’t bring myself to say yes, so I shake my head and stare out the door, wanting to go after her, if only to set the record straight. “No, sir,” I say instead. “We just had a misunderstanding.”
“See that it gets straightened out, Mr. Turner. Both of your graduations depend upon it.”
I nod again. It’s all I can do without losing my shit.
Thirteen
Nick
Three Years Ago
Hip-hop and laughter reach my ears before the roaring fire comes into view beyond the dunes. People collect around it, students and post-graduates alike, excited for the first official summer bonfire of the year. Despite Sam’s frown and slow footsteps, I think tonight might actually be fun, which we all desperately need.
I glance back at her and Mac. “Sam, if you keep making that face, no one is going to talk to you tonight,” I warn. “Which defeats the purpose of getting out and living a little.”
“Yeah, come on, Sam,” Mac says, nudging her a little. The wind picks up, catching Mac’s dark hair in a frenzy. She smooths it down and leans in to loop her arm through Sam’s, tugging her closer. “You need to join the land of the young, wild, and free again at some point. Tonight’s as good a night
as any, right? Booze, shadows to hide in, enough people-watching to keep you distracted . . . Besides, you love the beach, and it’s a beautiful night.” I can hear the concern beneath layers of pep and joviality in Mac’s voice, a concern we both share. But, whether it’s a girl thing or just their friendship, Mac has a way with Sam that I never will. So, I walk a little further ahead, trying to give them more space.
“I know it’s hard, Sam,” Mac continues, “but it’s been months. You can’t stay holed-up at the ranch forever. Your dad wouldn’t want you to miss out on your life because of him.” Her voice is low but soft, and she’s got Sam this close to the land of the living again, which is saying something.
“Look, I appreciate your intervention, you guys,” Sam says loud enough for me to hear. “But this isn’t about Papa right now.”
“It’s not?” Mac glances between us.
Sam shakes her head. “No—well, not really.”
Shoving my hands in my sweatshirt, I stop and wait for them to pass me, curious to hear her answer.
Sam shrugs. “What if they’re here?” she finally says. Her gaze shifts from me to Mac, and then to the fire on the beach. “Mike and Bethany—together—is the last thing I want to see tonight.” She looks down at her feet, trying not to stumble in the sand.
I don’t want to see Mike—or Bethany, for that matter—any more than Sam does. Looking back into the throng of partiers, I search for familiar faces in the dying sunlight. There are some, but none unwanted, that I can see.
“I doubt Mike will be here,” Mac finally says, and we stop at the outskirts of the party. “At least, he better not be.” She grumbles the last part.
“And if he is?” There’s a plea in Sam’s voice, one I’ve grown familiar with over the past five months, even if I’ll never get used to it. It’s the tone she uses when she’s not ready for us to leave her with her thoughts; the desperate side of her that can’t understand why Mike would treat her the way he did when they were so happy. It’s a different Sam, a broken Sam.
Told You So_A Saratoga Falls Love Story Page 9