The roof is made of slate for the heavy snow in the winter months, and a wood stove in the corner of the living room is the only heat I need. The kitchen and living room are basically one room, the only separation is a small patch of tile in the kitchen.
Built in the seventies, but solid as a rock, I've only done some minor upgrades. The kitchen floor and island countertop, new windows, and reinforcing the front porch is all I've been able to afford.
I'm not a man that needs much. Simple and functional is fine with me.
Tapping the nail into the thick beam of the wall, I hang the painting and take a long step back. It's perfect. I can see it from anywhere in the room, even my bedroom if the door is open.
Crossing my arms, I'm overwhelmed with the urge to see her. Not just an urge, but a need. Tapping the pads of my fingers against my mouth, I can't stop myself from thinking it's something I have to do.
I have to see her. No, you can't just drive to the city and show up out of nowhere. That's crazy, Mark!
Dragging my fingertips through my hair, I pull it tight against my scalp. This is nuts. All I want to do is hop in my truck and drive straight there. Closing my eyes, I run my hands down my face.
I have to talk to Ryder and Jenna.
This feeling isn't going to go away. If I haven't been able to get her out of my head for weeks, then this isn't going to disappear no matter how much I might wish it to.
Getting in my truck, I drive to Ryder's house. Jenna is going to kick my ass the second she hears about what happened. I slept with her friend. I broke the friend code and messed around with her without Jenna or Ryder knowing.
Climbing out of my truck, Ryder is standing at the top of the hill near the entrance to the farm with a hay fork and a wheel barrel.
“Hey fucker, what brings you here? Did you try to call? I've been in the barn all morning fixing that back wall.”
“No, I didn't call.”
His expression changes as he hears the seriousness in my voice. “Something up? You look like you got hit by a truck.”
“I feel like I got hit by a truck.” Rubbing the back of my neck, I try to force a smile. “Hey is Jenna around? I kind of need to talk to her.”
“Uh, yeah, she's inside. Come on,” Ryder says, laying the pitchfork down. He doesn't ask me anymore questions, but I can tell he knows something isn't right.
We go inside, and Ryder tells me to take a seat at the table. “I'll grab her, one second.”
Disappearing into the house, I stare blankly at the table. Picking at my nails, my heart is pounding in my chest. I feel guilty. I shouldn't, because Sia and I are both adults, but I can't stop my body from feeling heavy. I can't stop the knot in my gut or the acid that's sitting in the back of my throat.
“Hey, Mark,” Jenna says as she and Ryder come back into the kitchen. They both take a seat, their eyes studying my every move. “What's going on?”
Holding both hands open, I look up at her under hooded eyes. “Look, I need to tell you something and I don't want you to get mad. But if you do, I totally understand.”
Sitting back, she crosses her arms over her chest. “All right.”
“The night of your wedding, I did something. I did something that I can't take back, but I never meant for it to happen.”
“Will you just spit it out already,” Ryder snaps. “What the hell did you do?” Impatience coats his face as he frowns. “Stop going in circles and just say it.”
“I slept with Siobhan.”
“You what?” Jenna asks.
“I slept with your friend. I'm sorry, I—”
“Is that it?” she asks, cutting me off. “You slept with Sia?”
Nodding my head, I drop my eyes back down. I can't look at her. I don't want to see the disappointment or anger on her face. Tensing up, I wait for her to explode on me.
“Okay, so what did you expect me to say? You think I'm going to ground you or something?” Chuckling, she reaches out and grabs my hand. “I don't know what I expected you to say, but it wasn't that. But I'm not mad, I'm not mad at all. Why would I be angry over that?”
“Because she's your friend.”
“Exactly, she's my friend. I don't control her; she can make up her mind for herself on what she does.”
“Really? You're not pissed?”
“Hell no. Who am I to say who either of you can sleep with?” Holding up a firm hand, she slices it through the air. “But I don't want details, all right?”
Laughing, my body relaxes. “No problem. But there's something else. I want to see her again. I was thinking about heading to the city and surprising her, but I don't know if that's a good idea or not.”
“It's a great idea,” Jenna says excitedly. “I love it.”
“Dude,” Ryder chimes in. “I thought you were going to tell us something else. Like you hit one of the chickens or something. This is nothing. I'm glad you finally got laid.”
“Ryder!” Jenna yells with a smile as she slaps his chest. “Seriously though, what's your plan? What are you going to do?”
“I don't have a clue.”
“All right, I'm going to help you, but let me fill you in on some stuff about her family.”
Jenna goes on to tell me they're really difficult when it comes to any of their children, and what they do or who they associate with. They're loaded, like gold plated toilet loaded.
“I don't care who they are or what they're like, all I want is to see her. I need to see her. I can't explain it any other way than that.”
“All right, then let’s get you to her.” Jenna gives me a big toothy grin as she slaps the tabletop. “Sitting here isn't going to do that. You're getting on the next flight out there.”
“You don't think she'll be weirded out if I show up out of the blue?”
“I think you'll never know if you don't try. What's the worst that happens?”
“I make a fool of myself.”
“You do that every day,” Ryder says. Slugging him in the arm, he laughs as he rubs it. “I'm kidding. I think you should go for it too. Why wait around and wonder?”
Ryder is right. They're both right. Life is always full of risk.
I can't fail if I don't try, but I'm not living if I never take that step forward.
“What time's the next flight?”
6
Siobhan
Spinning the fork against the white granite countertop, I stare off out the window at the Hudson River. The sun is dangling directly overhead, creating twilights in the still water. The clock behind me ticks like a metronome, drowning out the sounds of the city below.
Ever since I came back from New Hampshire, life here seems even more mundane. I go through the motions, holding up the obligations that my mother so kindly likes to offer, not that I really have a say in the matter.
Dinners with doctors and lawyers, black tie charity events, award ceremonies for the men and women who surround my parents in the medical world. And all the while I wear a fake smile, with fake laughs, and feign interest in their endeavors.
Don't get me wrong, some of the advancements made in the medical field are amazing, but it doesn't mean I want to throw on some uncomfortable ball gown and pretend to be someone I'm not.
People might think I'm being vain, or because I live this lavish lifestyle I should be grateful. And I am. I'm very grateful. I just wish my parents would stop trying to mold me into one of them when all I want is to be me.
My parents really do incredible work. What they do is selfless, and their patients are grateful. I'm grateful for the magic they perform to make other's lives better. They're plastic surgeons who help patients that need reconstructive surgery from accidents, cancers, severe burns, and all sorts of horrors.
But beneath that cloak of greatness are two people who uphold status, and the grandeur of outside appearances. I'm a girl wearing a mask, but deep down I don't want any of this.
“You're not eating,” my mother says as she sits down next to me, blowing cool air acros
s the top of her tea. Pursing her lips, she holds the string of the teabag, steeping it over and over as she watches me like a hawk.
“I'm not really hungry.”
Looking at her from the corner of my eyes, her lips wrinkle as she puckers, and small crow’s feet extend out from her eyes as she turns to look out the window.
“Well, tomorrow we have our charity event breakfast. Dr. Fayette and his wife are at your table. I hope you find your appetite before then.”
“I can just stay here. It's not like you really need me there.”
Dr. Fayette is a gastrointestinal doctor, who speaks too freely at the table about his craft. Even if I had an appetite, I'd lose it the second he starts talking.
Flicking her gaze in my direction, her eyes sharpen. “He's top of the board, Siobhan. You'll be there, and you'll make a good impression.”
I don't bother arguing, it won't change her mind. Nodding, I lay my fork on the plate and push myself back from the counter.
“Sure, whatever you say.”
“There are expectations, Siobhan, expectations everyone in this family has to abide by. Like it or not, you're part of it.”
Rolling my eyes to myself, I keep my mouth shut. I've been down this road before, and I know silence is better than a day full of snappy and rude comments.
She sips her tea, pinkie out, delicate fingers wrapping the thin handle. Always so prim and proper, my mother. Her hair is pulled back into a French twist, snugly pressed against her scalp. She's wearing a baby blue woman's suit, with her collar ironed flat, her pants pleated perfectly, and crisp white heels.
Scraping my plate clean into the trash, I put it in the dishwasher. She's still facing the window, sipping her Earl Gray tea, with a spoonful of honey and a dash of cream. I don't think I've ever seen her have it any other way.
Moving toward the door, she calls out, “And Siobhan. . .” I stop, looking back at her over my shoulder. Her eyes stay fixed on the Hudson as she speaks. “You'll wear your yellow Carolina Herrera dress tomorrow, too.”
I'm not a god damn doll! I want to scream at the top of my lungs, but I don't. I do what I always do and hold it in. Maybe it's my fault she treats me this way. Maybe I should have stood up to her more as a child. Told her no more. Expressed myself louder and more fiercely.
It's too late now for anything to change. All I'll ever be to her is a porcelain doll she gets to dress and manipulate however she wants. Who cares what I want? Right?
Without a word to her, I walk down the hall, through our living room and down another long hallway to my bedroom. Most people might think of the city as knit up tight like a sweater. Layer on top of layer, all squished together like a colony of ants. But not us, not our family with our four thousand square foot penthouse on the upper West Side. One whole side of our home is a wall of windows, and everything is so damn white. My mother loves sleek and clean.
White furniture, white rugs, white cabinets and counters, it's too much. She adds her pops of color with flowers and huge abstract statues she picks up at expensive auctions for the elite. Most come from someone's personal collection, and probably belong in a museum.
The sad part is she doesn't even know who any of the artists are. Her purchases are for status, and the higher the cost, the better it must be.
Closing the door behind me as I enter my room, I exhale a heavy breath and fall on my bed. Grabbing my phone off the nightstand, I check it to see if Mark tried to call or text me.
He hasn't, and it saddens me. I haven't heard from him at all today, and after how long we talked last night, I kind of thought I would have by now. When I woke up with a dead phone on my bed, I kept thinking he would call me the second he got up.
It's already eleven in the morning, and nothing. Setting the phone back down, I lay my hands over my face and close my eyes. Mark's face emerges easily with that sweet little smile of his, and his bold brown eyes. So dark, so dirty, so easy to get lost in.
My hands flutter down my throat, softly touching, caressing, reminding me of how much I enjoyed when he touched me with his rough farm hands. Calloused and stained, with cracks in his skin and sandpaper texture, his tenderness was surprising.
The intercom from front lobby buzzes, causing me to jump out of bed and sprint down the hall. Calling out into the empty house, I yell, “I'll get it!” I press the button and speak. “Yes?”
“Ms. Andrews, there's someone here to see you.”
“Me?” I ask.
“Yes, Ms. Andrews. He says his name is Mark. I've never seen him before, but he claims he knows you. I tried to send him away, but he's pretty adamant you two know each other.”
Mark? Is he really here?
“Ms. Andrews?”
I'm in shock, excited, over the moon, type of shock. Smiling to myself, I feel giddy all over that he's here.
“Hello? Ms. Andrews? Do you want me to send him away?”
“No, no, send him up,” I answer quickly before the doorman gives him the boot. He will, too. He doesn't take shit from anyone. Cross him and you'll be speaking through a wired jaw, drinking liquid dinners.
“All right, he's on his way.”
My palms are sweaty, and my heart is ready to jump out of my chest. Pacing in a small circle, I take a few deep breaths, trying to calm myself down. Shaking my hands at my sides, I swallow hard.
There's a knock on the door, and I don't even wait until the last tap before I'm tearing it open. A big smile spreads across my face as I see him standing there. In a button-up shirt and dark jeans, his hair is loose, covering his eyes as it falls into his face.
“Hey,” he says, running his hand across the back of his neck.
I want to jump in his arms and kiss him, and I'm about to as my muscles tremble, eager to shoot forward. My fingers itch at my sides, desperately begging to tangle in his hair.
“Hi.” The single word fumbles out from me, breathy and fast.
We're staring at each other, eyes frozen. Licking my lips, I take one step forward, ready to show him how happy I am that he's here, but I'm quickly stopped in my tracks.
“Siobhan, who's at the door?” My mother rounds the corner, stopping behind me and folding stiff arms over her chest. “And why does he have a suitcase? What's going on here?”
“Oh, um, well. . . Mom, this is Mark. Mark, this is my mother, Bernadette Andrews.”
“Dr. Bernadette Andrews,” she says, correcting me.
“Nice to meet you, Ma'am.” He tips his head respectively, but she barely bats an eye. It doesn't matter how polite he is, I already know what's running through her head.
Her eyes roll up and down his body, evaluating where he stands in society. Is he rich, poor, somewhere in the middle? Is he a man who's been bred with regal influences? Or is he just a boy pretending to be someone important?
She studies how he's holding himself, her gaze shifting to his hands and feet. His back should be straight, his smile neutral, but pleasant. His hair should be cut and combed appropriately, and he should have the aroma of expensive cologne radiating from his body.
Mark has none of what she's looking for, and I see the realization and disappointment in her face as her lips fold down into a thick scowl, and her eyes narrow with repulsion.
“He's a friend of Jenna's husband, his best friend, actually. Jenna's known him for years, they all grew up together.”
“Jenna. . .” Her voice is cold and harsh. “Jenna, the girl who abandoned her family for the hicks, that Jenna? I told you I didn't want you going to her wedding, but did you listen to me? No. Now there's some man at our door. See what happens when you mingle with those people?”
Those people? How can she say such terrible, degrading things to someone she doesn't even know?
My eyes expand wide, and my brain is rushing to come up with an explanation she'll accept. “No, Mom, you're seeing this all wrong. Mark owns his own business and was coming to the city for a few meetings with his business partners. He's always done his business me
etings virtually; he's never had the chance to come to the city until now. So, I thought it would only be gracious for us to open our home to him and show him around a little. I'm sorry, I meant to tell you but you I forgot.”
“You forgot,” she says, leaning her head to one side. “It just slipped your mind to let me know that you invited some man to stay with us?”
“I'm sorry, I really am. But with school and all the obligations we've had lately, it completely slipped my mind.”
My mother grumbles as she rolls her eyes, fanning her hand for him to come inside. “You know, I'd really appreciate it if you don't forget to tell me these things. You know we have a tight schedule as is, and entertaining a house guest isn't something you just spring on us.” She walks through the living room, talking to Mark with her head set forward. “What is it you do, Mark?”
Glancing at Mark, he gives me wide eyes. But he doesn't say anything to contradict the story I gave my mother, instead he helps fuel the lie. “I'm a mechanical engineer, Ma'am.”
Perfect answer.
His answer sounds more professional, more technical, more educated than just a mechanic. He doesn't stutter or fumble his words. They come out firm and confident.
“Engineer, huh?” she glances back quickly, letting her eyes run up and down his clothes. I can see the disbelief in her eyes, but she keeps it to herself. “You can stay in here.” Pushing open the door of the one of our guest rooms, she steps to the side. “And Siobhan, next time you invite a man to stay in our home, I expect you to get your father's permission first. Understand?”
“Absolutely. Of course, I won't let it happen again.”
My mother's brows knit as she looks between us. “I think it goes without saying that I shouldn't ever find you two alone in any of the rooms with the door closed. Not in this house, not ever.” Her eyes burn through my chest, making it hard to breathe. “Siobhan knows our expectations.”
I feel like a kid again, and not the woman I am. I'm not surprised, though. My parents are extremely traditional. And if I live under their roof, I follow their rules. Along with every other expectation and obligation they throw at me. How I dress. How I talk. Who I associate with. What I study in school. Where I go to school. There isn't much in my life that I control.
Big Man’s Heat Page 5