“It was a long time ago,” Dad says.
For once in my life, I’m literally speechless.
“She looks like you,” Monica says, as if she could change the subject that easily. And she’s not even right. No one has ever said I look like my dad. Even strangers have commented before about how much Mom and I look alike.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.
“It didn’t seem relevant,” Dad says, even though I can’t imagine a scenario where it wouldn’t be. “I can’t tell you how to feel, but—”
“Don’t try to shrink me.”
Behind me, Mom laughs. I turn and give her the meanest look I can muster.
“Sorry,” she says.
I look back and forth between both of my parents. “You lied,” I accuse Dad before turning back to Mom. “You were never going to call about an audition, were you?”
“Don’t blame your dad,” Monica says.
“It’s okay, Mon.”
“No, let me,” Monica Whistler says. “I wasn’t very good to your dad. I left him, and this town, because I was selfish and thought my dreams were the only thing that mattered. They weren’t. And I regret how I acted. I’m sorry.” She says the last part to Dad, and they’re both looking at each other as if they’re the only ones in the room.
“Hello?” I say. Clearly, they both forgot we’re talking about me here.
“Cecelia,” Dad says again. I can tell his patience is wearing thin and he’s starting to look tired. He’s always tired. “I’m sorry if your feelings are hurt, but some things are private.”
“But you’re my dad.”
“I’m also my own person.”
I stop and roll that thought around in my head. He’s got a point—but so do I. “And you’re my dad.”
“Your dad tells me you want to be an actress?” Monica says. Someone really has to teach her there’s a right and a wrong way to change the subject.
“Mon.” Dad shakes his head. This is so weird.
“I’m just saying, we’re casting for a girl who’s just in town for the weekend. It’s a bit part, but I can pull a few strings.”
“Shut up!” I say.
“Cecelia,” Dad says sternly.
“I mean, that would be the most amazing thing ever!”
“I’ll give your dad a call later to confirm details,” she says.
Behind me, I hear the front door open.
“You coming?” Beau asks, probably wondering why it’s taking so long to get a stupid towel.
“Now’s not a good time, Beau,” Mom says, like it’s him she’s mad at.
Beau looks at me, clearly confused. And then he looks in the living room and sees what I saw. “Whoa.”
“Monica, this is Beau,” Dad says.
She tilts her head, almost like she’s studying his face. “He looks just like Adam.”
“He’s Adam and Jill’s son.”
“Now’s not a good time, Beau,” Mom says again, like a robot who’s only programmed to say one phrase.
Beau shrugs and opens the door but pauses before leaving. “Is something burning?”
“Shit,” Mom says. “The cookies.”
“Cookies?” This day keeps getting weirder. “Who are you? I don’t know either of you!”
I storm up the stairs, wanting to get as far away from them both as I can. Halfway up, I realize I might not get an opportunity like this again, so I quickly retrace my steps and pop my head back into the living room. “It was really nice to meet you,” I tell Monica Whistler.
I don’t have the courage to glare at my dad when he’s looking so sad and sick, but I stop smiling so he knows I’m not happy. I stomp back up the stairs, and for good measure, slam my bedroom door.
“MONICA FREAKING WHISTLER.” I open my laptop and start googling.
Monica + Whistler + Destin. Sure enough, she’s from here. She graduated from Crestview High. How did I not know that?
I can’t believe I never asked Dad if we were related—I always assumed we didn’t have any relatives since he and Mom are both only children. And my parents aren’t married to each other, so why in the world would I ever think to ask if they’d married anyone else? I wonder if Mom has a secret husband hidden somewhere that I don’t know about . . .
Focus, Cecelia.
I change my search: Monica + Whistler + Tommy. Nothing. I change Tommy to Thomas and add the word “wedding,” and sure enough, there’s a link to an article from the Northwest Florida Daily News.
The headline reads: CELEBRATIONS: VESELOVSKY AND WHISTLER TO WED.
No wonder she kept my dad’s name. I scroll down more and see a picture of them, standing in a prom pose on the beach. Dad still looks like Dad, just a younger, nonsick version with a head almost full of chestnut-brown hair. Monica looks younger, but not really prettier. Her boobs are smaller and her hair isn’t as perfect. She looks pretty, just not as drop-dead gorgeous as she is now.
I keep scrolling and read the article:
Boris and Irene Veselovsky of Crestview proudly announce the engagement of their daughter, Monica, to Thomas Whistler, son of Dorothy and the late Richard Whistler of Destin.
The two got engaged in October and are planning a June wedding.
Thomas is a graduate of the University of Georgia and runs a thriving therapy practice in Destin, where the couple live. Monica is an aspiring model who has been featured in the pages of Coastal Living magazine and the Everything But Water swimsuit catalog.
They’re telling the truth. Not that my parents would lie about having lied to me all these years.
My phone buzzes with a text. Probably from Beau, wondering what the hell he just walked into. I don’t know how to even begin explaining what I don’t understand myself. And even if I did, he isn’t the one I’d want to talk to.
I wish I were talking to Sofia, but ever since she started posting pictures of her and stupid Liam hanging all over each other, there’s no way. She knows that I know, and she didn’t even say anything to me. Whatever.
Maybe I should send this link to TMZ. I can see the headline—PRESURGERY TV STAR! A SECRET WEDDING FROM HER PAST!
Sofia would see it, and she’d come crawling to find out more. Not that I would tell her anything. It would be pretty amazing, but Dad would be furious.
I can’t believe I didn’t think to ask Monica for a selfie. Now no one will ever know I’m the girl whose dad was married to Monica Whistler. They’ll keep thinking of me the way they do now. The girl whose dad is dying.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Alexis
What do you think?” Tommy asks as he snaps a piece of a palm tree into place. The puzzle is really coming along, probably since we’ve been sitting around the house a little more than normal. After the failed mini-golf excursion, we’ve been trying to limit the extraneous activities.
“Sorry?”
“Do you think I should use Alexis or Lexie?” he asks.
For the life of me, I have no idea what he’s talking about. My mind has been scattered since the run-in between CeCe and Monica last week. I keep replaying the look on her face, the fact that I just stood there, saying nothing.
CeCe’s acting like she’s not sure what to make of it all. On one hand, she’s ecstatic that her dream is finally coming true. She’s been practicing her character techniques, whatever that means, nonstop. But on the other hand, she’s furious. More so with me than with Tommy. Logically it doesn’t make sense since I wasn’t even around in those early days, but I get that it’s easier to be mad at me.
She went from giving us both the silent treatment to peppering Tommy nonstop with questions about Monica and their life together. She wanted to know everything from the way he proposed to how Monica took her coffee in the morning. I didn’t think it was possible to hate that woman any more than I did, but every new detail gave me a new reason to loathe her. Luckily Tommy tired of it, too, eventually telling CeCe that if she had any more questions, she could ask Google.
>
“Where were you?” Tommy asks. He can always tell when I’m not fully there.
“Sorry,” I say again. “What are you talking about?”
“My tattoo,” he says. “Think I should get Alexis or Lexie?”
I narrow my eyes at him, but he keeps going.
“I’m thinking it would look good right across my bicep.” He tries to make a muscle with his arms, which were never really that muscular to begin with, but that have never been this thin. “You’ll get Tommy, of course.”
“Babe.” I put my hand tenderly on his shoulder. “I love you, but you’ve lost your mind.”
“You can’t blame a guy for trying.” Tommy gives me the smile that used to make my heart swell, but now it’s tinged with sadness. His face is so thin that his cheeks look sunken and the dimples I’ve loved my whole life have all but disappeared. “How about a day trip over to Seaside instead?”
I nod, trying to look interested. There’s nothing wrong with any of the things we’re doing, it just seems false. Like we’re in a rush to create all these memories, which, of course, we are. And I don’t need any more reminders that the time we have left is dwindling.
“What day is it, again?” he asks.
Every day down here feels like a Saturday, so I have to glance at my phone to check. “Wednesday.”
“Then maybe we’ll go tomorrow, so we can avoid the weekend crowd. We can have lunch at one of the food trucks, see the post office and walk through the Modica Market. Ceese will love to see where they filmed The Truman Show.”
“Mmm hmm,” I agree.
“And tonight we’re going to watch Rocky III,” he says, flipping through the little notebook he still hasn’t let me see. “Making good progress.”
Progress, yes. But I wouldn’t call it good. Because the closer we get to the end of Tommy’s Kick the Bucket list, the closer to the end it will be.
I try to give him a smile, but my heart just isn’t in it. I don’t want to bring his mood down, and I have a feeling my blues aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. My chest tightens and I can feel my heart drumming faster as the panic rises. It feels like the walls are closing in on me. I have to get out of here. Fast.
“I’ve got to run an errand,” I say, getting up more quickly than necessary.
Tommy gives me a questioning look that softens as soon as he sees my face. He has always been able to see right through me.
I give him a quick kiss before heading out. “I’ll be back soon.”
Outside, I close the door behind me and lean back against it. I close my eyes and wait for my breathing and my heart rate to slow down.
I breathe in slowly and out even slower, the way Tommy taught me back when I had my first panic attack when I was pregnant with CeCe, but it doesn’t help. A bag, I need a bag. I walk as quickly as I can, my hand over my chest as if it can help calm my heart. I pop the trunk of the car and grab the first bag I see, then bring it up to my mouth, breathing slowly in and out. In and out.
Leaning against the car for support, I drop my head down and continue breathing into what I now see is ironically a Dox Pharmacy bag. In and out, in and out. I drop the bag as my heart rate slows back to normal. I exhale one last time, looking back toward the house. Luckily there’s no sign of Tommy or CeCe; neither of them needs an extra thing to worry about, and I’m fine. I’m fine.
But I’d be a lot more fine with an iced vanilla latte and a hug from Jill.
It’s too hot to walk, so I drive the short distance to The Broken Crown. As I pass Jill’s house, the home she used to share with Adam, I wonder if there was ever a time when a hug from me helped her feel better.
Things were complicated when she and Adam finally split. I didn’t say I told you so, but I’m sure she knew what I was thinking. The first time I’d said something to her about his infidelity was back when she was hugely pregnant with Abigail, and Adam got wasted and tried to grope me on the dance floor.
I thought I was being a good friend when I told her the truth, but she wasn’t ready to hear it. In hindsight, I know that wasn’t the right time; it wasn’t what she needed to hear when she was less than a month away from starting a family with the man.
Jill stopped talking to me after that—she blamed me for sticking my nose in their business, and I blamed Tommy for not stopping me from telling her in the first place. I was a mess, wishing I’d never come back to Destin.
The next morning, my bags were packed and I was more than ready to get back to work when Tommy came knocking on my door. I refused to answer, but he came around to the back door and caught me so off guard I accidentally let him in.
I remember as clearly as if it were yesterday, sitting at the kitchen table with my arms crossed as he talked me into listening to him. He made me see what I’d been too stubborn to realize: that I had a pattern of running away when things got tough. I’d done it when I was a kid, I was doing it then, and as much as I hate to admit it, it’s what I’m doing now.
Things got tough this morning, and I ran out of the house as fast as I could. I hate that he’s still so right about me. Maybe I’ll get the latte to go and bring a treat back for him. Something with a lot of calories to add a little meat back to his bones.
The parking lot is crowded, but I luck into a spot just as someone is backing out. I take it as a sign that this day is starting to turn around, that leaving was exactly what I was meant to do. Sometimes, you just need to step away to get a new perspective, and a box of Jill’s cheese Danish. Or is it Danishes?
Taking the porch steps one by one, I wonder if the salty-sweet treats are really Tommy’s favorites, or if he always picks them because he knows they’re mine. Maybe I’ll get an assorted box and have him do a taste test. Too bad today is CeCe’s day off; it would be even better if we were sampling things she helped make.
What started as a tactic to get CeCe out of the house has turned into a part-time job helping Lou in the kitchen four days a week—every day but Wednesday. CeCe has been really enjoying it, and it’s been nice not having to worry about her running into Monica or getting into trouble with Beau, at least for a few hours of the day.
The door to the café opens, and a gaggle of giggling girls come rushing out. They’re so busy looking at whatever is on their phones, squealing about who knows what, that one of them literally bumps into me.
The girl smiles in lieu of an apology and I decide not to care. I don’t want anything to bring me or this day back down. Good things only, that’s what I’m going to surround myself with, so I can bring positivity and good vibes back into the house. Along with the Danish, of course.
My eyes find Jill right away, sitting at a table in the corner, talking to a customer. The easy smile that almost always greets me falters, and I glance behind me to see what she could possibly be staring at.
And then, as if it’s all happening in slow motion, the customer sharing Jill’s table turns toward me. Her jet-black hair cascades like a waterfall, her olive skin looks dewy and soft, and the smile on her face is sickeningly sweet. I stop in my tracks, too shocked to say or do anything but stand there like an idiot.
Jill is supposed to hate Monica even more than I do, so what in the world is she doing sitting and smiling and drinking coffee with the devil herself? The legs of the chair screech as Jill pushes back from the table. The offensive noise is so loud I consider bringing my hands up to my ears to block it out. I wish I could cover my eyes, too. Forget the picture I’m afraid I won’t be able to erase from my mind.
“Lex,” Jill says, standing with one arm on the back of the chair as if she isn’t sure whether she should stay or go.
That’s one decision I can easily make for her.
I spread my fakest fake smile across my face and somehow manage to say, “Be right back, forgot something in the car,” before turning to leave.
I wait until the door closes behind me to make a mad dash for my car, where I can appropriately melt down behind locked doors. It’s even worse than my
worst fears. I knew that CeCe would easily fall for Monica’s charm, but Jill? She’s supposed to be mine.
The café door opens and Jill steps out, tentatively looking for me. Not wanting to be found, I turn on the car and get the hell out of there. Where I’m going, I have no idea. If it weren’t for Tommy, I might just get back on the highway and head straight for Atlanta. I could be at the office by seven tonight, worrying about problems I can actually solve.
My phone buzzes with a text. I’m not ready to hear Jill’s excuses or apologies so I almost don’t check. But curiosity gets the best of me, and I look down to see a message from CeCe, breaking the silent treatment long enough to ask me to pick up some popcorn—the raw kernels, not the microwave kind—and fresh butter, not margarine, so she can make snacks for the movie tonight. We’ve been making good progress; there are only a few more films on the list Tommy wants to see one last time.
I sigh and make a U-turn, wondering why I bother when literally everything is a reminder of the things I’m trying to forget.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
CeCe
@WhistlerGurl: I’m going for a walk on the beach
@BeauBo: k
I stare at the screen, waiting for him to ask if he can join me like he usually does. He’s acting like such a girl, like his feelings are hurt that I didn’t text him back after the whole thing with Monica. I’m sorry, but I had more important things on my mind, like trying to unravel the lies my parents have been telling me my whole entire life.
@WhistlerGurl: Don’t make me ask
@BeauBo: Wut?
@WhistlerGurl: Do you want to go with me
@BeauBo: Only if u want me 2
@WhistlerGurl: Shut up
@BeauBo: Meet u @ my house?
@WhistlerGurl: ok
I close my laptop and consider grabbing a towel, but I’m in the mood for walking, not sitting. All we do down here is sit—in the sun, on the porch, in the living room. Sit, sit, sit, sit.
I am sick of sitting.
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