Holly will worry. She worries about her dad most of all, though she pretends not to, which is the main reason I haven’t told her about his relapses. Added to the pressure she puts on herself with school, she’d tear her hands to shreds if she knew. And, on that note, Ethan still isn’t home. Holly called, her voice going high and sweet as she left a message on his voicemail. My bitchy side wants to tell her exactly what her father is doing rather than hanging out with us, but I don’t bad-mouth Ethan to the kids.
The front door opens. “Ding dong,” Mitch sings out. She enters holding multiple bags that she drops to the floor before she shakes out her shoulder-length dark hair. “Look who I found outside.”
My dad, Sam, follows her in. It’s not surprising she’s found him, considering he lives in a fifth wheel camper at the back of our property, but he hasn’t been home all day.
“Hey, Pop.” Jesse stands from the couch and heads straight to his grandpa.
“How’s it going, kiddo?” Pop hugs Jesse warmly, the way he does most things. He’s still a solid guy at seventy-two, though his auburn hair has grayed to blond, and recently he’s looked tired more often than not. “How’s school? Still getting those A’s and slaying the ladies?”
“You know me.” Jesse flashes the smile—braces made it almost too perfect—that makes him popular with said ladies.
“He’s the worst. The worst.” Mitch grabs him in a hug. “And the best. Don’t be a patriarchal male jerk, though. Break the mold.”
“A woman’s place is in the House,” Jesse says. Mitch raises a warning fist, and he adds, “And the Senate.”
“That’s my boy.” Mitch’s hug envelops Holly. “And how about you, gumdrop? I know you’re acing everything. Slaying the ladies, too?”
Holly looks everywhere but at Mitch. “Hardly.”
All of Holly’s relationship information is guarded like Fort Knox. Rather than ask and thereby send her into a tailspin of embarrassment, I rely on her best friend, Clara, for information—when Holly tells her anything. I only want to know whether Holly is happy. She deserves someone as kind and gentle as she is.
I hug Mitch, then kiss Pop’s cheek. “Hey, Daddy. How’re you feeling?”
“Fine, Rosie. I’m fine.”
I stare him down. He’s had health issues in recent years, prostate cancer being one of them, and though he’s okay now, he’s not known for sharing his medical details. His excuse is that he doesn’t want to worry me, though his alternate plan involves driving me crazy by forcing me to inspect him for signs of illness. He doesn’t need to protect me from the truth, yet he will to his last breath, and that drives me crazier even as I love him for it.
His smile deepens the creases in his face, and his blue eyes twinkle as they usually do. Between the graying hair, the beard, and the pink cast to his cheeks, he could play Santa Claus. “I’m fine, baby doll. Would I lie to you?”
“Always. And that’s why I never believe you.” He throws me a kiss and doesn’t say a word. I roll my eyes. “God, you’re a pain in my ass. Come in. I was going to microwave a bunch of stuff for dinner.”
“No need,” Mitch says. “I brought Thai.”
“Out of everyone in the world, we love you most, Auntie Mitch.” Holly roots through Mitch’s belongings. When she locates the Thai food, she grabs the two bags and heads for the kitchen.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say. “But thank you.”
“Who else will I spend my money on?” Mitch asks. “A single woman can only eat so much takeout.”
“I guess last night’s date was a bust?”
Mitch throws her hands in the air. “He showed up in sweatpants.”
“Well, I mean, sweatpants aren’t that—”
“And he wore those black and white plastic Adidas sandals. With white cotton socks. He didn’t even spring for wool.”
I cover my mouth too late to trap my laugh. I don’t like to judge people based on their clothing, but that is not first date attire. Actually, Adidas sandals with white socks are never attire. “Really? Could he have been running late or—”
“Adidas sandals!” Mitch yells. “You have to draw the line somewhere, and I have drawn the line there.” She links arms with Pop. “Papa will be my date for the evening.”
Pop pats Mitch’s hand and leads her into the kitchen. “His loss, my gain.”
Mitch is tall and boisterous. Blunt and funny. And she has the biggest heart beneath it all. You have to get past the crispy outer shell to the creamy interior, and most men don’t make it in, much to my chagrin. Whether it’s because Mitch doesn’t allow it, or they don’t want to try, is dependent on the situation. But it’s always the case.
Holly sets the table while Jesse takes drink orders. I stop in the doorway, thinking how perfect the scene is and how much I love every last one of them. My smile falls when I realize I don’t miss Ethan at all.
5
Clara
My dad calls around the dinner hour, just as I’m about to let Nick in my pants for the first time. I let it ring. I ignore it when he calls again and then ignore the subsequent voicemail. The third call comes when the zipper of my jeans is in its descent, and I groan in surrender. There are only so many times your dad can interrupt your fooling around before the moment is ruined.
Plus, my dad never calls three times in a row. In fact, he rarely calls. Usually it’s my mom, and she asks me a million questions about college life in Portland, all of which I answer as truthfully as possible without going into detail. Evenings like the one I’m spending with Nick are definitely left out of the Mom Report.
Nick’s personality is yet to be determined, but he has silky brown hair that he pushes to the side and an easy smile—and I’m not looking for anything more than that. I spent most of my teen years pining over Jesse, which turned out to be a waste of time and energy. I’m not doing that again.
I push Nick away and reach for the phone on my nightstand. “Hey, Dad.”
As a little girl, I called him Daddy, but Tom Jensen has been plain old Dad for well over a decade. And he’s a Dad with a capital D—his lectures are legendary, his views black and white, and he pretends to have no emotions. Well, no warm and fuzzy emotions; he has disappointment, anger, and exasperation down pat.
“Clara, you need to come home tonight.” His deep voice is firm.
I smack the hand trailing a path down my stomach. Nick wears a grin as though I’d think it was hot to have his hand in my pants while I speak to my father. Nope.
“What’s wrong?” I clench the phone and pace toward my reflection in the window, thinking Mom or Jeremy, Mom or Jeremy. “Is everyone okay?”
I’m afraid his calling means the end of a life that’s incredibly normal, at least to outward appearances—married parents, a younger brother in high school, me in college. Because all it takes is one phone call, one twist of fate, to decimate one’s entire universe.
“They’re fine, Clara. Everyone’s fine.” I let out my breath when his voice softens from commanding to calm. “Sorry I scared you. I don’t like the look of this virus and, besides, your mother would like to see you. It’s been a while.”
It’s only a two-hour drive, but it’s light years away from how I want to spend my night. Nick lies back on the bed and, to his credit, looks concerned by my side of the conversation. I don’t know him well, definitely not well enough to go where we’re heading, according to Mom, but it’s not like I’ve been saving myself for marriage.
The virus started somewhere in Asia, that much I know, and it’s only affected random people so far. People who’ve gone crazy, apparently, but still. “Dad, I’m not planning a plane trip, and I know enough to stay away from crazy people. It’s not even in Oregon. I’ll be down tomorrow. I’ll even leave early.”
“It is in Oregon, Clara. I heard it on the news.” My dad takes on his I-will-brook-no-argument-from-you tone. I thought by junior year of college he’d realize he wasn’t allowed to use that tone with me, or that I would be immu
ne to it. Neither is true. “I’m asking, Clara, but I’m not really asking.”
Maybe an extra night home won’t be so bad. I’m tired of our push-pull relationship, of being at odds. “Okay, fine. I’ll leave in about an hour.”
“You will?” he asks, as if it’s impossible for me to be obliging. “I’ll wait up.”
I try not to lose my patience. “I know, Dad.” I say I’ll drive safely and toss my phone on the table.
Nick watches me from the bed, hands laced behind his head. “You’re leaving?”
“My dad’s worried about that Bornavirus. I was going home tomorrow anyway, so he wants me to come early.”
“I saw this video where some guy in California says it’s like a zombie virus. They’re eating brains and shit.” I laugh and pull out a small suitcase. Nick waves a lazy hand. “It’s not even in Oregon.”
“He said it is now. Only a few cases, though.” I’m warming to the idea of being home. My best friend, Holly, goes to the University of Oregon, and maybe I’ll spend tonight at her apartment. The whole reason for tomorrow’s trip is to see her family. I’ll call her on the way down.
“So,” I say when Nick shows no sign of moving, “I’ve kind of got to pack.”
He pats the bed. “You don’t have to run out the door, do you?”
I think about losing myself in Nick, and all my good intentions fly out the window. We could do a lot of damage to each other in an hour. I walk toward him, a slow heat spreading from my center to my limbs. “I can stay a little while.”
“Should you call your dad?”
I bought his rebel act, but he’s beginning to seem almost normal. “And say what? That I’m entertaining a young man in my room but Don’t worry, Daddy, I’ll be home soon?”
I pull my shirt over my head. Nick leans back, his eyes eaten black by his widening pupils as I approach the bed, and I don’t think of Dad again.
A little over an hour later, we’re in my car. Nick wants a ride home. A long ride home. Granted, he also grew up in Eugene, but he’s decided a spring break visit is in order. I offered him a ride because I knew he was angling for one, but I’m mourning the loss of two hours of music on the way down. It’s the only place I sing these days. Rose, Holly’s mom, insists the car makes you invisible, and I choose to believe her—otherwise I’d never sing at all.
I drive Nick to his apartment, pull up out front, and plug my phone into the stereo while I wait for him to grab his stuff. “See you in a few?” he asks.
“Of course,” I say, as if I’m not deep in a fantasy in which I leave Nick standing with his bag at the curb. Just because we’ve slept together doesn’t mean I want to go on a road trip.
Before too long, Nick throws his bag into the backseat and slides into the front. “Thanks for the ride.”
I smile out the windshield instead of at him while I pull from the curb. Sleeping with someone is entirely different, and possibly easier, than having a conversation with him. Or feelings for him. I’m reflecting on this very subject and ignoring the way my nerves jangle at the thought of seeing Jesse this weekend, when Nick yells, “Shit, Clara!”
Someone has crashed into someone else and now the two someones are wrestling in the left lane. I skid to a stop five inches shy of the bumper ahead. I like to believe I’m independent, but my parents still pay my insurance, and I’ll never hear the end of rear-ending someone.
There’s just enough space to pass in the right lane and shoulder. The car in front of me crawls by, gawking at the altercation I can barely make out in the dark. I think about stopping, but someone else has.
“That dude was beating the shit out of the other guy,” Nick says. “I think we should go back. Maybe I can help.”
He’s a regular Good Samaritan, this Nick. The car’s interior flashes with police lights. “And get killed for it? Anyway, the police are coming.”
My dad lets my mom do most of the parenting, but he taught me to fight, as well as to stay out of fights that don’t belong to me, especially ones between grown men. He attached a rape whistle to my keychain when I was twelve, and it’s been on there ever since. Holly likes to say that she doesn’t know why he bothered, since I give it away for free. And that’s why I love Holly—she can always make me laugh.
Once we hit the main highway, I turn down the music and dial her. “Hey, you,” Holly says. “Why are you calling me before two a.m.?”
“I’m coming down early. Just left Portland. Have to stop at home first, then I’ll come to your apartment.”
“I’m at the parents’ house tonight. Jesse’s down for the party, and I’m helping my mom set up.”
The anniversary party I’m to attend. Holly’s parents have been married twenty years, which is crazy considering they’re both forty-two. Holly and I are twenty-one, and her brother Jesse—Jess—is a little more than a year older.
“Shit,” I say. “Forget it. I’ll just see you tomorrow, then.”
“Clars!” Holly yells out my nickname. “Are you crazy? Get your ass over here! There’s a ton of alcohol that needs drinking. They’ll never finish it all at the party.”
“Okay. After I drop someone off and see my parents, I’ll come over.”
“Someone? Who is this someone of which you speak?” I’m silent, which makes Holly squeal in delight. “Jesse, Clara’s got someone in the car. Okay, so do that and come over. Jess really wants to see you.”
Sometimes I wonder how much Holly knows about me and her brother. Not that there’s much to tell. Except for a brief make out session in our teens, it never came to any more. I’ve never breathed a word about my feelings. I like my status as the girl you never worry will beg you to cuddle or ask you a million questions. But Holly knows me so well I think she must suspect.
There’s a scuffling sound, followed by the voice of the only person on Earth who flusters me. “Bring him,” Jesse says. My chest flutters in an annoying, girly way. “Or her. Which way are you swinging these days?”
“Fuck off,” I mutter. I only ever swing the one way; I just swing that way often. “How’s Super Bitch?”
“Long gone,” Jesse says. “And good riddance. Now come and drink with us.”
“I’ll be there soon.”
This time the warmth doesn’t spread from my abdomen to my extremities—the thought of seeing Jesse always begins with a prickle of anticipation in my chest, turmoil in my belly, and warm cheeks. Flustered.
When I hang up, still smiling, Nick asks, “Seeing friends tonight?”
A ride is one thing, but I’m not inviting him to Holly’s house. Nick is on a need-to-know basis when it comes to my life, and he doesn’t need to know any more than he does.
“Yeah,” I say. “Old friends.”
“Who?”
“Holly and Jesse Winter.”
“I know Jess,” Nick says. “He plays guitar, right?”
“Yeah, I’m going over there later. It’s not a big deal or anything.”
“Cool.”
After a minute, I ask, “Mind if I put on music?”
“Sure.”
We continue in silence but for the music. A while later, I call my dad. I’ll go home first, but I want to tell him I have plans. That way, when I arrive I won’t have to listen to fifteen minutes of the Your Mother Was Looking Forward to Seeing You lecture. I get Dad’s voicemail. Even better. He can get most of his complaints out of the way via Mom’s ear. We’ll have all the time in the world tomorrow during the day, when I’m bored senseless and wandering around the house. At least I’ll see Holly and Jesse tonight, which means I’ll take a few extra minutes to reapply makeup.
Nick says something, and I lower the music. “What?”
“It’s funny we didn’t know each other before. We should’ve hung out sooner.”
“Well, we went to different high schools.”
“I know, but it would’ve been cool.”
I turn the music up with a nod. Nick speaks. I sigh and lower it again. “What?”
“Am I bothering you or something?” he asks, arms crossed. He’s cute but, on second thought, maybe a little too Boy Band for my taste. And not as cute as he probably thinks he is.
“No.”
“Because it really seems like I am. Sorry, I thought maybe you’d like to say more than two words on a two-hour trip.”
He’s hitched a ride and now he wants to talk. I have nothing to say to someone I barely know. Once the thrill is gone, I’m done. “Nick, I don’t mind giving you a ride, and I had a great time tonight, but I’m not looking for more than that.”
Nick breathes in. “Wow. Okay.”
Maybe I’m the biggest bitch ever, but subtlety isn’t my style when it comes to this stuff. I speed up; I can’t wait to drop him off even if it does mean going out of my way. I look forward to seeing Nick’s (admittedly nice) ass in my rearview mirror.
“Sorry. I just…sorry.” I don’t have an explanation, so I leave it there.
He shrugs. I am sorry that I was harsh but not sorry I said it. The sooner you nip that kind of shit in the bud, the sooner no one is confused about the future. Most guys find me refreshing, or pretend they do. I don’t really care which it is.
6
Tom
Dinner’s been ready for a while and the sun is setting, but Jeremy isn’t home. My conversation with Clara went better than expected, I had some alone time with my wife on a kitchen counter, and I’m in a good mood, if hungry.
“I’ll give Jeremy a call,” I say to Sheila.
“Don’t yell at him.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I find my phone on the kitchen counter. At first, I get a fast busy signal, though it goes through on the second try. A moment later, I hear Jeremy’s ringtone playing faintly. I lower the phone and cock my head. It’s coming from the front porch. “Think he’s here. I’ll go check.”
Sheila murmurs something from the living room as I step outside into the twilight. Sure enough, there sits Jeremy on a porch chair beside the wrought iron table. He looks a lot like I did at his age—tall but not yet as broad as he will be, dark hair and eyes, olive skin—and he’s slumped over, passed out, the way I might have been at his age, too.
The Cascadia Series (Book 1): World Departed Page 3