by Amber Garza
“Watch where you’re going,” he booms.
I wince, reaching up to touch my temple. “You don’t have to yell.”
“Mornin’ to you too, Grump.” He nudges me in the arm.
I stick out my tongue at him. Immature, I know, but I’m not feeling grown up today.
“You kiss Josh with that stinky mouth?” Cal curls his nose in disgust.
Clamping my mouth shut, I can’t figure out which one is more embarrassing. My bad breath or Cal talking about me kissing Josh. And what made him say that anyway?
When I throw him a confused look, he nods. “Yeah, that’s right. I know you two are still together.”
“Yeah. So?” I cross my arms over my chest.
He shakes his head. “I just don’t get why you still want to be with him. Neither does Chris.”
“Christian knows?”
Cal nods. “We overheard Josh braggin’ about it at practice. Chris was actually pretty upset.”
My heart leaps. “He was? Why?”
“C’mon, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Josh is not Chris’s favorite guy in the world.”
And with that explanation, my heart plummets. Christian’s dislike of Josh has nothing to do with me. I should have known. “Move out of the way. I need to take a shower.” Shoving Cal aside, I make my way toward the bathroom.
“Speaking of Chris,” Cal says. “Go easy on the guy.”
I whirl around, perplexed. “What?”
“He thinks you’re upset with him about Saturday night, but he was only trying to help.”
When he was rescuing me from Josh or when he stuck his tongue down my throat? “Fine. Can I get ready now or do you have any more nagging to do?”
Cal whistles. “Dude, is it that time of the month or something?”
“Shut up.” I swat at him.
“Can you two keep it down?” Mom stumbles out of her room, hair disheveled, her eyes heavy-lidded. She wears black pajama pants and one of Dad’s t-shirts. It’s about two sizes too big and swallows her whole. Mom is tiny. She’s only five feet tall, and doesn’t have an ounce of fat on her body. With Dad’s giant shirt hanging off her and no makeup on her face, she appears childlike. “It’s too early in the morning for your bickering.”
Mom has never been a morning person. Before Cal and I drove, she could barely stay awake long enough to take us to school. And she never got dressed. Just hopped in the car in her PJ’s, white-blond hair sticking up everywhere, indentations from the pillow painted on her cheek. Rarely do I see her in the morning now. In fact, sometimes when we get home from school she’s still wearing her pajamas while she sits at her computer, writing furiously.
There’s no way I would stay in my pajamas all day. Then again, I’m nothing like Mom. I enjoy order and schedules. Mom detests them. She lives in a state of chaos and is perfectly content with it. It makes my skin crawl. Even as a little girl I’d follow Mom around straightening and cleaning up. She used to tease me about it, but has since stopped. I like to think she sees the value in it now, but most likely she’s tired of fighting me to be someone I’m not.
When I was younger, Mom tried and failed to bring out my creative side. She put me in art and creative writing classes. She attempted to teach me how to draw pictures and make up stories. But I would end up painting pages of symmetrical lines or writing out to-do lists. Finally, Mom gave up. I’m not sure she embraces who I am, but at least she gives me the freedom to be that person. However, she’s made it clear that she doesn’t understand me. That’s okay, though, because I don’t understand her either.
But I understand her well enough to know not to push her when she’s tired. “Sorry,” I mumble toward Mom while throwing Cal an exasperated expression. Then I slip inside the bathroom. After clicking the door closed, I groan. Keeping my feelings in check is going to be even more difficult than I anticipated. Every time Cal mentioned Christian this morning a million feelings kicked up inside of me like a pile of leaves on a windy day. I can still feel them spinning around, flapping against my ribs. I mistakenly thought that getting back together with Josh would make getting over Christian easier, but it seems to have the opposite effect. And I have the sinking suspicion it’s only going to get worse rather than better.
CHRISTIAN
The bell on the door rings, the musty scent of the shop filling my senses as I step inside. Funny how certain smells can cause a flood of emotions and memories to surface. Other than my house and the Fishers’ house, this place is where I spend most of my time. I practically grew up here among the trinkets and antique furniture.
Even before moving to Prairie Creek in fourth grade, our tiny apartment in Sacramento was filled with antiques. Every birthday and Christmas, a package would arrive from my grandma filled with treasures. Mom would carefully take them out of the box, and then consult her antiques magazine to see how valuable each piece was. She used to tell me stories about her childhood in Prairie Creek, about helping her mom run the shop. She and her mom were pretty close since her dad died when she was teenager. I could never figure out why she never wanted to visit her mom if they were so tight. But whenever I asked her about it, she got all sad and teary. So I stopped bringing it up.
“Hey.” Mom’s head pops up from behind the counter. Today she wears her thick, dark hair in a long braid down her back. When she steps around the counter, the bracelets that line her arm jangle. Her skirt is so long it hides her feet as she makes her way over to me. “How was your day?”
“Fine.” I glance around. “Yours?” It’s quiet, and I wonder if she had many customers.
“It was okay.” Her smile appears forced.
Business has been slow lately. I spot a tattered paperback lying open on the counter. It’s one of Maise’s. “Slow day?”
She nods, shame written on her face. Crap. The last thing I want to do is make Mom feel bad. It’s not her fault the shop isn’t doing well. Antiques aren’t exactly a booming business around here. Especially not in the winter. In the summer we get more tourists. Visitors are our bread and butter. The regulars rarely come in here. I think they shopped here more often when Grandma owned it. Once Mom took it over, it seemed that no one in town would ever set foot in the place. But over the years, people have softened a little toward Mom. Occasionally, some of them pop in. Usually to buy a gift for someone.
“That’s okay. Things’ll get better,” I say in the most reassuring voice I can muster.
Without meaning to I peer over my shoulder at the window overlooking the street. The glass is pristine, smooth. Not so much as a hairline fracture. But I remember when it was broken, shattered, vandalized. It was right after we moved here, and it was the first time I knew what real rage was. Watching my mom pick up the jagged pieces of glass into her hands while her shoulders shook and tears streamed down her face was too much for me. If I wasn’t a puny little runt at the time, I might have taken matters into my own hands. I might have kicked some serious ass.
If it happens now, I definitely will.
No one messes with anyone I care about now. They know better. I’m sort of known for my short fuse, but it doesn’t bother me. Bothers the hell out of my mom though. She’s always trying to soften me up, touting off the importance of having self-control. But I don’t buy it. I’ve watched people walk all over my mom for too long. Mom is one of the calmest people I know, and it’s done her no good. And if she’s not going to stand up for herself, then she needs someone who will.
My mind flashes on the image of Josh fighting with Emmy at the bonfire party. What is it with girls letting men stomp all over their hearts? And why is the jerk always the guy they want?
“I hope so.” Mom sighs, placing her hands on her hips. “If not, I’m gonna have to call him.”
I know exactly who she’s referring to, and there’s no way in hell I’m letting her call him. “No,” I say. “We’ll figure it out on our own.”
“And if we don’t?”
“We will,” I
say firmly.
Her lips curl upward into an amused smile. “You’re so stubborn. Always have been.”
“It’s part of my charm.” I shrug.
She snorts. “It was part of his charm too.”
“Don’t.” I hate when she does this. Compares the two of us. He’s the last person I want to be compared to. He may be my biological father, but that’s where our connection ends.
“Not saying it doesn’t make it any less true, Chris.”
She always has to get in one last statement. “And I’m the one who’s stubborn? Ever think I might get it from you, not him?”
She chuckles. I like this side of her. In moments like this I can imagine what she must have been like when she was younger. Happy and carefree. Most of my life she’s been stressed and exhausted, beaten down. “You may be right about that.” She pats my cheek.
From my pocket, my cell vibrates. I yank it out and see a text from Cal about dinner tonight. Not meaning to, I frown.
Mom furrows her brows. “What?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s just Cal.” I wave away her concern.
“Is it about dinner? Maise called earlier to invite me.” Mom glances over at the row of antique clocks lining the wall. Most of them aren’t set to the right time, but one of them is. “You can head on over now, and I’ll meet you there in a bit.”
“Actually.” I scratch the back of my neck. “I think I might just eat at home.”
“Why?” Her confusion is warranted. I’ve never turned down dinner at the Fishers. Mom works late most nights so dinner at our house is mac n’ cheese, sandwiches, or frozen dinners.
“I’ve got a lot of homework. That’s all.” Turning around, I attempt to hide from her scrutinizing gaze.
“Chris, what’s going on?” I should’ve known Mom wouldn’t let up that easy. She scurries around me, blocking my path. “Are you and Cal in a fight or something?” She looks so panicky that guilt wraps around me, squeezing hard. The Fishers aren’t like family to us. They are family. And, frankly, they’re the only family we have. The look on Mom’s face is a further reminder of how bad I messed up. And it’s confirmation of the fact that I can’t afford to do it again.
“No. Cal and I are cool. I promise.”
I expect relief, but her face remains conflicted. “Then why won’t you go over there?”
“I will,” I blurt out.
There’s that look of relief I was wanting. “Oh, good. You scared me for a minute.” She touches my arm. “You can get your homework done after dinner.”
“Yeah.” I force my lips into a smile, steeling myself for the evening.
My phone vibrates again. Cal’s wondering why I haven’t responded. Blowing out a breath, I text back.
Me: Sorry. At the shop. On my way.
“All right.” I hug Mom swiftly. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Okay.” She smiles brightly.
Dread descends on me as I head out of the shop. Seating at the Fishers’ dining table has always been the same. Cal and I sit next to each other with Mom and Emmy across from us, and Maise and Tim at each end. When we were kids, Emmy and I would kick each other from under the table sometimes when we were bored. Now I have no desire to kick her. I don’t want to tease her or play the role of big brother. I want so much more from her than that. But I know it’s wrong. I know I have to set aside my feelings. How am I going to endure an entire evening with Emmy sitting directly across from me? How am I going to look Maise and Tim in the eyes knowing that I made out with their daughter?
More importantly, how am I going to move past this?
How am I going to get over her?
****
I’m hoping to pull myself together before I get to the Fishers’. Too bad the drive doesn’t give me enough time to do that. Prairie Creek is so small it only takes a few minutes to get anywhere. I pull up in front of their house and cut the engine. The street is quiet. When I glance at the house, I see Maise through the kitchen window. She’s standing over the stove stirring something in a large chrome pot. The Fishers’ house looks a lot like ours with the shuttered windows and wraparound porch. But even with the similarities, it’s also a lot different too. Not so much in appearance. More in feel.
Our house is just that - a house. A place with walls, furniture and windows. A place to crash and stay sheltered from the elements. Cal’s house is a home - full of laughter and noise.
Don’t get me wrong. I like our house. And I like living with my mom. I’m definitely glad it’s only the two of us. Over the years, she’s dated a couple of guys. And let me tell you, I would not have been okay with her marrying one of those losers. No way would I have been a model son to some creepy stepdad.
And Mom’s done her best to give me a good life. However, she works long hours and she’s quiet by nature. Silence is the norm at my house. Not the case at all here. As if to prove my point, I hear loud chatter as I walk up to the front door. It’s coming from an open window to my right. Maise and Tim are sharing the details of their day with each other. I shake my head at how funny their conversation is as Maise rattles on about something crazy one of her characters did. If I didn’t know better, I might assume she was talking about a real person. And Tim’s comments about his first grade students sound stranger than fiction.
Lifting my hand, I knock. When I hear footsteps from inside, I silently pray Emmy doesn’t answer. I know I’ll have to see her, but I’m not quite ready yet. Fortunately, it’s Cal who answers the door. But the funny look on his face sends off warning signals in my head.
“Did you get my text, man?” Cal asks when I step inside.
“What text?”
“The one from a few seconds ago.”
I shake my head. He must have sent it when I was driving.
“Chris.” Tim materializes in front of me. “How ya doing?”
“Good.” I nod.
“Glad to hear it.” He pats me on the shoulder. “I’m looking forward to the start of the season. With the new line-up, you guys can’t lose.”
“Hey, Chris,” Maise calls from the kitchen. “Tim, don’t start in on him about baseball yet. He’s barely stepped in the door.”
“At least I’m talking about something that isn’t fictional,” he retorts, but his smile betrays that he’s only joking with her.
“Oh, stop. You’re lucky to be with a woman as interesting as me,” Maise banters back. Tim saunters into the kitchen, grabbing Maise from behind and drawing her into his chest.
Cal shakes his head as if he finds the entire exchange disgusting. I start to chuckle, but it gets lodged in my throat. Emmy and Josh sit on the couch in the family room. I cough in an attempt to swallow down the anger that rises in my throat.
“What’s he doing here?” I ask through gritted teeth.
Cal lowers his head. “That’s what I was trying to tell you.”
Ah, yes, the text. Now I wish I had gotten it. Then I might have gone home the way I initially wanted to. If I thought facing Emmy would be challenging tonight, watching her with this douchebag is going to be hell.
Her head is bent near his. He says something, and she giggles. When his hand lifts to touch her hair and she presses her cheek into his palm, my insides churn. I cannot stomach this shit. Her eyelids flutter, and I know what’s going to happen. I’ve seen that look in her eyes before. I know I should turn away, but it’s like when you pass a car accident on the freeway. You don’t want to look because you’re afraid you might see something gruesome. But then you have to look because you might see something gruesome. Seeing Emmy kiss this freak is pretty much the most gruesome thing I can imagine. And yet, I can’t avert my eyes. As their heads get closer and their lips almost touch, something explodes inside of me. It’s like my anger meter has reached its limit. Like I’m a pot boiling on the stove and now I’m spilling over.
I take a step forward, my hands shaking.
And I know this is it.
I’m going to wind up in jail fo
r killing this jerk.
I can see it all playing out in my mind. Me yanking him away from Emmy and pounding his smug little face in. And even as I think it, I know it’s extreme. I mean, the guy’s a dick, but he shouldn’t be murdered for simply kissing his girlfriend. Except that she shouldn’t be his girlfriend.
She should be mine.
Oh, hell.
Composing myself, I halt. What am I doing? I needed to stop these crazy thoughts.
Lucky for me, Tim enters the room. When he spots what’s happening on the couch, he clears his throat loudly. That’s one thing I’ve always liked about Cal’s parents. They don’t nag, and they’re not harsh. They’re gentle in their approach, but they’re also clear. And it’s clear to me that Tim doesn’t want to see Josh kiss Emmy any more than I do.
Emmy comes out of her stupid Josh-induced fog, and snaps her head toward her dad. But before her gaze reaches him, it sweeps over me. She appears startled, but other than that I catch nothing. No conflict raging in her eyes. No sadness or anger. Clearly she’s not wrestling with her feelings the same way I am. It shouldn’t hurt, but it does. I should feel relief, but relief is that last thing I feel.
“The woman of the house has instructed me to find out what everyone wants to drink,” Tim says. “But I should warn you that I tried waiting tables once in college, and I was fired after two shifts.”
Cal chuckles. Emmy shakes her head and leaps up. Josh appears confused, and I feel a strange sense of satisfaction from this. He has no idea what’s going on, but I do. Not only am I familiar with how Tim launches into one of his long, drawn-out stories, but this is one I’ve heard countless times before. But Josh hasn’t. Frankly, I don’t mind Tim’s stories. And actually this one is pretty funny, albeit embarrassing. But apparently, Emmy wants no part in it.
“Dad, I’ll help you get the drinks. I know what everyone wants,” she says swiftly, grabbing her dad by the elbow and steering him out of the room.