I trudge up the front steps of my childhood home and try to forget that my dad’s car will never again be parked in the garage. Mom’s called me four times in the last two days, and I’m not really in the mood for a guilt trip. One hour to fulfill my daughterly duty and then I can get back to my own depression.
“Mom,” I call out as I open the front door. The house is clean, impeccably so. I shouldn’t be surprised. My dad was the slob in the family.
“In the back, hun.”
Her voice is coming from the master bedroom. The same room that once held a king-size bed my brother and I would jump on to snuggle with them on Saturday mornings. I can barely look at the smaller, more feminine bed frame that’s there now.
I continue my path, down the hall, past my old room that was long ago turned into an office, and into the bedroom suite my parents added on when they first bought the property.
Mom’s in front of the mirror applying eyeliner in just a bra and tight jeans. There was a time she wouldn’t dare be so exposed, but the married weight was another thing that went away with my dad. She’s now thinner than I am.
“Perfect timing. I need your opinion on my outfit.” She drops the stick and blinks to dry her makeup. Then she’s back in her closet pulling a silky tank top from a hanger. She slides it on, fluffs her blond hair, which is two inches past her shoulders, and does a pirouette. “Well, how do I look?”
Sad. Broken. But that’s not the answer I’m allowed to give. “Beautiful, Mom. What’s the occasion?”
“I have a date tonight.” She smiles wide like it’s a new thing. It’s not. Mom’s been actively dating since Dad carted his last suitcase to the car. I think it’s her payback for my dad’s infidelity. A way to show him she’s still desirable.
I lean against the doorframe and try not to show my disapproval. “Is this another one you met online?”
“No, actually. A friend from work set us up. He’s recently divorced, too, and is supposed to be tall and handsome.”
Great. Divorced—check. Attractive—check. Whatever happened to all those lectures I got growing up about wise dating and finding a guy who loves the Lord first and me second? It’s like all the rules and values changed simply because she is no longer married. How is that right?
“Anyway, I’m nervous for some reason.” She presses her palms to her cheeks and sighs. “I think this could really be something.”
I can’t hold in my snort. “How? You haven’t even met him yet.”
“Trust me, dear. When you get to be my age, a man who has a steady job and isn’t addicted to smut on his computer is a rare find.”
Ah . . . another qualification. Not a loser—check.
If I’d held to the same standards, I’d be married with children already.
“Well, have a good time.” There’s not a whole lot of feeling in my voice, but that’s not new either. This scenario is just one more thing I’m stuck with now that I’m not moving. My brother gets to live hours away in Oklahoma City with his wife. He’s had exactly four interactions with our mom and dad since they broke the news, whereas I’ve had to be parent, girlfriend, and shopping buddy. And let me tell you, there isn’t much worse than going to Victoria’s Secret with my mom, knowing the items she’s buying are not for my dad.
Mom flips off the bathroom lights and settles into one of the chairs by the French doors to slip on her heels. “And how are you doing? Any more thoughts about my offer to live here?”
I’d rather camp in a tent in the Amazon rain forest . . . and I loathe spiders. “I have. There’s another option I’m considering, as well.”
“Really? What’s that?”
“Possibly living with some friends.”
“Oh. Yeah, I guess that would be nice.” Her voice holds a hint of hurt, but thankfully she doesn’t say so. “Anyone I know?”
I’m not eager to share, but then again, Mom’s recent choices pretty much guarantee I won’t get a lecture on propriety. “Yes, actually. It’s Cameron.”
Instead of a warning on all the dangers of living with a guy, I get a smug smile. “Well, that’s quite a turn of events. I was beginning to think the two of you would never take that leap.”
“And we still haven’t. Cam and I are strictly platonic.”
“For now,” she says in a singsong, overly romantic voice. “But you two aren’t kids anymore. Moving in together is not the same as a Friday night sleepover.”
I bite my lip because she just summed up the pressing worry that’s been haunting me since Cameron threw his offer in the ring: could we take this risk and still remain friends?
The two of us are such different people that I’ve often wondered if we would be close friends if we’d met as adults. I’m a realist, the first to call a spade a spade. Cameron will turn a spade into a heart and then try to convince me it’s always been that way. It’s irritating but it’s also him, so I don’t stay mad for very long. In twenty-nine years, there’s been only one fight that’s threatened to sever our bond, and I still blame our parents for it.
When we turned sixteen, our parents began to see our friendship as more, so much so that every time we hung out, they’d start to talk about weddings and how cute our kids would be. Cameron, being the dreamer that he is, bought into the madness and went so far as to ask me out our senior year of high school. “We’re perfect for each other,” he’d said. “It’s so easy with us, and isn’t friendship the foundation of every good relationship?”
But I didn’t want just an easy friendship. I wanted passion and flutters in my stomach. I wanted the challenge of learning something new about the person I was going to marry. I wanted more than I knew I’d ever get with Cameron. I told him as much, and he didn’t speak to me for a month. Then one day he called, and we never discussed the issue again.
Truth is, even back then I wanted what I thought my parents had, and now I wonder if maybe I’ve been the one to confuse reality with fantasy because I still want what I remember being so perfect. And deep down, I know he does, too.
“Nothing is set in stone,” I say, indecision being my new best friend. “I still have eight days until I have to move out, and who knows what may come up between now and then.”
“Okay, well, just know you always have a place here. You’ve taken the news of this trip so hard, I’ve been worried about you.”
Despite her tone of concern, I doubt it’s true. Mom hasn’t been a mom in months. Seven to be exact. Sometimes I don’t know who I resent more for it. Her or my dad for making all this happen. “Well, no need to worry. I’m fine. Other opportunities will come.”
“Or maybe this is God’s way of telling you it’s not your future.”
I grit my teeth to keep from rolling my eyes. The last thing I want to hear from my mom is a sermon about patience and trust. She’s shown neither.
“Darcy, like it or not, it’s a mess out there, and you’re going to be thirty soon. If not Cameron, then find someone else. I worry that if you continue to wait, there won’t be any good guys left.”
“Yeah, because getting married at twenty-two worked out so well for you.” The harsh words come out before I can stop them, and I immediately wish I’d shown more self-control the minute my mom recoils. She’s vulnerable, and I hit the tenderest nerve. “I’m sorry, Mom. I shouldn’t have said that.” It’s not technically her fault my parents split up; Dad’s the one who bailed, but deep down I’m still mad at her for giving up. Or maybe for moving on, I don’t know, but it’s there between us every time we interact.
She takes a deep breath and looks up at me. “I got thirty-five wonderful years and two beautiful children out of my marriage. You can’t judge the journey simply by how it ends.”
My throat burns because it’s the nicest thing she’s said about my father in months. And even though I’ve been too angry to speak to him since the divorce, her words make me miss him so much my chest aches.
She gets to her feet and walks toward me. “I know this has been ha
rd for you, Darcy.”
I swallow because it’s all I can do to keep from crying. I know I’m an adult and shouldn’t care as much as I do about the split, but I want my family back. Not this broken version of a mom and dad.
Her hands cup my cheeks, and she lightly kisses my forehead. “The worst of it is over. And in time, you’ll see how all these disappointments work out.”
I wish I shared her optimism, but I don’t. I had it all figured out. Saved every penny for a year, beat the pavement to get support. Studied Spanish until I went cross-eyed. “It’s just not fair,” I say, more to myself than to her.
“No, it’s not.” My mom smiles the way only moms can when they’ve lived so much more life than we have. “But life rarely is.” She clears her throat and drops her hands. “Anyway, I better get going. Michael is meeting me at the restaurant in fifteen minutes.”
Ugh. I now hate the name Michael.
She grabs her purse from the bed and blows me a kiss. “Lock up when you leave, okay?”
“I will.”
After one more check in the dresser mirror, she rushes out in a flurry of perfume and determination. I plop down on the chair she just vacated and close my eyes. Glimpses of the woman I’ve known my whole life are all I get now. Moments of authenticity before pain and bitterness bring her back to reality. I don’t want to be that. I don’t want to spend the next year being angry at God for allowing this to happen. I just want some kind of clarity as to why He gave me a path and then jerked it away before I could even step onto it.
What was the point?
As usual, I hear no grand answer. Just silence. I’m almost getting used to it.
I pull my phone from my pocket and text the one person I know will understand.
Me
What are you up to tonight?
Cam
Nothing really. You?
Me
Giving fashion advice to my mom before her 100th first date.
Cam
Yuck. Wanna come over?
Me
Be there in 5 minutes.
I stand, slip my phone back in my pocket, and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. Rarely do I see my mom when I look back. She’s tall, while I’m fairly short. She keeps steady highlights in her hair, while mine is the same maple-brown it’s been since birth. And my eyes are my dad’s—a blue-green mix that have always been my favorite feature. Today, though, I see her in my eyes. The sadness, the defeat, the utter lack of any kind of positive future.
I’ve asked “why” too many times to ask again, so I simply walk away and count today as one more day I’ve managed to survive.
three
My refund check comes on Monday for every penny I sent in—six months’ worth of salary. I should be relieved, especially since my bank account is quickly approaching zero, but mostly it’s just the final confirmation that my trip was canceled. Cameron’s right. No amount of ice cream is going to change that very real fact.
Only about a third of the money was my personal savings. The rest represented hours of PowerPoint slides and pitches to mission teams in churches all over Ellis County. The same teams that will eventually get all their money returned. Just not today.
Today I’m going to pretend that my life isn’t completely spiraling out of control.
I park my truck along the curb and make sure to lock the doors before heading up the sidewalk. Bryson’s one-bedroom rental is in what most would consider a rougher part of Midlothian. Public drinking and violence are common at the park down the street from his house, and every time I’ve come there’s been at least one house with eviction furniture thrown on the lawn.
Cam says Bryson picked the location because he knew no one would complain about the noise coming from the house, and I guess he was right because it’s been Black Carousel’s practice space for the past three years. I don’t normally watch them rehearse, or even perform for that matter, but today especially I’m finding it very difficult to be alone.
I finish my trek up Bryson’s front steps and ring the doorbell. Cameron’s car isn’t here, nor is Jay’s or Harrison’s, but I don’t really want to hang out in my car either.
“It’s open,” I hear through the chipping wood door and turn the handle.
Inside, Bryson pushes a large leather couch to the back wall. It’s on sliders, as is the other furniture shoved into the corner.
It’s remarkable how even doing such a menial task, Bryson can still carry himself with the cool confidence of a rock star. Even more remarkable is how little he’s changed since high school. His clothes have adapted to the most current fashion, and the material gets heavier or lighter depending on the season, but every stitch is still a midnight-black.
He finishes his task and runs a hand through his wild, untamed hair. Also black. Bryson is Greek by heritage, though he’s never known the father who gave him both his looks and his last name Katsaros. Maybe that’s why he’s spent a lifetime creating an image that screams Back off. The only thing mildly warm about his appearance is the one trait he can’t change—his eyes. They’re an intricate hazel and shine like polished granite. They’re also the only thing I still recognize in the boy I’ve known since elementary school.
Finally, he turns, though his surprise makes it clear I’m not the one he thought he was inviting in. “Darcy?” He shakes his head like he needs a second to process I’m really here. “How have you been?”
“Wallowing, actually.” That gets a rare genuine smile from him and makes my cheeks warm for some reason. “Can I help you with anything?”
He looks around. “Um, sure. You can grab the lamps and put them in the kitchen.”
“Okay.”
An awkward air of silence hangs around as I move to the end table. Bryson and I have an odd relationship. There’s shared history and moments of friendship, but there’s also this wall he projects. One that makes it impossible to be much more than acquaintances.
I unplug the lamp from the outlet. “I heard the tour went well.”
“Yeah, it did. Lots of exposure, though I am happy to be home. The road gets weary after a while.” He stops and tugs on the back of his neck, projecting the same uncomfortableness that we always seem to feel when alone together. Not that it’s happened much. We shared many of the same friends growing up, yet Bryson always hung on the fringe of our group.
“Cameron’s already geared up to go on the next one. He thinks Oklahoma could be another good market.”
Bryson doesn’t say anything, but his small grunt implies plenty. His and Cameron’s is another relationship that’s very hard to decipher. At times they seem like lifelong buddies; then other times there’s such an edge of competition that it’s hard to be in the same room with them. The only constant is the magic they make onstage together. Somehow, when the lights are on and guitars are pressed into their hands, they connect. The rest of the time is a crapshoot.
I set the lamps and other breakable items in the small alley kitchen, and by the time I return, the living room looks more like a recording studio than a home. Harrison’s drums sit back in the corner, while electric cords and amps fill the perimeter. Cameron has also arrived.
“I saw your truck outside.” He meets me halfway into the living room. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.” Instinctively, I exhale, feeling better simply because he’s here. “My refund check came in today. And I was just sitting there, staring at the envelope and the boxes, and I don’t know, I suddenly felt completely trapped.” I look past him to Bryson, who watches our exchange until our eyes meet, and then he busies himself with some other plug. “I can go if you want me to. I didn’t mean to crash your practice.”
“No, of course not.” He pulls me in for a much-needed hug, and I tuck my head into his shoulder. “Stay as long as you want to, though I can’t promise it won’t be rough. We’re learning a new song.”
I ease out of his embrace just as Harrison and Jay walk into the house.
“Hey, look at this. We have a new Alison,” Jay says, winking at me. “I love cute groupies.”
“Not funny.” The edge in Bryson’s voice is understandable. Alison and he didn’t exactly part on the best of terms. So bad, in fact, that she moved two hours away and unfriended all of us on social media.
“Let’s go, Cam,” Harrison says before slamming his sticks against the drums. “I have a date tonight, and I’m not canceling again.”
Cam hesitates to leave me. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.” I push him toward his bandmates. “I’ll probably just stay for a few minutes and then slip out.”
“Whatever you need to do.” He nods and joins Black Carousel in the center of their makeshift stage while I find a seat in the back corner and try to become invisible.
Life is ironic. While some things stay so familiar, like Bryson’s black clothes and Jay’s always inappropriate comments, other things completely turn upside down. Six months ago, Alison and Bryson were dating, Mason was the lead guitarist instead of Cameron, and I looked on the future of our group with wide-eyed hopefulness.
Bryson starts with a song I know, so I guess they’re going to warm up before they get to the new stuff. His voice is edgy and dark, his eyes fixated on some invisible person in the crowd. This is usually when most girls would swoon. Bryson has that bad-boy allure. Sharp features, a smile that’s more a smirk than anything authentic, and intense eyes that promise behind the persona there’s a depth he’ll never let you near. He is handsome, no one could deny that fact, but I miss the kid he used to be.
We were in the third grade when Bryson showed up in our Sunday school class with tears in his eyes. Mason was the first to talk to him, of course; he’s always been the most inclusive. Within minutes they were laughing. Mason waved us over, and our little group of four became five. After that, we saw him every Sunday without fail. He didn’t go to our school. Bryson lived in Mansfield, but his mom and stepdad would drive to Midlothian on Sunday mornings just to come to Grace Community. Back then he was sweet, shy, and always the first to make someone feel cared for; he even picked a dandelion for me the weekend after my hamster died and told me he was sorry I was so sad. I felt super special, until Cameron called it a weed and jerked it out of my hand. I think it might have hurt Bryson’s feelings because he never gave me another one.
Love and the Silver Lining Page 2