by Mariah Dietz
“I don’t even know if she’s single,” I grumble the words. It’s a fact I’ve been trying to process since we kissed. I’m always careful to triple-check that a woman is single before engaging in anything more than conversation, but when I’m around Kennedy, my carefully implemented precautions aren’t even a thought because I’m working so hard to know all of hers.
Coen’s eyebrows draw low. “You’re hopeless. You act like you’ve never dated a woman before. Of course she’s single! She’s throwing you all kinds of signals.”
“‘Signals’? My ass. She only looks at me because she’s glaring.”
“I don’t know why you think she hates you so much. It’s like you’re so concerned she might say no, you’re doing it for her.” Coen reaches for his door. “Stop trying to convince yourself she hates you and pay attention. She’s definitely single.”
We both jump out, the hot morning air sticking to my skin like a fine mist.
The additional rolls of insulation are piled up for us, but Jackson is gone and the door between the large storage area and the shop is pulled shut.
“What?”
I look over to my brother, who’s watching me, and shake my head. “Nothing.”
“You’re worried about her being alone with Jackson?” He stands up and releases a deep sigh like we’ve been working hard, though it’s merely the humidity stealing our breath.
“I don’t like him,” I tell Coen.
“You don’t like anyone.”
“But I really don’t like him.”
Coen chuckles. “Go inside, then.”
His words sound like permission, and the last thing I’m seeking is an approval. I wrap my arms around one of the rolls of insulation and drop it into the bed of my truck, nearly running into Coen as I reach for the next roll.
“Don’t be stupid and prideful.” Coen shoves me. “Go.”
The brick building seems to grow in square feet with each step I take toward the front door.
A gust from the air vent that hangs above the front door greets me as I step inside. I peer around the space, looking for long blonde hair.
“You okay?” Her voice calls to me from the far wall, causing me to move in order to clearly see where she’s leaning forward from her seat on the floor, her arm stretched between a shelf.
“What are you doing?” I ask, walking toward her.
“This place is dead,” she says, moving so she’s on her knees, allowing her to reach higher.
I look around briefly, though I’m already aware that she’s right. “Did you drop something?”
She shakes her head, and her braid moves like a snake across her back. “Just checking on something.” Her teeth capture her bottom lip as she reaches a bit farther into the narrow dark crevice that separates two of the shelves. Kennedy’s smile brightens, nailing me in the chest. She’s stunning, and when she smiles it’s mesmerizing, but this look—this euphoria on her face—is so distracting, I doubt I would notice if the world began crumbling around me.
“When Grace and I were kids, we’d hide stuff between the shelves so no one could find it.” With precision and care, Kennedy opens the large manila envelope she’s recovered from the space and pulls out a sheath of papers that she scans over. A new smile paints her lips—this one hesitant, bordering on sad.
“What is it?”
Her wide green eyes lift to mine, and she pushes her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose. “Our plans for how great life would be when we became adults.” Kennedy laughs.
“Let me guess: you wanted to move to Boston?”
She bites her lip again, then slowly shakes her head, the sadness evident in her smile becoming more prominent as she reads over the paper on top of her short pile. “I didn’t want to move away from Haven Point until Grace left when I was sixteen.”
“What did you want to be?”
“A baker.” She lifts her head, meeting my gaze. The left side of her lips tips upward. “I wanted to buy a shop in the downtown section and open a bakery that I’d live above.” Her eyes shine with memories.
“Why did that change when Grace left?”
Kennedy lifts one slender shoulder. “When I was little, my dad and I used to do everything together. I was his helper on any jobsites and inside the store. I stocked the shelves and helped do the inventory, and then the cash register once I was old enough.” Both her shoulders lift. “But he was always insistent that I move and find my own path outside of Haven Point.”
“Why?” I fold my arms over my chest, trying to contain my defensive reaction her words spark.
“Grace went through a really bad breakup before she moved away—and felt like she had to get out of here. Once she did, she seemed so much happier. I think my dad was concerned that if I stuck around too long, I’d eventually hate the town, too.”
“And then you fell in love with Boston.”
Kennedy peers at me from her position on the floor, her long legs folded under her. She searches my eyes for a moment before looking away and nodding. “Yup.”
She slowly flips through the additional papers, and I can’t help but wonder if she realizes she’s failing at convincing either of us.
Chapter 13
Kennedy
When I arrive home, Mom’s in the kitchen, and Dad’s sitting in his chair in the living room. Grace is on the couch.
“Hi, honey,” Mom says. “How was your day?”
I blink back my thoughts.
Blink. Where have you been?
Blink. Why didn’t you contact me?
Blink. What’s going on?
“It was good. We had an afternoon rush for a couple of hours, but for the most part things went smoothly.” I don’t mention having come home on my lunch hour to see if they’d returned or how I lied to Jackson and several others about their whereabouts.
Mom nods, whisking the contents of a roasting pan as a pot roast rests on a cutting board. The rich aromas have my stomach growling. “I saw you made chocolate cake.”
I nod. “It’s Violet’s favorite.” And I needed to distract myself when I came home and realized they were still gone.
“Have you heard from her? Do you know what time she’s supposed to be here?”
“Soon,” I tell her. “How was everything here?” I glance toward the living room again as Grace stands and walks toward the kitchen, her attention focused on me.
My heart races and my palms itch with sweat, forgetting that I’ve asked my mom a question as she placates me with a simple response.
Grace stops beside the fridge and pulls open the door, retrieving a large dish. “We made cherry Jell-O with pretzels and chocolate chips—your favorite.”
I think this is an apology. A white flag. But accepting it feels like I’m giving in—giving up.
Grace smiles, and instinctually, I return the gesture. All day I’ve been fearing the worst. Waiting for my sister’s wrath or to discover she’s been admitted into a hospital, and now she’s offering me one of my favorite childhood dishes and smiling at me like yesterday never happened.
I don’t doubt that I’ll regret it later, but I take it. I grab the white flag and turn to the kitchen sink to wash my hands and tell my sister and Mom about the envelope of dreams I discovered today.
Grace is still laughing over the contents of the envelope when I tell them I need to go change the sheets on my bed for Violet, and the mood remains light, their laughter continuing as I drift down the hall.
My phone chirps as I grab clean sheets.
Joey: I liked the braid.
Me: Careful. You’re broaching that friendship line again, and your nice is showing ;)
I’m grateful for the task at hand to distract me from waiting for him to reply. I finish folding a corner of the bed sheet under the mattress and then lay my floral comforter over the top. I gather the sheets Mom put on my bed yesterday before learning Vi was coming so I can put them on the air mattress. Yesterday, Grace offered to let me sleep in her roo
m so Violet could have more space, but now I’m wondering if that’s still happening.
“If you snore, I’m going to smother you with a pillow.” Grace comes in behind me, a stack of clean towels in her arms.
I force a smile because I want her to feel silly and welcome to joke and tease like we used to, but her words spark a fear in me that never sinks too far beneath the surface. It’s difficult to admit even to myself that I sometimes fear my older sister and what she might be capable of, especially after what transpired yesterday. When I was fourteen and Grace was diagnosed, my parents gave me books and sat me down to discuss what they commonly referred to as “her condition.” I hated the term. In my eyes those times that Grace had woken me up at three in the morning to make pancakes or swim in the pond or climb the tallest tree to see if we could catch stars were the most beautiful and perfect of memories. Sure she had bouts where she wouldn’t get out of bed or broke mirrors in the house because her reflection was too much, but she was never dangerous—never scary. It wasn’t until many years later when I saw what my sister was capable of, the pain she inflicted upon herself, and heard her beg to hurt others that a niggling fear arose. That fear is laced so tightly with guilt that it’s often difficult for me to discern the two.
“It’s weird to have a friend come and stay the night,” I admit. “I kind of feel like I’m twelve again.”
Grace scans the room, stopping when she reaches me. “Maybe this will be nice. You’ll mix your old and new worlds together and see what comes of it.”
I chuckle. “I still live in the same world. Who I am now is the same person I’ve always been.”
“Is it?”
My heart races. “What does that mean?” I ask.
Grace shrugs, looking away before I can read her eyes, which have always said far more than her words.
Before I can probe her for more of an explanation, Mom calls our names, and without a second glance, Grace heads toward the kitchen.
I sweep over the stuffed animals lined on a high shelf across my room, the bulletin board stamped with pictures of old friends. Earlier this week I took down the posters of boy bands and puppies that covered most of my walls.
“Kennedy!” Mom calls again. “Violet’s here!”
The quiet honk from a car alarm being set confirms her arrival as I make my way through the living room out to the porch.
Dad is already halfway down the stairs, heading toward the back of her car to help with her bags, and Mom is leading the way with her arms outstretched, ready for a hug.
“Is this why you never bring guys home?” Grace asks as Mom wraps her arms around Violet and sways back and forth.
“This and you know . . . everything else.”
Grace laughs heartily.
“Did you have a hard time finding us?” Mom asks Violet.
“No, not at all.” Violet and Mom walk up the deck, their arms around each other’s shoulders. The two have met at least a dozen times over the years but never here in Haven Point. “I don’t know that I’ll ever want to leave!”
Mom smiles. “Well, you’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like.”
“Or until my boss fires me,” Violet says jokingly.
“Are you hungry? Supper is just about ready,” Mom says, releasing her only when they reach the top step. I move forward to hug my best friend.
“Gah!” Violet cries, reaching for me. We grip one another with a ferocity that makes us both laugh. “It feels like you’ve been gone for months, and other times it still feels like you’re just a few blocks away.”
I nod, understanding her analogy perfectly.
“Hi, Grace!” Violet smiles warmly, allowing my sister the wide space she knows Grace requires.
“It’s good to see you!” Surprisingly, Grace reaches forward and wraps Violet in a side hug that lasts a brief second.
“It’s good to see you, too. You look amazing, as always,” Vi says.
Dad huffs up the stairs, carrying two large suitcases that make me laugh aloud. “You really are planning on staying forever, aren’t you?”
Violet’s cheeks color with embarrassment. “I didn’t know what to pack! I couldn’t picture this place from the descriptions you’ve given me over the years.”
“I hope you packed a bathing suit,” Mom says. “It’s been hot. I can hardly wrangle Kennedy out of the pond when she’s not working.”
“The pond?” Violet asks.
“I’m sure Kennedy will be taking you shortly after supper,” Mom says, ushering us into the house.
“It smells so good!” Violet takes a deep breath of the pot roast, mashed potatoes, gravy, hot biscuits, and cucumbers doused with sour cream and vinegar.
Mom beams. She loves cooking and makes big meals even when it’s just her and Dad. Praise for her cooking is something that makes her light up like a Christmas tree, even if it’s the millionth time.
We sit around the rectangular table, Violet beside me and Grace across from me. Conversation and food are passed around easily, like this is an everyday occurrence. Maybe it’s because Violet has spent time with my family before that allows this moment to be so seamless and easy; maybe it’s that I’ve just missed her and wouldn’t be able to notice if things were awkward.
“I want thirds, and fourths, and then maybe fifths,” Violet says, sitting back in her chair and placing a hand over her stomach. “But I might need a little time.”
Dad chuckles. “You and me both.” He pats his protruding stomach and smiles.
“We have to save room. Kennedy made dessert tonight,” Mom says, reaching for her water.
Violet swivels in her chair, her light-brown eyes wide with hope. “Don’t tell me you made Kennedy Cake!”
“I didn’t make Kennedy Cake.” I stand from the table and walk to where the long casserole dish is shielded from my dad by the fridge.
“You made Kennedy Cake!” Violet cries, clapping her hands.
Mom and Dad chuckle at her enthusiasm while Grace surveys her carefully. I hear her thoughts so clearly, she could be saying them:
Is she being genuine?
Is she always this animated?
Is she always this loud?
“We should call this cake Kennedy Cake,” Mom says as I place it on the table and head to the stove, where a small pot holds the frosting.
“We’ll call it Violet Cake since she’s obviously the biggest fan.” I put it on a trivet and go back for bowls and spoons.
“I’m okay with that, too,” Violet says. “Having the most delicious dessert on earth named after me means I’m entitled to request you make this weekly, right?”
Her grin leaves me smiling in response. “Obviously.”
Mom smiles even wider, her pride on display for me to absorb like the sun, and it feels just as good—maybe better. I slice the cake into generous squares and then coat them with a large ladle of hot chocolate frosting. It’s a recipe that I began making with my grandma when I was too small to see the stovetop, and she’d set me on the counter and let me pour and mix the ingredients.
“I keep telling her she needs to open a bakery.” Violet takes a giant bite, then hums her appreciation. “I swear it gets better each time I eat it. Like I somehow forget how good it is.”
“There’s no money in a bakery. She’d be tying herself to a small shop and have crazy hours and crazier insurance,” Dad echoes the same unsolicited advice he’s given me for years.
Violet laughs. “Her degrees aren’t opening many doors for her, so she might as well do something she loves.”
My stomach rises to my throat. Growing up, Dad had the temper of a bull, but it’s lessened over the years to where only small remnants of it will occasionally remind me of how the veins in his neck used to bulge and his entire face would turn red like a cartoon character. Then he’d begin yelling about things that had been making him mad for weeks—unbeknownst to his target. Though his temper has faded, I still try to maintain the peace and not provoke him.
I turn in my seat, making a show of looking at the clock on the microwave. “Hurry up, and we can get to the pond while it’s still light out.”
That shuts Violet up, and amazingly Dad doesn’t respond.
I begin emptying the leftovers into Tupperware containers to rush the process when Mom gently nudges me with her elbow. “Go,” she says quietly. “Enjoy time with Violet while she’s here.”
“Are you sure? There are so many dishes.”
Mom nods. “I’ll take care of them.”
I lean forward and press a kiss to her cheek. “Thanks, Mom.”
Though she smiles, I hesitate and rinse one of the plates I brought over and deposit it into the dishwasher.
“Kennedy, go.” Mom swats at me with a dishtowel.
“You want to come?” I ask Grace, still reluctant to leave the kitchen with a mess when the rule in this house has always been to clean everything before retiring to do anything else, even homework.
Grace shakes her head. “I think I’m going to read a little and then go to bed. I’ll blow up the air mattress for you, though.” Her auburn hair is loose around her shoulders, and once again she’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt that leaves me wondering how bad her scratches are.
“I put Violet’s bags in your room,” Dad says.
“Thanks, Tom.” Violet hugs him, and my dad looks so at ease, so welcoming—so unlike any moments I’ve shared with him.
I clear my throat. “I’ll give you a quick tour when we’re back. Let’s go get changed.” She follows me down the short hall to my room.
“Wow. I feel like I barely know you.” Violet turns around, taking in the details of my room. “God, how many stuffed animals do you own?”
“Welcome to the life of fourteen-year-old me.”
“Seriously.” She laughs. “I changed my room like three times a year when I was growing up. I bet my walls are each an inch shorter because of all the layers of paint I put on them.”
“It’s been this color since I was born.”
Violet pulls her head back, her eyebrows zigzagging. “Why?”