by Mariah Dietz
“Why didn’t you tell me about it?”
“I did!”
“When?”
“I told you I had an interview!”
“If you’d told me you were going to Boston, I would have remembered it!” I stare at her, forcing myself to remain calm as I try to understand her reasons for going. What made her decide she needs to do this when her plan to stay seemed so concrete?
“I can’t believe you’re making me feel bad about this,” she tells me. “I’m already freaking out about what will happen and the possibilities. What if they don’t want me? What if I fail again? And I’m even more terrified that they might want to hire me and that I’ll feel obligated to take it because it’s what I should do, what I should want.”
I release a deep breath and allow her admission to process through a multitude of filters as I realize this interview has her even more terrified than me, it’s just really hard to recognize that when my own fear is so blinding.
“No one gets to decide but you,” I tell her, my voice strained to sound calm.
Kennedy’s shoulders slowly drop, and with them so does my stomach as I prepare to assure her of something that feels like I’m betraying myself.
“This is your life. No one gets to narrate it but you. If you decide to take this job, do it because it feels right.” I place a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t do it because of the salary or expectations or fear of failure.”
“I know. I know.” Her response is automatic, and though her words are composed, they’re verging on defensive. While I’m trying to drop my walls of anger and connect with her to be her ally, she already has too many conflicting thoughts and likely too many other opinions that are being given to her. Kennedy pushes her shoulders back and swipes a loose hair from her face. “Maybe I should just go home.”
“No,” I say instantly, taking a step closer to her and brushing the loose hairs back with my fingers. She lifts her face as I do it. In a short time, I’ve learned this is her weakness. Kennedy loves to have her hair played with, and though it’s cleared from her face, I run my hand over the same path again and watch her tense stance slowly relax. “Stay. Have a burger and spend the night with me. I’ll drive you to the airport in the morning.”
“My dad’s driving me. I think he wants to make sure I get on the plane.”
Her words leave me flinching. His influence to have her return to Boston is definitely going to outweigh mine to have her stay—I’ll bet it even outweighs her own will.
I swallow my objections—words I want to use like a weapon to break down this barrier inside of her—because right now my focus is on having her stay. “What time’s your flight?”
“Nine, so I need to leave here around six.”
“Here being Haven Point or as in you need to be back at your house by then?”
A whoosh of air flows between her teeth as she looks down at herself. “I’m a mess! I can’t stay.”
“I have a shower and an entire drawer of T-shirts.”
The corner of her lips tease me with a smile that she stops. “Just so you know, this is a terrible idea.”
“What is?”
She shakes her head and takes a deep breath. “Everything.”
“Kennedy, would you prefer a burger or a hot dog or both?” Coen asks, leaning in the doorway of the dining room.
Kennedy pushes her glasses up and runs her hand over her hair as she turns to face him, brushing away her insecurities. “A burger would be great, thanks.”
“Do you want cheese?”
I glare at my brother, trying to tell him that this isn’t the time.
“Um . . . sure.”
“Great. We have Swiss, cheddar, or pepper jack.”
My eyes grow wider with disbelief. Coen glances in my direction and ignores my silent threat.
“Pepper jack, please.”
“Awesome. And how do you like your burger cooked? Medium? Medium well? Well done?”
With Kennedy’s back still facing me, I raise both my hands in the air, displaying to Coen he’s driving me insane.
“Well done, please.”
“Well done with pepper jack. You’ve got it. Can I get your help, Joe?”
The muscles in my body grow rigid as I stare at Coen and his stupid fake smile that if I wasn’t so annoyed I might try to comprehend. He cocks his head to the side, indicating for me to follow him, and then Ella enters, carrying two filled wine glasses, a hesitant smile ghosting her lips.
“Would you like some sangria?” Ella asks her.
Kennedy accepts the glass, glancing at me as I brush my hand down the plane of her back. I follow Coen out to the back deck that extends off the informal dining room, where Shakespeare is lying, a stretched pile of golden fur.
“Since when do you need help grilling six burgers?” I ask.
“Since you began needing dating advice.”
“She apparently doesn’t even think we are dating!”
“So you are dating?” Coen takes a long pull from a beer.
“I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going on or what’s . . . happening.”
Coen blinks, waiting for me to say more, and then clears his throat when I don’t continue. “Well, I think this proves you got your impressive vocabulary skills from Dad.”
“You’re such a pain in the ass. I was trying to talk to her and figure shit out, and you came in and asked fifty million questions about cheese!”
“You were interrogating her in my living room, with Hayden in the next room, hearing you asking her to stay . . .” He stares at me for a moment, letting his words sink in.
I rake my fingers over my scalp and sigh. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I just . . .” I sigh again, this time deeper.
“If you want her to stay in Haven Point, and your relationship is a contributing factor, then you’re going to have to find a way to articulate what you’re feeling for her better than a lot of pauses and asking her to have sex.”
“We’ve known each other a few weeks. I don’t even know what I’m feeling aside from confused.” I extend an arm. “And frustrated. I feel really frustrated. She has this way of getting under my skin and making me think way too long and way too hard about what she says and what she’s doing and what other people around her are thinking and doing. And then I start worrying about what’s going to happen. What if I were to quit my job? What if she were to stay? What if she were to leave? And I start to realize that I sound like a damn chick with all these questions constantly racing through my mind.”
My tirade plays over and over in my head. Each time new verses and questions are added as Coen simply stares at me.
“What?” I burst.
“I’ve got good news and bad news for you.”
I shake my head. “What are you talking about?”
Coen’s trademark grin appears, but his eyes remain solemn. “You’re going to have to admit to yourself that you care about her enough that it’s impacting your life. This isn’t casual, Joe. You have feelings for her, and this is going to be hard. You guys are going to have to make decisions on if you want a long-distance relationship or if you’re willing to give things up so you can be together.”
“Is that the good news or the bad news?”
He chuckles and takes another drink of his beer. “See, if you can’t even recognize that’s the bad news, then it’s not so bad. You’ve got this, Joe. Trust me, I understand what you’re feeling. I know what it’s like when someone hijacks literally every single one of your thoughts. I’ve been there. Hell, I’m still there. And for me it was harder to admit to myself that I loved Ella than it was to tell her, because once I realized it, shit got real, and suddenly the fear of rejection had me doubting everything.”
“You’re not helping,” I tell him, shaking my head. “You realize she’s talking about moving to Boston again. And even if she stays here, I might not be able to find a job that would allow me to be here with her.”
Coen places his han
d on my shoulder. “You can’t run before you walk, Joe. First you have to tell her how you feel and make sure this is something you both want to pursue.”
“What’s your good news?” I ask.
“You can tell Ma to stop praying for you to find someone. It will save her a solid thirty minutes every day and even longer on Sundays.”
I turn and slug him in the shoulder.
Coen laughs, lifting the lid of the grill. “Oh, and Ella mentioned some clown came by on a riding lawn mower to see Kennedy.”
“Was it Jackson?”
He shakes his head. “Your new buddy, Billy.”
I stare at him, my anger reaching a boiling point.
“Maybe this is good,” I say.
Coen shakes his head in tight, short jerks. “Maybe what is good?”
“Her going to Boston for a couple of days.”
Brown eyes furrow. “You just said you like her enough to consider moving here, and now you’re coming out of left field with this bullshit? What is this? Cold feet? Go find your balls, and tell her how you’re feeling. I can tell you this, if you’re afraid to tell her you have feelings for her, you’re never going to be able to ask her to stay or tell her when your feelings progress way past like and into something you can’t even describe because it’s not just love—but something far beyond it. Where you can’t eat or sleep when they’re gone, and you can’t find joy or relax without knowing they’re okay.”
I shake my head. “What you’re describing sounds miserable.”
Once again, his quick smile rounds his lips. “The best sort of misery there is.”
“You’ve gotten soft on me. And you’re about to turn that well-done burger over there into charcoal, asshole.”
“There’s that side of bitterness I was searching for.”
He has too many upper hands on me. Everything is about me and what I’m either failing at or doing wrong, and my little brother is living here with the woman of his dreams in a house they’re turning into their perfect home. So instead of retaliating or saying something stupid that isn’t true, I admit defeat and try to change the subject to something far more neutral.
“So what’s happening with your job?” Coen asks, beating me to it.
I shrug, realizing I forgot to tally that my younger brother also has a job that he claims to love. I should have gone to stay with Arianna, who hates her job, the men she dates, and her apartment. At least there I might have occasionally felt like I was winning at something at life.
“Still under investigation,” I tell him.
Coen shakes his head. “Are you worried?”
“I’m more worried that I don’t care.” I scoff. “I mean, all my life I thought I wanted to be a cop, you know? It’s what I thought I was meant to do. What I was born to do. And now I’m on the precipice of losing it all, and I couldn’t care less.”
“Maybe that’s a sign.” There’s no question to his tone; he’s telling me that it’s a sign.
“Not everything is a sign. You sound like Mom.”
The back door opens, and Ella appears, followed closely by Kennedy. Their glasses of sangria have been refilled, and Ella’s holding a large platter. I barely notice her smile because my attention is on Kennedy, searching her expression to tell me if she’s uncomfortable or having a good time. She’s looking at me, the ghost of a grin on her face that grows when our eyes meet. As though reading my thoughts, she nods, and my shoulders fall with relief as I smile back at her.
“We were just talking about Founder’s Day,” Ella says.
“Founder’s Day?” I ask, my attention moving briefly to Ella before returning to Kennedy, wanting to continue watching the way her smile broadens when she finds something humorous or the way her eyes pinch when she’s questioning something. Currently, she’s biting on the corner of her lip, holding back humor and words as she looks to Ella to explain.
Ella nods, her bright-blue eyes shining as she beams. “It sounds like so much fun!”
“Some guys at the station have been talking about it,” Coen says. “It sounds like it’s a pretty big deal.” The three of us turn our attention to Kennedy, who nods.
“It is. We like our town events and festivals, but this is nearly as big as Christmas. It’s a celebration of Haven Point’s history,” Kennedy says. “It kicks off on Friday night with a reenactment that you guys definitely need to see since you’re new. It will be idolized, mocked, and discussed by everyone. It’s the same one every single year, and you’ll hear stories about previous reenactments for the next few weeks—so prepare yourselves. Then on Saturday, the entire town gathers in Town Square, and there’s live music, lots of food vendors, games, a few rides, a chili cook-off, and carnival games.”
“She said they have a three-legged race!” Ella bounces on her toes, clearly excited about the idea.
“For kids?” Coen asks.
Kennedy shakes her head, laughing. “They do one for grade school, middle school, high school, adults, and seniors.”
“I don’t think I’ve done a three-legged race since I was ten,” Coen says.
“What time’s the reenactment?” Ella asks.
“Seven, but you want to get there around six thirty or you’ll be considered late. You know the big gazebo in the center of Town Square? You want to stand on the left side of it, near the playground. They set up all the refreshments at the gazebo, and everyone crowds on the right because you have a chance of being chosen to be in the reenactment. You’ll be close enough to still access all the desserts and drinks, and you won’t have to be tied up and ride around on a horse for fifteen minutes.”
Her enthusiasm is apparent with the way her green eyes dance and her tone fluctuates. So much of our time in the first week I knew her was spent arguing, and now our time is spent in the confines of my room, where we share stories of our pasts and hopes for the future under a cloak of darkness and privacy. This is yet another side of Kennedy, another segment of who she is, and I realize, just like the other sides of her that I’ve been discovering, I want to learn more.
“How do we get tickets?” Ella asks.
Kennedy shakes her head. “You don’t need one. You just attend. All the games and rides are free; you just have to pay for food and any goods. There will be lots of little craft booths set up selling handmade soaps, jewelry, that sort of thing.”
“And it’s free?” Ella’s surprise has her voice pitched and eyebrows raised.
Kennedy nods. “They want everyone to come and celebrate.”
“You sold me at chili,” I tell her.
She chuckles. “You guys are doing me a huge favor tonight because I’ve been eating chili for a week straight, and it won’t stop until after Founder’s Day.”
“Well, we’re happy to have you. You’re welcome anytime,” Coen says, plating the burgers and a few extra hot dogs he added to the grill.
We head back inside to the kitchen table, which is the only piece of furniture we’ve moved back in, since the painting hasn’t been completed. It became a necessity with all the bugs and cramped space of the RV.
Ella takes a tray of fries and onion rings from the oven and salts them before pouring them into a bowl, and I grab the macaroni salad, beans, and potato salad Coen, Hayden, and I picked up from the store earlier, while Coen opens a couple bags of chips.
“How can I help?” Kennedy asks, peering around.
“You painted our living room! All you have to do now is sit down and eat.” Ella sets the bowl of fries and onion rings down, along with a tall stack of napkins.
“What condiments do you like, babe?”
Kennedy’s eyes flash to mine, her green irises wide and bright as she stares at me. I could argue that it was a slip of the tongue. That hearing Ella and my brother exchanging pet names has blurred my lines of reason that have already been thinned and sanded by sleeping with her and knowing so many of the truths she hides behind her trademark smile. “Um . . . mustard would be great, please.” Her attention
quickly shifts as Hayden wanders in, his gaze on his handheld gaming device.
Coen and Ella don’t miss a beat, oblivious to the fact that I might have just shifted the course of Kennedy and mine’s relationship with a single word as they finish collecting plates and utensils.
Hayden takes a seat beside Kennedy and sets his game on the table before cocking his head and looking at her. “Are you trying to decide if you want to spend your life with my uncle?”
Chapter 22
Kennedy
If I could crawl under the table and go unnoticed, I would. My cheeks heat, and my palms itch with sweat as I stare at Hayden through stretched eyes. His eyebrows lower, trying to understand my discomfort.
I can’t look at the others, whose stares are so heavy, my shoulders bow. Joey and I never use terms of endearment, which is likely why it surprised me, but that was nothing. Hayden’s question, however, shines a spotlight on me.
Ella laughs nervously. “What are you talking about, sweetheart?”
Hayden looks to Coen, while I glance at Coen, actively avoiding looking anywhere near Joey.
“Coen knows,” Hayden says.
Coen trains his features so his look of surprise dissipates as he looks to Hayden. “I know what, buddy?”
“Remember?” Hayden asks. “We talked about how adults have to choose who they want to spend their lives with?”
“Yeah, but . . .”
My cheeks are flaming. I can feel the heat rising, coloring my neck and probably my entire chest. This shouldn’t be embarrassing. I’m an adult. And Joey and I both know that he’s leaving and I might be, too.
The thought swirls through my mind, and I miss hearing Coen’s response as sadness and regret infringe, my embarrassment slowly waning.
I hear Hayden ask another question before focusing on Coen.
His cheeks are blown out as he struggles to find the right explanation. One he won’t find because in this situation there isn’t one. This entire situation was set up for failure and combustion and heartache.
“We should eat,” Ella says. “Dinner’s getting cold, and you’ve got to take a shower before bed tonight.” She pats Hayden’s hand.