He carries me across the threshold, and this time I remember it all. We get to the kitchen, which is an entire mess. The stove is littered with unmentionable rotting food, and there is a bag of burritos already spoiling on the counter.
Still, he smiles and we laugh it off. He places my cooling bum on the stool and cleans up. Well, more of clears it all up. Then he fetches a candle and lights it with nothing other than the letter, which was still on the floor when we got here. In the light of the forgotten promises and the remembered vows, I know we are happy when we toast to our marriage with the warm champagne. Maybe this time we can make it official, I say. He grabs me by the waist and hoists me onto his shoulders. Whatever we want, we can make Waryn, he says.
To the bedroom we go, hand in hand, lip onto lip, for a night of celebration and raunchy temptation. It is a moment I cannot replace with anything, as my ring flutters and shimmers in the light, reminding me of how a good thing can be conceived from something as simple as art.
I love him, and always will.
Tatum
In her, I have found my peace.
The End
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Two Bad Brothers: An MFM Ménage Romance
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Chapter 1- Scarlet
There are moments in life we should be prepared for, because we’ve had a long time to get ready for them, but when they finally happen, we find ourselves in shock. That’s exactly the way I felt when I got the phone call: Your Grandma Rachel has died.
It shouldn’t have surprised me that my elderly grandmother could pass away. I should have been expecting it. But I suppose it had never really entered my mind, except as perhaps some far-off possibility that was never really going to happen. Or at least, it never seemed like something I would have to deal with anytime soon.
I couldn’t have been more wrong— about Grandma Rachel’s untimely demise, or a lot of other things, for that matter. Take, for instance, the fact that I never thought I’d be coming back to my hometown of Coldgrove. And it’s not that there is anything wrong with the place— other than the fact that it had just never felt like it was place for me.
Coldgrove is just another small town, tucked away in the corner of Oregon. Nothing about it really stands out. Like any small town, we have our quirks, but that doesn’t make us any less stereotypical. The small town vibe works for some people, but this town’s charm petered out for me a long time ago. It’s one of those places that you see all over the U.S., and, growing up, I always felt trapped in it.
When I left for college in Portland, it didn’t just feel like the right choice; it felt like the only choice. It probably wasn’t, but I was young and looking to leave town as fast as I could after graduation. I didn’t spend a lot of time carefully evaluating the decisions I was making – I just made them. I had hoped for no regrets, but the death of my grandmother forced me to confront long buried emotions.
I knew that the way I’d left town wasn’t totally above board. No goodbyes – I simply faded out and then appeared in a bigger city, ready to re-invent myself. I told myself I’d done it that way because I hadn’t wanted anyone trying to change my mind—which was true, but it didn’t make me feel any better about the way I’d left. I was hoping I could manage to keep the guilt at bay for years, but that attempt didn’t last very long. Almost as soon as I’d left, I felt a tug trying to pull me back towards Coldgrove.
Returning would’ve been so easy to do, too. Grandma Rachel would’ve welcomed me back immediately, no questions asked. But I couldn’t bring myself to come back. In my mind, it felt like I would’ve been admitting defeat… as if Coldgrove had won some kind of fight that probably only existed in my mind. So, I’d stayed away, and I’d planned to keep doing so, until I’d received the dreaded phone call.
There’s talk in the town that Grandma Rachel died of a broken heart. The official cause of death was a hit to the head after a stroke, but she had always been a fighter, so it seems as if her body gave up on her. Potentially after she’d given up on herself.
My grandmother had suddenly surrendered the fight, and— my guilt-stricken conscience often asks myself— why wouldn’t she? None of the family remains in Coldgrove except for her. She was basically alone these past few years. I want to believe that the theory that a broken heart was her demise is just based on a bunch of idle gossip and old wives’ tales, but there’s something that tells me that’s not such a ridiculous sentiment. There could be a certain validity to it.
As for me, well, both of my parents had died, and even though I’ve always loved my grandmother deeply, I skipped town. It just held too many painful memories for me. I can admit it was selfish of me – a jerk move – but all I wanted was to put Coldgrove behind me. Out of sight, out of mind, right?
However, like most problems, ignoring it didn’t work. Honestly, all it did was make it worse. I knew coming back wouldn’t be easy, but there was no way to avoid it. I’m the last one left in my family, and now it’s my job to take care of the family affairs. And there’s a lot more I’m going to have to come face to face with.
At the reading of the will, I found out Grandma Rachel left me the house. There was no surprise there. There wasn’t really anyone else. She was an only child, and she hadn’t had any children. On top of all that, I’m an only child. Having only one child is kind of our family’s thing, I guess. And sometimes I wish it wasn’t. Maybe if I’d had a sibling, I would have dealt with my parents’ a lot more healthily. But there are always “what ifs.”
Regardless, even though it was likely I’d inherit the house, I was still touched that Grandma Rachel had left it to me, because she could’ve just as easily donated it to charity or granted it to a friend. We used to be pretty close, and I knew she still loved me, even though I rarely spoke to her over the past few years.
She never gave up on letting me know she was thinking of me, though. She would send me letters about the goings-on in town, sometimes along with various postcards, photos or knick-knacks wrapped up in tissue paper and sent in a small package. The things she sent along made me feel a little less alone in the world. She had a deep capacity for understanding, and she never made me feel guilty for leaving.
The day I came back to the house – for the first time in years – I stood outside for at least an hour. I got in and out of my car, turned on the radio and found a song to pump me up, calm me down, make me smile or cry. Anything but do what I came here to do. I couldn’t simply cross the threshold. I almost knocked on the door, like the complete idiot I am. There was obviously no one there to open it.
Somehow, being here made me feel like such a stranger. Everything felt so foreign. Simply driving into Coldgrove was hard, but actually being back at the house solidified my homecoming. And yet it didn’t quite feel like a homecoming, either. Familiarity was there, but so was confusion at the newness of some things. I almost ran away and considered letting the county deal with the house, but I knew that wouldn’t be right. I had to honor my grandmother’s final wishes. Plus, no one else could handle things with the care I knew Grandma Rachel would want.
When I was younger, the house had seemed so enchanting. It had an idyllic appeal. It looked like something that came right out of a storybook – fairytales my parents used to read to me when I was a child. I reme
mber once, Grandma Rachel let some friends and me build a fairy house in the backyard. We never did have any fairies make a home out of it. But back then, I had truly believed magic existed somewhere on the premises.
Now, this isn’t to say there is no longer an aura of magic surrounding the house, but I just no longer feel it as intensely. The appeal rings superficial now, like it’s something I imagined and that only existed inside my nostalgic cravings. My childhood lives in this house; therefore, a part of me will always be here, but a lot of dark things live here, too.
As I sit in the living room, I feel like the house is enveloping me; almost like I can’t escape it. I still haven’t gone upstairs, choosing to sleep on the couch with blankets from the downstairs linen closet. Given Grandma Rachel’s inclinations, upstairs is probably still the way it was when I left.
I had my own room in her house. Since the school I attended was so close to both my own home and my grandmother’s house, I spent many nights here instead of there. Truthfully, both places felt like my home. However, my room in it is something I’m not quite ready to face. I know I’ll have to go up there eventually – in order to get everything together – but a few more days of indecision can’t hurt.
Currently, I’m in the kitchen, trying to figure out what to eat. Thankfully everything’s stocked, because food is of the utmost importance and having to make a trip to the supermarket would be a little too hard right now. Going out is something I wouldn’t be great at. I’m about to make a grab for a pack of Nutter Butters when I hear the doorbell.
Who could be visiting me? I had hoped all the well-wishers would have already come and gone. So many people had passed through, and I’d had my fill of niceties. After a while, condolences start to sound empty and fake. It’s been some time since I buried Grandma Rachel, and I’m not in the mood for any more platitudes, talking to neighbors or talking to anyone, really.
The bell rings again, and I know I can’t pretend I’m not here. My car is in the driveway, and people in town have seen me driving it. They know I’m here and that everyone has been coming to pay their respects. It’s the downside of living in a small town.
I go to the door and look through the peephole. Oh, my God! It’s Chloe! I have to look again to make sure I was right the first time. But, yep. When I double check, I see that standing at my doorstep is a tall, slender girl with wavy blonde hair, sun-kissed skin and a sparkly smile. It is definitely her.
I can’t believe it! Someone who I actually want to talk to. I didn’t think it was possible. I haven’t seen her in ages. I open the door immediately, and for the first time in days, I genuinely smile.
“Scarlet!” Chloe wraps her arms around me and it’s comforting. I let her hold me a little longer than necessary, because it feels so nice. Her body is warm. In the city, I had friends, but I wasn’t really close with any of them. I think I had them just to say I knew people and reassure myself I had people to hang out with if needed. I didn’t have anyone like Chloe.
She ends the embrace and enters the house. I close the door behind her, not wanting to give anyone else an invitation to come in. She looks around before turning back towards me, and I can see the excitement in her face. “Scarlet,” this time Chloe says my name slightly more suggestively. “Where have you been these past four years?”
She does a little eyebrow wiggle as a way to lighten the mood, but the question holds a lot of weight. I look down, feeling guilty about the fact that the last time I’d spoken to her was probably at graduation. Once I turned eighteen, I took all I could carry and ran – no looking back. Even though Chloe was my best friend, I didn’t want any reminders of Coldgrove.
I didn’t even contact her when I came back into town. I’ve basically been a horrible friend. She was at the funeral, but I’d gotten away with talking to no one there. I’d just come late, sat through the service, and then booked it out of there as soon as it was over.
“I’ve been around,” I shrug, not sure if any explanation will truly justify the years of neglect. I know she’d asked about me; Grandma Rachel had mentioned that in her letters. She visited my grandmother a lot after I left. They were close while we were growing up, so Chloe was essentially family.
She was a true friend, and I’d let her down. I’d let a lot of people down. But right now I don’t want to get into everything I’ve been doing for the past few years, so I make sure to dodge all questions about it. My life’s been one long disappointment after another ever since I left, and I’m pretty ashamed about all of it. Chloe’s smile fades, and I know it’s time for the condolences.
She says, “I’m so sorry about Grandma Rachel, Chloe,” and then she asks, “Are you okay?”
I don’t know why, but I’m surprised by her question. Whenever I’ve seen anyone here in Coldgrove, they’ve asked about how I’m doing, how I’m holding up and the like. It’s been the theme of the week. Chloe was my best friend in high school, so it’s only natural that she’d be worried about me.
But as I think about the past few days, I realize no one has asked me how I’ve been doing and genuinely meant it. The way they’ve been inquiring about my well-being has made it seem as if they’re only asking because it’s obligatory. They’ve wanted a simple, “I’m fine” response, so they can move along with their lives and feel good about themselves for “caring.” Or maybe they’ve wanted some hot gossip, asking about my well-being to see if they can glean any information about that girl who left town long ago and is now back.
“Okay… enough.” I wrap my hands around myself, hoping we can drop the subject. I don’t want to explore my emotions… at least not tonight. They’ve been balled up tight and cracks are starting to form, but I think I can hold out a little longer. I think Chloe gets the message.
“Well, I come bearing gifts.” She lifts her hands, and the bags she’s carrying appear quite full. It looks like they’re full of food from…
“Is that from Mike’s Diner?” I almost jump for joy when Chloe nods her head.
Mike’s Diner was the place to be growing up. All the cool kids and even the not-so-cool kids hung out there. It was the town’s main spot. Looks like it still is. I know I don’t need to, but I can’t help myself from asking, “Did you get my usual?” Chloe heads into the kitchen and I follow her.
“Of course I did. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t?” She places the bags on the table and takes out containers of food.
It takes me a lot of willpower not to make a mad grab for it. I’m crazy hungry and Mike’s has amazing food. Chloe has laid the boxes out, and I know she’s about to make a bit of a presentation; she’s very into her little productions.
“So, obviously, I got my cheeseburger with extra pickles, fries and a Dr. Pepper.” Chloe presents her food, then puts it to the side. Next, she places her hands over the remaining boxes. “Now for what we’ve been waiting for. The ever so particular order of a Scarlet Russell. We have a burger with barbecue sauce and mayonnaise in equal measure, lettuce, tomato, three pickles. Next, we have your side order of fries, sprinkled with all-purpose seasoning, and cheese on the side. Finally, there’s the drink: your usual blend of fruit punch, lemonade, ginger ale and a splash of Cherry Coke, of course.”
Chloe pushes my food towards me. I’m quite amazed with the display.
I give her a sheepish smile, “I can’t believe you remembered all that.”
The order is perfect, absolutely perfect. It’s what I got every time I went to Mike’s. It became my signature dish. However, no matter wherever else I’ve gone, it’s always felt weird asking for something so specific, so I haven’t eaten this exact meal since leaving Coldgrove.
Chloe continues matter-of-factly, “Not to say I didn’t remember, but it wasn’t even necessary, because your name’s still on the menu. All one has to do is order the ‘Scarlet Red.’” After she mentions that fact, I blush at my old nickname. It’s what my parents used to call me.
“No way! They kept it on there after all thes
e years? But I haven’t been there in forever.” I can’t believe the diner still serves my order. My parents would take me there every weekend, and ever since I was a child (back before I was old enough to be self conscious about what other people thought about my tastes, or about burdening them with having to make something atypical), I had made this order. The story of how my order was crafted was never revealed to me. My parents said they’d tell me when I was older as it was a story for a rainy day, but they never got the chance.
“Well, Scarlet, other people seem to like it. I’ve even had it a few times— especially when I was nostalgic for you. It’s become one of Mike’s specialties.”
I just laugh. I didn’t think anything about this town would make me happy ever again, but Chloe and my usual Mike’s order have managed to challenge that notion. And it’s really sweet, how her tone changes when she admits she’s gotten nostalgic for me. I feel the same way about her, although the nostalgia was never enough to make me return to Coldgrove and now I feel bad about that fact.
We sit at the counter and dig in, and all that is heard are the sounds of us eating. I didn’t realize how hungry I was. Even sitting on the couch, doing nothing, can cause your stomach to feel empty. Then again, my unexplained hunger could also have been caused by all the extra stress.
After a little while, Chloe chimes in with, “So, what are your plans? Are you going to stay in town for a while? You know, spend some time in Coldgrove?” She isn’t trying hard to hide her curiosity, but I’m not at all offended. Unlike all the other people who stopped by to “check up on me,” Chloe is the only one who I feel sincerely cares. Everyone else had some sort of morbid curiosity. A lot happened to my family, and people have always wanted the juicy details.
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