by Felicia Lynn
Glancing to the side of the house at the parking lot, I see that most of the cars are gone, including Morgan’s. The house is probably destroyed, but quiet and empty, and it will likely remain that way well into the night. My thoughts float to the idea of a book with a long soak in the bath.
The sound of another loud engine interrupts my peaceful plans; even though it’s a much deeper hum than that of Mr. Attention Seeker’s motorcycle, I still find myself annoyed. I’ve never had an aversion to hearing the engine of any car, truck, or motorcycle until today. I grew up in the South, and loud, souped-up engines are a way of life in the South. Even though those sounds would be out of place in the circle of family and friends that surround me, I still exist in the world. No. The annoyance I feel about the beautifully restored muscle car that is driving down the street has nothing to do with that engine or that car. Even though I had wisely decided not to give Mr. Attention Seeker any more of my energy, my mind continuously finds little reminders to bring me back to the scene. Why my brain is obsessively circling back to thoughts of him is beyond me.
Annoying.
Moving on.
I stand and move slowly to walk toward the door of the house. After the two-hour escape, I’m glad to see that my earlier assessment is mostly true. The house is a complete disaster and mostly cleared out except for a few last-minute stragglers I hear coming down the stairs to where I stand in the foyer.
“Crap,” I quietly mutter toward the empty common room just off to the right of the foyer, looking for a place to hide before she spots me, but I’m already too late.
It’s Christine, a sister I really have tried hard to like in the three years of knowing her. She’s unbelievably superficial and requires constant accolades to feed her supersize ego. Her constant, hyper-focused chatter, as she's plotting ways to better her social status while belittling others to lift herself, doesn’t impress me in the least. Nor does the way she flaunts the latest and greatest luxuries. I find her manipulative.
She’s somehow become close friends with Morgan, even though I don’t understand what Morgan sees in her other than their mutual shopping addiction. Since I’ve continuously attempted to find common ground with Christine and thus far have failed, I’ve just accepted it as it is and have found use in my mother’s coaching. I smile and tolerate her when I have to as Morgan’s friend and with her being a sister living in the house. That’s all I have to invest, but I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t give me the time of day if my father weren’t the governor of the state and a presidential candidate.
I hide the sigh that almost escapes my pursed lips when she yelps giddily and quite loud, I might add, while taking the steps faster toward me. “Yay, Charlotte. You’re back just in time!” I regret wasting the extra seconds after coming into the house to assess the state of the ransacked disaster. I definitely should have run off to hide. Christine slows with two younger sisters, Valerie and Maya, at her heels. She takes the last couple of steps off the stairs before rushing to me where I stand in the large two-story foyer. “Everyone, and I do mean EVERYONE, is meeting at George’s before the party. Don’t you want to come with us?” She pouts, batting her clearly fake eyelashes that appear to have several coats of mascara attached. The other two nod in agreement with hopeful smiles.
Regardless of the fact that I’ve declined the invites no less than five hundred times over the last couple of weeks, it seems they’re hell-bent on changing my mind. “Sorry, Christine. I wish I could, but I’m going to skip this one.” I decline again praying that it’s the last. I’m sure I’m just as annoyed at hearing myself issue the rejections as they are. They whimper their complaints and don’t press further, thankfully, before saying good-bye and walking out of the house.
Thank you. Thank you.
Seriously, don’t they realize how much it pains me to pass on George’s? I huff.
Morgan and I discovered George’s by accident a couple of weeks after moving into the dorms our freshman year. We were bored one Saturday afternoon and decided to explore the town. We didn’t get far into our adventure. Stopped at a traffic light just off the edge of campus, we found the old barn. Painted across a simple handmade business sign was George’s Kitchen and Pub. If curb appeal were a selling feature for the place, everyone in the county would steer clear, but the parking lot was surprisingly full. On the drab looking covered porch out front were loads of people sitting on the sawed log crafted benches waiting for a table.
Just as the light turned and I was driving away, Morgan, with her hawk eye for college jocks, noticed a group of guys walking through the parking lot toward the restaurant’s entrance. Which is why she decided at that second she was starved and wanted to go to George’s to eat despite the fact we’d eaten just an hour prior. I tried relentlessly to convince her to continue the exploring expedition. I was hoping to stumble upon a local bookstore or cute boutique somewhere, but I was unsuccessful. I finally gave in under protest and made a U-turn back to the restaurant where the hot jocks go to eat. Hot jocks were not worth food poisoning to me, but Morgan was willing to roll the dice. We got a table and ordered one of the appetizer specialties.
After my first bite of George’s homemade potato skins, I learned how wrong I was. That bite of carb greatness was the best thing I’d ever put in my mouth. With thick, crispy edges, baked to absolute salty perfection, and mounds of cheddar cheese topped with real bacon bits and served with a huge dollop of sour cream right in the center of the plate, it was heaven in my mouth. The run-down building on the outskirts of town was a like a diamond in the rough. Even Morgan discovered that George’s had so much more to offer than the hot jocks who brought us to their doorstep.
With a menu that overflowed with options my mother would consider junk and not approve of, I was using that as my motivation to go back again and again. The owners, George and Sue, worked in the restaurant with their three grown children. Everyone is treated like they’re a part of their family. They know college students need family when they’re away from home, so they take it upon themselves to fill those shoes for anyone who accepts it.
After a couple of months of eating my way through the menu, I finally learned that it wasn’t about being able to eat my weight in junk food that made George’s amazing. The meals are special because they’re made with love. Big hugs are given freely, and they always make time to chat. No one who walks through the door of George’s will ever feel like just a table number.
In the winter of my freshman year, I was studying in my favorite back corner booth after eating lunch. It was a quiet day at the pub, and I could tell something was off with the family, but they were trying to keep it in. They smiled anyway, but even Sue’s smile didn’t touch her eyes. I was worried but didn’t want to pry into her personal business, so I sat back and watched carefully. This went on for nine days, and I went in every day hoping to find things resolved.
On the tenth day, I gave up. When Sue came over to the table to chat and get my order with her false smile, I asked what was happening. She tried to play it off because she didn’t want me to worry, but I was persistent. When Sue didn’t answer my questions, I went to her two daughters, Mary and Debbie. When they didn’t give me answers, I went to the back of the restaurant to hunt down Jamie, the oldest son. In the end, Jamie didn’t even tell me what was happening. It was sweet ol’ George, the backbone of the Taylor family.
Jamie wasn’t in that day, and he didn’t come in much for a few months following that. Jamie’s six-year-old daughter had been diagnosed with cancer, and they were trying to be tough. They were trying to be optimistic, but nothing in the world can shatter you like seeing a tiny human enduring torturous treatments to kill an even more torturous disease.
That day changed me—seeing sweet ol’ George break down in fear over something he couldn’t fix. That day changed all my plans and set the course to a new path with motivation to make a difference not only for the Taylor family but also for any family like them. In the days following G
eorge spilling the secret, I began spending a lot of time with the Taylor family even outside of the restaurant, and in the weeks, months, and years since that time, we’re still extremely close. They’re family for sure.
Dinner.
I’m starved. I can’t go to George’s, and now that I’ve seen the ransacked house, and I’m sure every bathroom in the house looks similar, I won’t be getting the relaxing bath either. Guess I’ll shower and head out.
Deciding it will be fun to explore The Avenues outdoor shopping mall for the evening, I dress with casual cuteness in skinny jeans and a cute spring top that I picked up at Nordstrom last week. I slip on my ballet flats and reach for my keys on the desk seeing a note from Ashley. I grab the note, my wallet and keys, and race out of the house to my car still in a pretty good mood. Before putting my car into reverse, I take a second to read the note.
Hey Charlotte,
I know you said you wouldn’t come tonight. Fine. Just wanted you to know you’d be missed. More importantly, though, I think you’re missing out. You know I think you’re amazing, but seriously, it’s really time to stop hiding behind those castle walls and live a life you can enjoy.
Just wanted you to know where the party would be if you changed your mind.
The address is 456 Uni - Greek Dr.
I know this is a long shot, but it’s worth a try. It’s hard to watch you always give so much and never reward yourself with any enjoyment.
-xoxo
Ashley
Wow. I have no words. She’s not wrong, but she’s soooooo wrong. I toss the note aside with a sigh, not sure if I’m mad at Ashley or grateful she cares enough to see all that and actually want to help.
I drive off campus toward The Avenues with plans to reward myself with Chipotle and Barnes and Noble.
Walking through the rows of books in the store, I find it’s hard for me to feel lonely. It’s hard to feel like I’m missing out. The deserted aisles tell a different story, though. I guess the majority of the town’s population has something to do on a Friday night other than hang out in a bookstore browsing the shelves. I sit cross-legged on the floor of the romance aisle against a set of shelves and begin flipping the pages of the books I’ve collected in the basket next to me. With a stack of no less than ten books that I feel I must make time to read as soon as possible, finding very few that haven’t captured my attention is no surprise really. I love books. I love words on pages and living in the stories I read imagining myself as the heroine being rescued and loved by the hero. It’s unrealistic in real life for me, so I crave the happy endings that I find between these covers.
I think about my life in comparison to the imaginary characters that feel so real they become friends. Will I always be alone? It seems even the people in the black and white struggle through the tough to get the happily ever after. I want so desperately to have a normal life and a family someday, but I’m not sure it’s realistic given what I’m up against with my family. How is normalcy even a possibility? My mother would never plan for my happily ever after unless, of course, it was staged and benefitted the cause. I’d have to fight to the death like a gladiator to win the right to decide my own fate. I’m not sure I’m willing to take her on in a fight. She doesn’t fight fair, and I have no allies to fight at my side.
I shiver. The thought of a battle of the wills with Sandra Jacqueline Parker would be ruthless. No way would she lose, even if it meant my happiness.
Feeling disgusted with myself for allowing her to maintain control over me is insane, but it’s easier this way. I’m twenty-one years old, though. At what point will I stop allowing it and decide that I need to take the reins of my own life and do what’s best for me?
I stand, place my huge stack of books into the shopping basket, and head toward the checkout to pay. I’m anxious to head home for the quiet escape into the pages to meet my new friends.
Walking toward my car in the shopping center with a shameful amount of joy from the large bag I carry, I see a young couple looking blissfully happy as they walk past me hand-in-hand carrying ice-cream cones. They’re laughing as they sweetly converse with each other. Clearly, they’re in love. I can almost see the emoji hearts hovering above them. It’s precious to witness that as an outsider looking in, and it makes me wonder what it would feel like to have that sort of connection. I know relationships are not always a field of daisies, but I also know that I have people in my life who have those connections, and I don’t think they’d give it up for all the tea in England, even on the hard days.
I slide into the front seat and place the bag of greatness on the passenger seat floorboard. I glance at Ashley’s note in my peripheral, and I remember the question I asked myself in disgust moments earlier. At what point will I stop allowing her to control me and decide that I need to take the reins of my own life and do what’s best for me?
It’s wrong that my desire to defy my mother is so blatant, but the burning desire to do it isn’t because I feel the need to rebel. I don’t want to rebel. I just don’t want to wake up one day and regret I haven’t lived when I could have and should have. I have no excuses and no one to blame but myself for not enjoying my college life to the fullest here. It was different when I lived at home and was under my mother’s watch. Here, she’s not watching that closely. I think today is as good a day as any to try something new!
I pull out my phone firing off a quick text to Ashley telling her I’m on my way and not to tell Morgan. I want to surprise her and can’t wait to see her fall over in shock when I walk in. My scalp tingles with overwhelming excitement, but the nervousness is still outweighing the excitement.
I consider the outfit I’m wearing and try to recall the wardrobe selections of the other girls. They were all wearing short skirts and dresses with tops showing tons of cleavage, but they were still mostly on the casual-ish side. Since I own nothing within the slutty category of wardrobe options, I won’t be running home to change. After a quick glance in the mirror on my sun visor, I decide to unbutton the first two buttons of my blouse. Looking down, I see the crests of my breasts and a little cleavage mostly hidden by the lacy cami. It’s risqué enough and pretty much all I can do anyway. I don’t want to go so crazy in my need to experience life that I turn into a slutty party animal all in one night. Baby steps. It’ll work.
Driving back to campus, I rehash my decision now wishing I’d never texted Ashley and just waited to surprise everyone when I walked in the door; but if that were the case, I probably wouldn’t make it to the door. I know I’m stuck now.
I park behind the line of cars and am at least a block from the house. Getting out of my car, I glance down at my outfit again. I pull my shirt together and fumble to button the blouse up. No way, this can’t happen. This was a huge mistake, and I’m claiming temporary insanity. I move back toward my car to leave. I need to brush off this ridiculous idea and text Ash to make my excuse. Before I reach the door, Ashley’s voice calls out my name, and I look up to see her smiling face headed my direction. Why I didn’t think to pretend not to hear her is beyond my smarts, and now, I cannot ignore her. I’ll just have to tell her I’ve changed my mind or come up with an excuse that’s something’s come up.
“O.M.G. I didn’t think you’d ever come. I’m so excited to see you,” she says with bubbly joy just as I’m trying to plan my great escape.
“Hey Ashley, I actually just remembered …” I begin before she cuts me off.
“Oh no, you don’t … you’re here. Just come in. Stay for an hour. If you hate it, I won’t make you stay longer,” she demands, and I quickly realize my mistake earlier at thinking she was a quiet follower. How wrong I was; this bossy little one has stated her demands, and by the look on her face, I’m stuck, and my only ticket out isn’t good for one hour. So I allow her to take my arm and drag me toward the party as she tells me how cute I look, lists all the people who are here, and describes what there’s to do inside.
This place is packed, and I’ve search
ed high and low for Morgan unsuccessfully for at least twenty minutes. I lost Ashley pretty quickly when I walked in the door. She was asked to drive one of the sorority sisters, who was already stumbling drunk and on the verge of getting sick, back to her apartment. She promised it would only take ten minutes, and she’d find me as soon as she got back. I think that’s probably going to be impossible.
I walk around aimlessly watching people greet each other, and I feel out of sorts, as if I’m watching it all happen on television and am not really a part of it. A loud, piercing yell catches my attention. A few of my sorority sisters squeal, while bouncing up and down, and simultaneously come running toward me. My God. This is not normal.
They start talking fast and all at once. I don’t even understand most of what’s said. Completely overwhelmed, but used to people talking at me and not being able to answer, I plaster on a fake smile and give them the impression that I too am thrilled to be here. Then I excuse myself by telling them I’m going to the bathroom and need to find Morgan.
When I find myself in the backyard, I realize hundreds of people are here and not only is it highly unlikely that I’ll ever actually find Morgan, but Ashley definitely won’t find me easily either. I make my way over to the table where they’re playing a game to get a closer look and see if she’s over there. I get closer to the action, and I’m intrigued, unable to pull myself away from watching the excitement.
Morgan’s not here, but I watch anyway. Everyone’s laughing and cheering every time someone sinks a Ping-Pong ball into the cup on the other side of the table, then the opposing team has to drink the liquid in the cup that looks and smells like beer. The number of drinks the players each consumes shocks me, yet at the same time, it’s funny.