by Ashley Drew
RileyJones127: :P
KelleyNick1715: We should hang out.
RileyJones127: We just hung out.
RileyJones127: We always hang out. :)
KelleyNick1715: I know.
KelleyNick1715: I’m talking about you and me.
KelleyNick1715: Just the two of us.
RileyJones127: I don’t know…
RileyJones127: Braiden might get jealous. :)
KelleyNick1715: He’ll survive.
RileyJones127: In that case…
RileyJones127: I’d love to. :)
KelleyNick1715: Friday night?
RileyJones127: I think I can pencil you in. :)
KelleyNick1715: It’s a date.
I hate spaghetti.
Okay, I don’t really hate it. I really love it actually, especially when it’s made home-style with a chunky tomato meat sauce, mixed with some chopped baby bellas, and sprinkled with fresh parmesan cheese.
But if Henry Bennett thinks he can fix our problems with my favorite food, thinks that somehow after all of these years he still knows me, then he is in for a big reality check.
I think I might dislike everything he thinks I like this week. Like if he strikes up a conversation about the Giants, I’ll say I follow the Yankees now. Or if he tries to get me to watch a horror flick, I’ll tell him those films bore me to death. Or if he offers me a glass of wine, I’ll politely decline and say I don’t drink.
Okay, maybe that last one was a bad example, but you see where I’m going with this. Super mature, I know.
“It’s not your favorite dish?” Anabel asks through my contemplative silence, and I sense the disappointment in her voice as she stirs the pot, strands of her graying brown hair falling out of her bun and around her face. She brushes them away with the back of her hand. “Mr. Bennett said it was.”
Dammit, if it didn’t smell like the Olive Garden in here and this woman wasn’t so gosh darn sweet with her rosy, chubby cheeks, then I’d probably ante up the bitch mode and start opposite week before I even see my father. It absolutely irks me he would have spoken to Anabel like he still knows me, but at the same time, what happened between he and I occurred long before she was hired. She probably knows little to nothing about the rift in our relationship, and I’m sure she isn’t getting paid enough to deal with the bitchy daughter she just met.
“It is my favorite. Thank you, Anabel. It smells delicious.”
Her frown turns into a pleased smile as she stirs the sauce. “I hope it is how you like it. Your mama was so kind to give me her recipe.”
Oh, was she now? That darn Evelyn Bennett. She was probably the one who gave Henry the idea to welcome me home with my favorite dish. As if my broken relationship with my dad could magically repair itself at first bite.
Well, I guess it could happen. It would have to be one fucking amazing dish, like Julia Child herself would have to whip it up. So, I hate to tell ya, Ma, as much as I love it, it ain’t gonna happen with spaghetti.
Heat radiates from the pot, and Anabel covers it with a lid, wiping away the moisture along her forehead as the August swelter sweeps through the kitchen.
“Why don’t we get you settled in your room before your father comes home? He should be here shortly.”
She shimmies ahead of me through the kitchen, dragging my suitcase in tow, and I feel like such an ass. Anabel is practically half my size and double my age, and she looks like she may topple over from hauling the weight of it. But I don’t do anything about it because my attention is too focused on the house, one that was once my house. And Anabel is taking me to my room. Although, I don’t know if that room is mine any more than this house is.
I mean, it certainly looks like my house on the outside, the same two-story Victorian home, its age visible in the exterior’s warping mustard paint and in the splitting wood along the edges of the nine gables.
And the inside looks like my house too. The same replica Monets and Van Goghs adorn the cream-colored hallway walls. The brown leather couch, looking worn and tattered, remains in the same spot it has occupied in the living room for the past twenty-plus years, with every other piece of furniture accounted for. Even the way the light filters down through the skylight and floods the staircase still makes me want to burst out the lyrics to Stairway to Heaven, rocking out on my imaginary Fender as I climb to the top of the landing. If Anabel wasn’t here, I might be tempted to do it.
It isn’t until we reach my old bedroom on the second floor do the knots begin to form in my stomach. Following Anabel, I carefully scan the room, noticing every piece of furniture still in the same position—the brass bed, the wooden roll-top desk and swivel chair, the pink dresser—the two Radiohead posters I bought at a concert years ago hanging directly above the bed, and the bookcase, cluttered with stacks upon stacks of CDs and books and the most awful collection of rainbow-colored Troll dolls. I don’t remember how and why I ever started collecting those things because they’re pretty hideous.
I place my purse on the chair, walk across the room toward the antique brass bed, and brush the posts lightly with my fingertips. It’s dust free, and I’m surprised by how clean the room has been kept, considering nobody has been living in it.
“You won’t find a speck of dust in here,” Anabel acknowledges as she pulls back the eggplant-colored curtains lining the floor to ceiling window, allowing the natural light to softly spill into the room. “I clean this room every week. Mr. Bennett’s request.”
Every week? I would have expected her to say she recently cleaned it in preparation of my arrival, but every week? There is only one reason why he’d ask her to do that—he’s been holding out hope for my return for a long time. A pang of guilt tears at my heart. But the moment I reflect on everything that’s happened, I yank that piece of my heart right back and take a fist to that guilt, sending it all the way to kingdom come.
I continue my careful examination of the room and open the closet doors and armoire drawers, brushing my fingers lightly across the articles of clothing I left behind—and thank goodness for that. Just looking at some of the things I wore back then, and I have a ‘what was I thinking?’ moment, like the casts of My So-Called Life and Blossom joined forces and threw up all over my closet. I did own a mirror back then, didn’t I?
Well, this definitely looks like my house. And it certainly looks like my room. Even the view from the balcony overlooking the front yard looks like mine: the weeping willow swaying with the wind, a tire swing dangling from one of its branches, the thriving green hillside across the road with the little farmhouse perched on top of it.
But none of it feels like mine, like none of it actually belongs to me but some old version of me instead—the version of me that almost allowed the world to break her. This is her home. Not mine.
I stand in front of the dresser, laying my forearms on top of it, and I’m met by my reflection in the mirror. My exhaustion is evident in the dark crescent-shaped patches tucked beneath my brown eyes, and despite my mother always calling me a natural beauty, I feel anything but. Feeling haggard and worn, I wish I had dabbed on a bit of makeup this morning. Perhaps then, I’d look less shitty. Or at least feel less shitty. Or maybe I should quit looking at myself in this damn mirror, and that should help with all the shittiness.
My focus turns to the lone photograph clinging to the corner of the mirror. I study it, as if I don’t recognize the two people in it. I admire the boy, whose nose is nudged up against the cheek of the smiling girl sitting next to him, his arm resting casually over her shoulder with nothing but a cloudless blue sky behind them. I pick up the photo, brushing my thumb over the boy. All the while, my heart skips erratically—out of beat, out of sync, and out of control.
I need to get out of here.
“Actually Anabel,” I interrupt her as she straightens out the bed covers. “If you don’t mind, I want to stay in the guest house.”
Anabel stops moving, her thick eyebrows scrunched into a confused scowl.
She’s known me all of twenty minutes, and she probably already hates me. Though I feel bad that she lugged my suitcase all the way up here, there is no way I can stay in this room.
“Okay, no problem. I’ll make up the guest house for you.”
I give her an appreciative smile, exhaling a sigh of relief I didn’t realize I had been holding. I follow her out of the bedroom and close the door behind me.
I won’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t succumb to yesterday. Yesterday makes me weak and vulnerable, and I can’t let that get to me. I’m Corinne Bennett—confident, fearless, and certainly not vulnerable.
Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.
A deep orange glow permeates the tops of the trees as twilight blooms like poppies across the evening sky. I stroll down Mill Road, admiring the beauty surrounding my childhood home in the outskirts of the Santa Cruz Mountains. The urban annoyances of car honks and sirens are silenced by the harmonious chirps of the blue jays and the whistle of the wind. No matter how much time I’ve spent away, this hasn’t changed, and I find comfort in that.
Another thing that hasn’t changed? My awkward relationship with my father. You might think that after so much time, the awkwardness would start to fizzle out, but it does the opposite. With six strained years between us, he couldn’t feel more like a stranger to me than the random New Yorkers I sit next to on the subway every day.
When Henry took me in his arms, I could feel him savoring the moment, allowing the past six years to collapse into one unrelenting hug. I, on the other hand, let my arms merely dangle at my sides.
My reunion with Jamie was on a whole other level of weird. I don’t know if I would even call it a reunion. What do you call seeing the person that single-handedly wrecked your family for the first time since you discovered your family was actually being wrecked? A word doesn’t exist. I could have been rude, but I wasn’t. Then again, I’ve only been here for a few hours and have an entire week ahead of me.
My cell phone rings. When I glance at the caller ID, my lips curl up in a smile, and I answer it.
“I was beginning to think you had forgotten about me,” the deep voice on the other end says.
My smile widens. “On the contrary. I am missing you so much right now, Cooper.”
I gaze down at the gorgeous, over-the-top, three-carat Cartier diamond shining radiantly on my left ring finger.
“Ditto that. How’re you doing, baby?”
I hoped Cooper’s smooth voice would put my anxiety at ease, but strangely, it doesn’t. “Much better now that I’m talking to you,” I lie. “Is work keeping you busy?”
“More than busy. I have a couple of Upper East Side estates closing escrow in a couple of days. Big deals for the firm and for me, and yet not busy enough to keep me from missing you like crazy. I would much rather be with you right now, holding you, kissing you…” Cooper’s voice trails off, leaving me wanting more.
“You are the smooth talker, aren’t you, Mr. Reed?”
“Only because you encourage me, soon-to-be Mrs. Reed.”
As I continue to meander, my fingertips graze the tall willow plants growing alongside the road when I really wished they were grazing the curves of Cooper’s square jawline, or disheveling his neatly-combed, dirty-blond hair.
“Before I forget, baby, can you please get in touch with Mateo? He has been blowing up my phone all day about the tuxes. Not to mention the three times he called the office line. I know he’s your best person and it’s his job to make sure we are on top of everything, but when I told him to contact me with any wedding questions, I didn’t mean twice an hour, every hour. The man works, doesn’t he?”
I imagine that visual and giggle—Cooper crunching numbers at his desk, ready to close a deal when his assistant buzzes through the intercom, breaking any and all concentration because Mateo needs to speak with him about cuff links.
“I must say, the guy’s got style. And he does want you and the boys to look your best. That’s dedication.”
“Dedication? He is driving me fucking insane!” I hear the defeat in his heavy sigh. “Why didn’t I listen to you when you suggested a Vegas wedding?”
“It’s not too late!”
“I know you’d love that, baby,” Cooper points out. “My only regret of not going through with your plan is making you my wife before you change your mind.” A low chuckle rises out of his throat, and despite the mockery of his tone, I sense a little bit of truth in his remark.
“I love you, Coop,” I assure.
A brief silence passes between us before he asks, “How are things going with your father?”
I give him the play-by-play of the awkward family reunion, kicking around pieces of broken pavement as I walk down the road. When he senses my anxiety, he reminds me to take it one day at a time, that ultimately, if I can’t work out my differences with Henry, I can go back to New York knowing I tried, and our wedding will go on as planned. The last thing I wanted was to see my dad and Jamie on what should be the happiest day of my life, only to have it turn into a complete shit show.
By the time I hang up with Cooper, darkness shrouds the sky’s moonlit canvas. I’ve walked aimlessly, not realizing I’ve reached the end of the road until I’m standing in front of a very familiar house—one I’ve spent countless days and nights in—and in front of it is a very familiar Jeep parked in the driveway. Heat radiates from the vehicle’s hood, signifying that it’s been driven recently, and my eyes immediately go to the front door of the house.
Calm down there, I whisper to my heart. It’s just a car.
I stand at the edge of the Kelleys’ driveway, staring at the black Jeep Wrangler. Dirt and road dust have made a home for themselves in the scratches and dings of its exterior, the years of wear and tear beginning to chip away at the black paint. Even as it ages away, the memories of long drives along the coast while Nick and I chased gorgeous sunsets and got lost in deep conversation, remain fresh in my mind.
The front door of the house opens and quickly shuts, and the shuffling of feet against the rocky gravel moves toward me. Caught off guard, I briskly walk in the other direction but not before I hear my name being called, halting me in my tracks.
“Corinne?”
It’s not the voice I expect to hear, but still familiar. I turn. “Tess?” It comes out as a question, and I don’t know why because it’s clearly her. My anxiety hides beneath a forced smile, and I’m unsure if I should approach Tess with a hug or remain where I am. The surprised yet unwelcoming expression written across her face tells me to stay put. “It’s been a long time.”
She stares blankly at me, stunned. “You’re telling me,” she responds coldly.
An uncomfortable silence settles in as we stare at one another. Crickets chirp all around us; they couldn’t be more on cue. It’s so awkward, I wonder if channeling my inner Jiminy Cricket and bursting out in song will lighten the mood, since it’s something Tess would have gotten a kick out of before. The grimace on her face says otherwise.
Thankfully, she tears through the silence, saving me the embarrassment. “What are you doing here?”
“Visiting my father for the week. I arrived this afternoon…and I’m here for a week,” I stutter, scolding myself for my redundant answer. Good one, Corinne.
The irritated scowl on her normally angelic-like face says she’s anything but happy to see me. Growing up, Tess looked up to me like an older sister, and it only makes me uneasy when the younger Kelley’s light green, puppy-dog eyes stare me down with disdain as she combs her hand through her wavy auburn hair.
There’s no one to blame but myself for that. After cutting off the people I cared about most in the world, did I actually think they’d throw out the ticker tape and call out the marching band, welcoming me back with open arms?
“How are you?” I ask casually, inching forward but stopping when Tess steps back.
“Fine. Does anyone else know you’re here?”
As vague as she
tries to sound, I know exactly who she means by anyone else, and even if she didn’t actually say his name, my heart beat just sped up.
“Just my father and Jamie.”
“Uh-huh,” Tess smirks. “Wait, didn’t you and Mr. Bennett have a falling out?” She taps her chin. “I thought I heard something about that when you ran away and ditched us all.”
She’s trying to ruffle my feathers. I don’t let it get to me because it’s only natural she would be acting this way.
“That is one of the reasons for my visit.”
“One of the reasons? So what’s the other?” She cocks her head to the side, batting her eyelashes and awaiting a response.
I correct myself almost immediately. “I mean, that is the reason. We’re trying to work things out. You look great, by the way,” I regard sincerely but to no response.
I don’t know what else to say, but because the Jeep stands as the pink elephant in the room, my stupidity steers the conversation in that direction. “You’re driving the old Jeep now? I can’t believe that thing still has life left in it after all this time,” I joke as my eyes dart to it. “So many memories.”
Tess crosses her arms and scoffs. “Actually, I just borrowed it. It still belongs to Nicholas.”
Night approaches, bringing the temperature down to a cool sixty degrees, but the sound of his name being said aloud makes my cheeks flush.
“As much as I would love to take a walk down memory lane with you,” she says sarcastically, “I am super late for work and need to get to the pub right now.” She gets in the Jeep.
“Your dad is certainly dedicated. He’s been running that place ever since I can remember.”
“Nicholas runs it now,” Tess offers the information but not without hesitating first.