Tonight, we’re supposed to watch Blues Brothers, and I’d promised to get some cheddar and caramel popcorn to make the classic Chicago mix.
When the manicurist taps my leg to bring my foot out of the water, I comply, not even thinking that the “hate” part of my love-hate relationship with pedicures might be coming. I realize too late that she’s about to start scrubbing the very ticklish bottom of my foot and I let out a little yelp.
CeCe rolls her eyes and I hold on to the edge of the seat, focusing all my energy on not laughing and not pulling my foot away from the manicurist.
“Are you ticklish like your mom?” CeCe’s manicurist asks.
“Not that bad,” CeCe says, smiling.
“She may look like me,” I tell the woman, “but she’s got tough skin like her dad.”
CeCe’s face lights up at the compliment. She settles back into her seat as her manicurist, a step behind mine, takes out the loofah bar.
Never one to turn down a challenge, CeCe keeps her eyes on mine, stoic as the manicurist scrubs her feet. They both watch me, and I cringe as if it’s the soles of my feet that are getting attacked with the exfoliator.
I hear the commotion outside before I see it. CeCe notices it, too. Our heads turn at the same time, our jaws drop—but for very different reasons. Because standing outside, on the other side of the glass pane, is none other than Monica Whistler.
CeCe lunges forward, but her feet are thankfully occupied by the manicurist, who has now moved on to painting the first layer on CeCe’s third toe. I thank God for tiny miracles and keep looking between my daughter and the semistar outside, as girls her age—and their mothers—pose for selfies with Monica.
“OMG.” CeCe says each letter as if it’s a word. “Mom—that’s Monica Whistler!”
“Is it?” I ask, playing dumb.
“Can I?” CeCe looks desperately between her unpainted toes and Monica taking selfies with the modest crowd that’s gathered around her.
“CeCe.” I say her name in the lecture tone I’ve been trying to copy from the way Jill says her kids’ names. “They’re filming here all summer, I’m sure you’ll have other opportunities to meet her.”
“Do you think you could call one of your casting connections in L.A. and see if they can get me in for an audition?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I lie.
CeCe gives me a smile that I don’t deserve, because I’m never going to make that phone call. It’s too dangerous—if CeCe gets the chance to meet Monica, she’s all but guaranteed to find out who she is. It’s hard enough playing second fiddle to Tommy, but there’s no way I could compete with Monica.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Alexis
I can’t remember the last time I worried so much about an outfit. Everything I tried on this morning feels wrong, like it did when I was an awkward high school girl at least one size too big for all my clothes. Before I figured out which styles were more flattering for “curves.”
It’s not that I care what Monica Whistler thinks. No matter how good or bad I look, she’ll still be judging me—the much-less-beautiful one who came after her. I just want to make a good impression for Tommy’s sake. To look and play the part of a good, supportive wife—even though Monica is the only one who’s held that title in Tommy’s life. Which I know is no one’s fault but my own.
He’s kept his distance this morning, knowing how I get when I work myself up like this. But he did leave a note next to my pillow for me to find when I woke up. We’ve been spending so much time together he’s gotten out of the habit of leaving me daily love letters. I hadn’t realized how much I missed them until I saw his scrawled handwriting this morning, written on the back of an envelope. It said, In a sea full of people, my eyes will always search for you.
That man really makes it hard to be mad at him. Of course, I’m not really mad. I understand, I just hate the situation. At least it’s just one day—I can do one day. It’s not even a full day; she’ll only be here for an hour.
Jill was a saint and agreed to invite CeCe to spend the day with them. They’re going to the beach in the afternoon, but this morning, CeCe is getting real-kitchen experience working at The Broken Crown. At first, I worried Monica might come in the café before or after, but Jill realized that she only ever sees her on Wednesdays, which must be the day they shoot her scenes. At least I don’t have to worry about that anymore.
My phone sounds with my second-to-last “you’d better finish getting ready” alarm, which I haven’t had to set in months. I’ve never been a morning person, and I get distracted so easily that I’d be late to work every day without a few reminders. Kind of like I was late getting home every night, I realize with a sinking feeling.
I take a deep breath and focus on being the positive force Tommy needs me to be. That I need me to be, at least until Monica is out of my house. I put my hair straightener back in the drawer, where it’s been collecting dust since we got down here, and steal one more glance in the mirror. I know my critical eyes are looking for problems, but it’s hard to ignore the pudgy middle that’s only kind of hidden by the pale pink A-line dress I ended up going with.
There isn’t enough time to change again, and even if there were, this outfit beat out every other one in my closet. It’s a pretty color, it’s flattering-ish, and most important, it doesn’t make me look like I’m trying too hard. Because trying too hard is even worse than not trying at all.
The doorbell rings, and I look back at the alarm clock next to Tommy’s side of the bed. Ten to eleven. Who doesn’t have the decency to wait in the car until the time they’re expected? Although since she has arrived earlier, hopefully she’ll leave earlier, then we can get back to normal and it will be like this morning never happened.
“Coming,” I yell as I run down the stairs—loud enough that she can hear, but not so loud that I sound mean or angry. Again, it’s all about the balance.
I smile at Tommy, who is sitting on the couch in the living room, where we agreed they should sit and talk. I knew he wouldn’t want to start their conversation out of breath, so I told him I would get the door and bring her in to see him.
Standing there now, I take a deep breath and straighten out my dress one last time before opening the door and putting on one of my best fake smiles, a talent I haven’t had to use in quite some time.
“You must be Monica,” I say, as if she could be anyone else.
Her skin is flawless and smooth, her translucent green eyes are so bright they’re practically sparkling, and her hair looks so silky soft I have to resist the urge to reach out and touch it. She looks even more beautiful up close than she does in all the paparazzi shots from the celebrity gossip magazines.
“And you’re Lexie,” she says with a perfect on-camera smile, revealing teeth so white she could star as the “after” model in a Crest 3D Whitestrips commercial. “These are for you.” She hands me a gorgeous bouquet of flowers that makes it a little less easy to hate her.
The flowers, like her, are exotic and stunning. They look so fresh I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d bloomed just moments before she rang the bell. These clearly came from a fancy florist, not Publix, where I usually go.
“They’re beautiful, thank you.” I lower my head into the bouquet and breathe in, enjoying the symphony of smells. I smile before looking back up, caught off guard by the confusion on her face. “I’m sorry, please come in.”
I step aside and hold the door open for Monica Whistler. I watch as she looks around and I try to see the house through her eyes. It’s small and it’s certainly not fancy like her place in L.A. probably is.
“Your home is lovely,” she says.
At first, I take offense at her patronizing tone, but then I remember her taste in interior design. And based on the furniture she left behind at the condo she and Tommy used to share—the hard leather couch with absolutely no give, the shaggy white rug and hideous painting—I’d be more concerned if she did like it.
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“We’re only down here for the summer,” I explain. “We live most of the year in Atlanta. I’m from there and Tommy moved up for me.” I try to throw that last part in there naturally, but I’m not sure it worked.
“How long have you guys been married?” she asks.
I cover the naked ring finger on my left hand before awkwardly not-answering her question. “Our daughter, CeCe, is fourteen, almost fifteen.”
If she realizes I didn’t exactly answer her question, she doesn’t let it show. She just smiles and nods the way any woman would when meeting the current “wife” of her ex.
“Hey, Mon.” Tommy stands up from the couch and I try not to cringe at his use of a nickname I never knew he had for her. There’s something so intimate about it, I can’t stop myself from picturing them curled up together in bed as he strokes her silky hair, calling her Mon. I shiver at the thought.
Monica makes a noise that might have been his name, but it sounds like the word got caught in her throat.
As much as I try not to see it, I know Tommy looks sick. His normally full face is hollow and he’s swimming in his clothes, all too big for his now thin frame.
“It’s okay,” Tommy says, opening his arms for her to step in.
Monica hesitates for a moment before falling into his embrace. I notice she has to bend a little to rest her head on his shoulder, and I’m relieved to see they don’t fit as well together as he and I do.
From the rise and fall of her shoulders, I can tell she’s crying. As much as I want to stick around and see if her mascara is running, I decide to give them some privacy. I reach for the sliding door but hesitate. They don’t need that much privacy.
I consider sitting just out of sight on the staircase, but I know that would be rude and hard to explain if they caught me. Instead, I head back to the kitchen, trying not to strain to hear too much of what’s going on in the living room. It’s not like I don’t trust Tommy; I do. I trust him with my heart, with my whole life. I just want to know what they’re talking about.
I look around for something to occupy my hands and my mind. I could wash the dirty dishes CeCe left in the sink, but the running water would definitely drown out their voices. I could text Becky to see how things are going back at the office, but I know she’ll just say everything’s fine and not to worry. I wish people would realize that telling someone not to worry just makes them worry more. It’s like telling a woman to calm down. Never a good idea.
The sound of Monica’s laughter comes wafting in from the other room like a warm summer breeze. I don’t sound that pretty when I laugh. Stop it. Nothing good will come from comparing myself to her.
More laughter.
Tommy’s not that funny.
I stand and open the refrigerator. We’re running desperately low on everything now that shopping has become my responsibility. Maybe I’ll see if CeCe wants to go with me later. If she doesn’t, I’ll just point out the premade cookie dough that she was so offended I bought the last time I went alone. I clearly can’t be trusted.
The cookie dough. That’s something I can do. If I pop them in the oven now, they’ll be ready before Monica’s hour is up, and I can walk in there to offer her fresh, out-of-the-oven cookies. She doesn’t have to know they were premade.
Sometimes I surprise myself with how smart I am. I reach for the roll of cookie dough, and for a few minutes, I forget that I’m supposed to be trying to hear what they’re saying.
After setting the oven to 350 degrees like the package says, I try to open it. Easier said than done. Both sides are closed with a metal twist-tie thing, but there’s no twisting this sucker off. I give up quickly and open the junk drawer, where the scissors are supposed to be. Of course, they aren’t there.
Improvising, I grab a small knife and slice down the top of the plastic tube before peeling both sides down. The dough is conveniently cut in perfectly proportioned cookies, but I know homemade cookies never look perfect, so I call an audible and pinch a chunk of cookie dough from the rest of the roll.
Shit, the pan.
I open the oven and sure enough, the cookie sheet is sitting on the top rack. The pot holders are luckily where they’re supposed to be, so I grab them and drop the hot cookie sheet on top of the stove.
“Damn it,” I curse as it clangs loudly against the stove.
“Everything okay in there, babe?” Tommy calls out.
“Of course, everything’s just fine,” I answer back. Who knew baking could be so stressful? I have no idea how Jill and CeCe seem to find so much joy in making all this stuff from scratch.
My cooking confidence returns as I spray a thin layer of olive oil to grease the cookie sheet before going back to forming perfectly imperfect cookies. The instructions say to place them about two inches apart, but these are half the size of the ones they precut, so I figure an inch will do.
Once they are all on the cookie sheet, I pop them in the oven and set the timer on my phone for thirteen minutes. I throw the wrapper in the trash can so there’s no premade evidence and check the timer. I sigh, seeing less than thirty seconds have passed. Being patient has never been one of my strengths.
I glance back at the table, but I’ve got too much nervous energy to sit. I open the refrigerator again, this time checking out our beverage situation. Cookies go best with milk, but all we have is almond. We also have soda, and of course the latest batch of fancy Arnold Palmers that CeCe made, but I’m not sure how well basil and lemon go with chocolate chip cookies.
I know I’m acting crazy, but I can’t help it. I could bring them drinks now, before the cookies. That would be a nice and normal thing to do.
I open the kitchen cabinet where we keep the fancy glasses we never use and take two down. I consider reaching for a third, but that would be presumptuous. I fill the glasses with a few ice cubes each then pour the Arnold Palmers. I consider adding a leaf of basil, but that might make it taste too strong. Plus, garnish probably crosses that “trying too hard” line.
My cell phone rings, and I look down to see Jill’s smiling face on the screen. I’ll call her back later. It’s not like I can talk about how it’s going while Monica’s still here—my voice is too loud, and sound carries in this old house.
I silence my phone, then apply another quick layer of lip gloss, and I’m ready to play the role of domestic semigoddess. Monica’s not the only one who can put on a performance.
With a glass in each hand, I walk down the hallway toward the living room.
I’m halfway there when I notice the handle of the front door turning.
Oh, shit.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
CeCe
Forgot my towel,” I say as I push through the front door.
Mom is standing there with two glasses of my new and improved Arnold Palmer recipe. I’m trying to be happy she likes it instead of being annoyed that I have to keep making so many batches.
“What?”
The expression on Mom’s face is weird, even for her. She doesn’t say anything, but her eyes keep darting to the living room. My heart drops. Dad?
My eyes follow hers and—what the hell? I blink a few times, but I still see the same thing. My dad. Sitting and talking to Monica freaking Whistler.
I smile a stupidly big smile and wave hello before pushing Mom back toward the kitchen. I have been walking the beach for weeks trying to run into someone from the show and I come home to find one of the biggest stars in my house?
“What is Monica Whistler doing in the living room? Oh my god—did you get me an audition?”
“Ceese,” Dad says.
I look at Mom, waiting for her to say something, but her mouth is hanging open as if she’s a cartoon character.
“Mom?”
“It’s a long story,” she finally says.
“Cecelia?”
Dad never uses my full name except when he’s singing our song. I look down at my outfit—clothes perfect for a morning working at the café and then g
oing to the beach, not so perfect for meeting an actress who could potentially be the key to my big break.
I consider running up to change, but it would be too obvious since she’s already seen me. I run my fingers through my hair and take a deep breath, steadying myself the way I do before stepping onstage.
Mom follows behind me like some weird stagehand. She’s still holding those two fancy glasses—trying too hard like she always does.
“Hi, Daddy,” I say, standing casually in the doorway, acting as though nothing is out of the ordinary.
“Monica, this is my daughter, Cecelia.”
“Everyone calls me CeCe,” I say, attempting to act like I’m confident, and not like I’m freaking out, which I totally am. I take a few steps closer and extend my hand to shake hers, nice and firm the way Dad taught me.
“Hi, CeCe. I’m—”
“Monica Whistler,” I finish her sentence. “Everyone with a TV knows who you are.” She blushes and brushes her perfect hair behind her ear. I don’t know how it’s possible, but she’s even more beautiful in person. “But I don’t know what you’re doing in my house.”
She and Dad look at each other in the annoying way grown-ups do, like they’re daring each other to be the one to speak first.
“Are we related?” I gasp. “Is she, like, your long-lost sister or something?”
“Or something.” Monica laughs and it sounds like flowers and birds and rainbows all rolled into one.
Dad looks over my shoulder at Mom. I almost forgot she’s still here. He looks back at me, but I can’t read the look on his face.
“Someone tell me.”
“Go ahead,” Mom says. Her voice sounds small and strange.
“Dad?” I look to him for the answer.
“Monica and I used to be married,” he says as casually as he would say we’re going out to dinner.
“Shut. Up.” I can’t decide if I’m excited or horrified at this news. “You were married? Before Mom?” I look back at Mom, who is still standing there, holding those two stupid glasses.
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