The Second Chance (Inferno Falls Book Three)

by Aubrey Parker

But it’s not his fault. It’s not even close to his fault, something soft within me screams. Even if everything would be different, now, if he’d never left. I’m broken. For a while, Grady loved me in spite of how I am, but now he’s not here.

  “Is Mac awake?”

  “I just put her down,” Mom says. “She heard your car pull in.”

  “But you put her to bed anyway?”

  “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to take her back with you tonight or not.”

  Shit. I hate the way she put that. Now it’s a decision. I can leave her here in order to knock off the dust of a difficult day if I’d like, but doing so would make me a monster. She’ll be happy here, and I won’t let my bullshit touch her. Nobody will know just how selfish a choice that would be, except me. And as someone whose dignity and self-respect have taken a beating for the past nine years, I can’t afford to think bad of myself right now. I want to feel good. I need to feel wanted. But I can’t be the mother who leaves her daughter just so she can score her two-legged drug.

  “Of course I want to take her home.”

  Mom shrugs. I feel like I should get applause for making the tough choice, but nobody can know I’ve made it. Like any professional addict, I hide my addiction well. Everyone thinks I’m a good little girl. A girl who goes to church with her parents every now and then, who still manages to volunteer in the scant time she has. A girl who believes in God. But I’m none of those things. Not for real. I never have been and never will be. To my parents, I was a sinner just one time. It was a slip. Their denial won’t let them believe that I was always wild, that I’ve slapped their convictions in the face hundreds of times before and after, over and over.

  When no congratulations come — when Mom and Dad both act like I’ve said something obvious that involved no internal deliberations — I walk up the stairs. The plodding is hard because until I’m at the top, I’ll only want harder. It was a hideous day and an even more terrible second shift, wherein Ed rode me like a rented mule. Roxanne practically pushed crap onto the floor in my path until she left for the night, and did so with a sneer … and, somehow, a reminder that she makes better tips than I do because she’s a better waitress and much prettier.

  I got a smoking-hot customer during my second shift. He had an ivory smile and wasn’t shy about flashing it. Most guys who eat by themselves are shy or awkward or all business, preferring to be left alone. This one wasn’t. He seemed to be eating only to tempt me. He wasn’t wearing a ring. He told me he thought my hair was like fire. He said his name was “Chadd with two d’s,” all in one phrase, like the full thing was what everyone called him. He didn’t try to give me his phone number. But I know where he is right now.

  I can still turn around. I can still take it back. In fact, I can talk to Mackenzie, tuck her in, and make her think it’s her decision to stay. Grandma makes chocolate chip pancakes, and if she stays over, they’ll be waiting for her in the morning. I’d never make chocolate chip pancakes as a matter of course because they’re not very healthy. And I always do what’s best for my baby girl.

  Like not disappointing her, yet again, by making a promise to pick her up early so we can do something together then breaking it.

  Like not leaving her in perfectly capable and loving hands, if the reason is because I want to satisfy my carnal itch.

  Still, despite beating myself up, the last few steps aren’t easy. I’ve conditioned myself that when things get hard, a release follows. I feel terrible and guilty. Those awful feelings feed my lust. The worse I feel, the more inclined I am to slip, and do something that will make me feel so much worse.

  Like I am what I fear I am.

  Like I’m a bad mother. A bad daughter. A bad friend. A bad person.

  But when I arrive at the guest bedroom door — which used to be my bedroom, with my trusty escape tree still right outside the window — I find my little girl sitting up with the covers pooled around her waist. This was a rescue from daycare, so she’s still in her day clothes.

  “Mom!” she says, her face brightening.

  I feel something shatter inside like a dropped vase. All the wrong impulses flee in an instant, and I almost want to sigh with relief. Already, I can’t believe what I was considering. Leaving my daughter here so I could run off and find a hot guy who smiled at me? What kind of a person would do something like that?

  I go to her, smiling. Mackenzie is and always has been a smile maker. She’s the kind of person who brightens a room, and not just because she’s a kid. I’m sure she’ll be as much of a beacon when she’s an adult. One of those people others love to be around because she makes them feel better about themselves, their world, their future, everything.

  When I look into my little girl’s eyes, I can almost believe that everything will be all right.

  I won’t be alone forever. We won’t be alone forever.

  Mackenzie isn’t going to grow up with her father for sure, but maybe there’s someone else out there, somewhere, who’ll fill the job. Not someone like Chadd. His hotness isn’t the same as tenderness and responsibility. We deserve someone kind. Someone who loves us both. Someone who’s enough for me every night, even if all we’re doing is only sitting side by side. I’ve never had that — that simplicity of a proper adult relationship.

  My parents have been together forever, and interestingly it’s the boring moments between them that fascinate me most. The way Dad reads his paper and Mom ignores him to make her stupid crafts to sell on Etsy. I’ve never been in a relationship that had enough breathing room — enough confidence in itself — to be boring. With Grady, things were always fun and exciting. With everyone else, even when I’ve tried to have dates, I’ve usually let them settle to the lowest common denominator. Interestingly, what intrigues me most today is the idea of a relationship that sometimes just is. A family that has the space, in its abundance of unity, to take itself for granted.

  To have so much love, affection, and comfort that there simply isn’t any way to make it all riveting. A normal life, with as many stand-stills as thrilling ups and downs. Yes, I could do that.

  When I look into Mackenzie’s eyes, I can almost believe it’s all possible. It’s all likely. I took a decade’s detour to have my kid, waitressing to make ends meet. But any time I want, I can resume studying in the time I have. I can go back to school and pick up where I left off.

  Mac and I can travel like I always wanted to. We can get out and see the world.

  It’s not a pipe dream.

  It’s not impossible.

  It’s not like we’re living day to day, paycheck to paycheck, as I refuse to take my parents’ charity.

  I’m so conflicted as I hug her — hope and desperation brewing, with accents of hurt and guilt and even the echoes of longing — that I want to cry. And it must show because after I let go, she’s inspecting me with her big blue eyes, an older-than-her-years stare assessing me as if I’m transparent.

  I’m sure she’ll tell me about her day. About Grandpa picking her up and bringing her here, to take her on a tour of his latest dollhouse.

  I’m sure she’ll ask why I was late, without judgment or blame or disappointment.

  I’m sure she’ll wonder if we can do something tomorrow, which is something I’ll fall all over myself to promise, for sure, without reservation, of course, because I’m not a monster, really I’m not.

  But Mackenzie says none of those things.

  Sitting upright in my old bed in my old room, seeing my tears, she says, “It’ll all be okay, Mommy.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Maya

  I find Mackenzie building with Legos in the morning. She’s trying to make something grand and tottering, but I can tell just by looking, as I make my coffee, that it’s not to her satisfaction. She’s wearing that frustrated face she gets. Looking at her when she’s like this, it’s hard to believe she’s only nine. She could be forty, working as a civil engineer.

  “What’cha makin, Honey?”

 
; “It’s a birdhouse.” She’s somehow tied a string to the roof — barely more than a pile and hardly connected. She lifts the string to show me how the thing will hang, and it all falls apart.

  Some kids would cry when their creation breaks. Some would get angry. Not Mackenzie. No. She gets disapproving, as if the house has gone out of its way to offend her.

  “Dang.” She crosses her arms to show the pile of Legos who’s boss.

  “Birdhouses are hard, Sweetie.”

  “I tried a dollhouse first.”

  Oh. That breaks my heart a little. Because her grandfather makes dollhouses, and she’s emulating the only male role model she has. Because I haven’t given her another. There were times, in the past, when I thought I could date — not hook up, but actually date. Those times, Mac did meet a few of the guys. The encounters, as I remember, only confused her. The guys weren’t into the idea of inheriting my kid and were awkward around her, conversing with me and pretending she wasn’t there. To my credit, I kicked them all to the curb because their displays so repulsed me, but that doesn’t mean I did Mackenzie’s development any favors.

  “Dollhouses are even harder. Especially with Legos. That’s why Grandpa uses wood.”

  “Can I use wood?”

  “You need nails and screws and stuff too. And the wood needs to be cut just so.”

  “Can you show me how?”

  “I’m sorry, Sweetie. I don’t know how to build birdhouses. Maybe Grandpa can show you sometime.”

  She puts on a frumpy face. “Grandpa doesn’t like anyone there when he’s working. Even Grandma.”

  Ah, yes. I remember it well. Woodworking, for my father, is meditation. I once got him to let me watch him make a chair, but my many questions ensured that it never happened again.

  I’m not sure what to say, so I finish making the coffee. I watch Mackenzie from the corner of my eye as I do, watching her gather spilled Legos. She’s already made a failed birdhouse after making her disaster of a dollhouse. She’s been at it forever.

  “How long have you been up, Baby?”

  She shrugs. She can tell time just fine, but she seldom bothers. “Dunno.”

  I try to see the living room wall clock, but even in our tiny house a corner manages to impede me. I reach for my cell phone instead, which I’ve left plugged in overnight to charge. When I touch it to see the time, I notice a missed call and the voicemail to go with it. Curious, I unplug the thing and pick it up.

  “Mommy?” Mackenzie says. “Can I take shop class in school?”

  “I think you’re a little young for shop class.”

  “I could do shop class,” she pouts.

  I hop to my phone’s voicemail and touch the new message. I don’t recognize the number. It didn’t come in terribly late, just, like, 11 p.m., but I was zonked. Between Ed and Nosh Pit stuff and the way I managed to deny myself, I was beat. I took a bath after putting Mac to bed then detached the spray nozzle and made myself come twice. It relieved some of my tension, but it wasn’t the same. A spray nozzle isn’t warm, unless the water makes it that way. It won’t hold you. It won’t tell you you’re pretty. I guess a spray nozzle is a touch illicit because it’s not something I’m dying to do in public, but there’s also no adrenaline thrill. It’s not new. It doesn’t pursue you, and you don’t take the power back when you’re ready.

  “Mom?”

  Barely paying attention, I say, “Yes, Baby?”

  “Can I do Brownies?”

  “We don’t have any.”

  The voicemail is playing in my ear. I hear clunks as someone prepares to speak, then there’s a voice I recognize. A voice I’d rather not hear because I really do want to hear it. A lot.

  “No, Mom. Like Girl Scouts?”

  “What about Girl Scouts?”

  “Brownies.”

  “Girl Scouts sell cookies,” I say.

  “No, I mean — ”

  “Shh, hang on, Mackenzie!” I snap. “I’m trying to hear this.”

  She stops immediately, and I feel terrible. But it only lasts a second because now that she’s quiet, I can scroll the message back and listen from the beginning.

  It’s from Chadd.

  I guess I gave him my number.

  I guess I wanted him to call me.

  And I guess that despite what I’d like to believe right now, I gave him the wrong impression — meaning I gave him exactly the impression I meant to give him last night (i.e., that I’m interested in seeing him). But that I’m not really looking for a relationship, at all.

  Jesus. I can’t believe I did that. Except that I’ve done it so many times before. Because his smile was the kind that melts me. And because he told me my hair looked like fire.

  Mackenzie is watching me. There’s a horrible second where I think she overheard the suggestive message, but then I realize she’s just waiting until I’m done with the phone so we can speak again.

  I set the phone and its tempting contents on the countertop. I wish he hadn’t called. I wish I hadn’t been stupid enough to give him my number. I wish those things because with his interest there on the counter in front of me, it’s going to be terribly hard, the way I’ve felt over the past day, to resist. It’s like I’ve decided to diet, and that’s the day someone backs a truck of hot, fresh donuts up in front of my house then opens the door and offers them for free. I don’t like having access to what I shouldn’t have and desperately want. I need those things kept from me, shuttled away under lock and key.

  Mackenzie’s soft blue eyes are still on me, saucer sized inside her halo of fine blonde hair. It’s getting long again, and in the mornings it’s such a mess. Her look is polite but expectant. The kind that requires an answer.

  I pick up the phone. Feeling like I’m leaping into a frigid pool to get it over with, I stab the delete button. Infuriatingly, the phone doesn’t simply delete Chadd’s message. It asks me if I’m sure. I have to summon my will again and tell it that I’m definitely sure. Then the temptation is gone. The free donut truck has been sent away, and I have no idea where it’s going.

  Today isn’t about me. Today is about Mackenzie, and repairing what I’m increasingly afraid is slowly breaking.

  “Okay,” I say. “All done.”

  “Brownies.”

  “Where is this coming from?” I ask.

  “Alice is in Brownies.”

  “Yeah? And does she like it?”

  “She says it’s great.”

  “I do like Girl Scout cookies.”

  “There’s more than cookie selling, Mom.”

  I hold up my hands in surrender. “Of course.” I should know. Mom had me in Scouts, too. I did all the right stuff, down to choir. And as much as the Holland family helped out in the church community, shilling cookies was easy. I was always one of the top three sellers in my troop, and once I was number one. My mother was so proud.

  “So can I?”

  “We’ll see.”

  I turn because my coffee is ready, but halfway through my rotation back to the front room, I pause and think about what I just said. We’ll see is the parental equivalent of We’ll take it under advisement. It’s what I say all the time then file away and never act on. I could keep fooling myself into believing that Mackenzie hasn’t figured that out and that she believes that WE WILL ACTUALLY SEE this time, but she’s smarter than that. We’ll see is like death. Once a proposition goes into We’ll see, it rarely if ever returns.

  I stop, add half-and-half and a packet of sweetener to my coffee, then come around the counter to sit beside Mackenzie on the floor amid the Lego detritus. She looks over at me, indicating a possible breach of protocol.

  “Tell you what, Sweetie. I’ll text Alicia’s mother today and find out the details of where her group meets.”

  Mackenzie brightens. On one hand, seeing her light up that way lifts my ambivalent spirits, but on the other hand it bothers me a little. The fact that she’d seemed acquiescent before but outright hopeful now means she sees
through my bullshit as much as I’d feared. How many other times has she pretended to understand and believe me, but has, in fact, known it would never happen?

  Did she believe me yesterday, when I promised to pick her up so we could do something together? Or did she know I’d break my word yet again? It doesn’t even matter that I had a good excuse. The way things go in our lives, there’s always some sort of excuse, good or not.

  Worse, did she think I was full of crap last night when I promised — for really, really real this time — to spend today with her? It’s Saturday, and I don’t work until five. We have plenty of time, if we focus and do a bunch of only-us stuff rather than home chores and other things that really need doing.

  I meant it last night. But then again, I always mean it.

  “Today? Really?”

  The way I am, I know I might slack if I let myself. So I set my coffee on the table, retrieve my phone from the kitchen, and return to my place beside Mackenzie. I type a text to Sandy, show it to Mackenzie, then hit Send.

  “Done.”

  She leans forward and hugs me. All I can think right now is that inquiring isn’t doing, and there’s every chance in the world that Sandy will reply that the group meets at a time when I need to work. I can ask my parents to take her if they’re unencumbered; they’re both retired and don’t do all that much. But when I got pregnant as early as I did, I swore up and down that they wouldn’t end up raising their grandchild. They wouldn’t need to support us, and we wouldn’t live with them. I’ve mostly kept that promise, and it’s one thing I’m proud of. This little place isn’t much, but I pay for it myself, and we don’t share walls with neighbors. There’s a tiny yard, and we can hike to Reed Creek. Every time I have to ask my folks to do something a proper mother should do for her kid, it feels a bit like taking charity. Like I’m not good enough, and they’re having to rescue me after all.

  I’ve asked about Brownies, but that doesn’t mean that Mackenzie will be able to join.

  “Alice says it’s great. They make crafts and take walks and stuff. And she says it’s nice because she doesn’t have to be around her brother.”