Us After You

by Claudia Burgoa

  I nod faintly. This doesn’t sound right. None of it—or him. He sounds more like an obsessed man and not a man in love.

  Or is this what love is supposed to look like?

  I wouldn’t know. Love isn’t part of my vocabulary. I’m not avoiding it, but I’m also certainly not searching for it.

  “Why not look for us?” I finally ask the six-billion-dollar question.

  “I think we both know that we’re toxic for each other. Look at Nana, she had to move away before—”

  “Nana left to travel around the world because her mother fucked with her head. During our time apart, she emailed, texted, and called us often,” I remind him.

  For years, Nana had been bottling up everything that happened to her. She crumbled when her biological mother died, and the bitch fucked with her life one last time.

  “Tell me, Rocco, if we’re so toxic, why did you come back?”

  “You said it, we’re family,” he answers. “Sienna needs a support group. Her parents aren’t like yours or Nana’s.”

  I huff. My jaw clenches. I can hear the blood rushing through my head.

  He came back because he needs us to babysit his bride or because he wants his family back? It sounds like the former. I’m fucking pissed at him and his lack of response.

  Is it too late that we should go on our separate ways?

  No, we’re a family.

  You never leave anyone behind. I calm myself though. With time things might go back to the old ways. Not that we’re the same people. Perhaps we may have grown so far apart from one another, but that will never change the fact that we lived so much together.

  Then he asks, “Are they coming?” I frown in response, and he adds. “Zeke, Eth…”

  “Zeke isn’t ready to be around parties,” I lie, because he’s not ready to be around Rocco—parties are a hard limit, but he can handle them. “Ethan should be here soon.”

  “Nana?” he asks for one of his favorite people. “She skipped the engagement party. Now the rehearsal dinner.”

  “Her mother-in-law had surgery,” I explain.

  “Wait, she’s married?”

  I shake my head. “Not exactly. She and Alex have been engaged … Look, fucker, they’ve been waiting for you to come home. You better get your head out of your ass and make sure you stop calling us toxic.”

  “She won’t be here, will she?”

  “Nana wouldn’t miss your wedding day,” I say. “I’m glad you’re better. You’ll always have my support because you’re my brother. However, if you disappear again, I won’t be as understanding.”

  This feels like fucking irony. I chose these guys over my family again and again because they needed me. They needed me while my family had each other.

  Was it worth it?

  The jury is still debating. The thing about us, the Sinners of Seattle, was that we were there for each other—no matter what was happening.

  We’ve learned that, in life, you need someone who wants to be there when it’s messy and when it’s hard. Not just for the fun convenient moments but when you need to sacrifice for the ones you love.

  We chose each other above everything, even when it wasn’t the easiest—or best—choice.

  I think of everything that we’ve been through and realize I’m being too hard on him. My biggest mistake was enabling him, not supporting him so he could stay clean.

  Venturing through the ballroom of the Four Seasons, I wonder if this is even worth it. Rocco is in a corner, sulking, because Sienna is walking around with her parents and another guy.

  Except, I realize that every few seconds she turns toward him and gives him a reassuring smile, a loving gaze. I’ve seen that before. The way my mother looks at my fathers. Hannah looks at Alex, and him at her.

  Maybe he stayed away because he believed we wouldn’t accept Sienna the same way we did with Lori, Ethan’s ex.

  I stop by the bar, ordering a scotch. I drink it fast and set the glass down.

  Where the fuck is Ethan?

  I wish Zeke was here. This isn’t my scene. Rich people, fake smiles, and fancy clothing.

  My friends, they make it bearable. We’ve learned life is better when we’re together, and yet, Rocco decided we were toxic.

  As I walk toward the restroom, I see her. Long silk cocktail dress, the color of fire. Her hair is pulled back into a knot, a small tiara grazing it. Her curves are accentuated by fabric falling on the side of her hips.

  Mouthwatering, just like the first time I saw her.

  She turns around giving me a smile that fades when she realizes it’s me.

  “You forgot your glasses?” I guess, because she was excited to see me until she recognized me.

  She nods.

  “Try contacts,” I suggest.

  “And stick my fingers inside my eyes?” She shivers. “Never. I tried twice and couldn’t do it.”

  “Where are your glasses?”

  “My room, away from my mother,” she answers. “She can’t stand my imperfections. If she could, she’d get rid of all my freckles and fix my nose.”

  “What’s wrong with your nose?”

  She shrugs. “It’s nothing special—just like me.”

  Special is too simple of a word to describe her. She’s mesmerizing. I wasn’t lying the night I met her when I said I just wanted to get to know her.

  My friends learned not to depend on drugs to live. I don’t depend on empty sex as I used to—which means I’ve been fucking celibate because I can’t connect with any woman. They just want to fuck Tucker Decker. Sage Heywood doesn’t give a shit about the idol. I wish she would give me a chance to show her who I am.

  “I’d beg to differ,” I say with a smirk.

  She shakes her head. “If you will excuse me, I have to check on my sister.”

  “Nice excuse,” I joke.

  She tries not to smile but fails and leaves.

  Someday, I’ll learn what makes her smile, and maybe even count how many freckles are on her nose.

  16

  Sage

  “I don’t see what’s wrong with this dinner?” I say to my mother, keeping my voice down and the lurkers away. The last thing I want is for her to tell me that I’m making a scene—while she makes the scene. “It’s the Four Seasons.”

  You know, rehearsal dinners are small gatherings with close family. One hundred strangers seem excessive. Rocco’s family might have the money to pay for it, but this feels intrusive and even abusive. I don’t tell her what I think. It’s useless. She’s the only person who is right about almost everything.

  “It’s lovely, don’t get me wrong,” she replies. “But don’t you think we could’ve done a little better. My steak was undercooked, the dessert was cold. Crème Brûlée is supposed to be hot. Not freezing cold.”

  Who knows, they served molten chocolate cake, Mom?

  I bet she demanded to get something different.

  “Maybe Dad can talk to the manager and get some kind of discount on the wedding—”

  “Wait, the wedding is here too?”

  I shrug because this isn’t my doing. Sienna organized it with the help of her future sister-in-law. Who I haven’t met yet.

  “We should’ve done this in New York. I could’ve gotten the Plaza.”

  “This isn’t my wedding,” I remind her. “It’s Sienna’s.”

  “Douglas wants to speak to you.”

  I narrow my eyes slightly, trying to figure out whether she’s unhappy with the wedding or guilting me into speaking to my ex-husband. Maybe it was a simple jab at my life choices—including my sister’s wedding. Which again, is not my doing!

  This is just an excuse to tell me I’m not who she wants me to be. She’s going to criticize everything. My career change, my divorce, leaving the only city that deserves to be acknowledged in the entire country—if not the world. Someone should tell her the world spins around the sun, not New York City.

  My brother, Dexter, Sienna, and I worked ha
rd to please my difficult parents, until we drew a line and chose our own ways. I can’t speak for my brother and my sister, but I tried hard. God knows I tried so hard. I stayed with my abusive husband for an entire year until I almost died.

  Now, she’s telling me that he wants to speak to me. Did she ever hear me when I told her how he treated me? Did she forget I was in a hospital bed with bruises and broken bones?

  Did she ever care?

  Since the divorce, my relationship with my parents went from strained to terrible. Dad has barely acknowledged me today.

  “Douglas and I have nothing to talk about. He knows better than to contact me,” I say in the politest way I can fathom.

  “He’s a good man, Sage. You’re never going to find someone like him.”

  Let’s hope you’re right because who wants to be with an abusive asshole? I don’t tell her.

  I inhale, searching for a crumble of patience while praying for a miracle. An earthquake would help. It’s not like I’m asking for Mt. Rainier to erupt—now that would be evil. I’m not asking for a catastrophe, just a little shake that’ll drive her away from my side.

  “How are your grandparents? We’re hoping that you can come back home soon,” she continues.

  “You should visit them,” I suggest.

  “Your father hates that town,” she says, and I’m not even sure why I bother to ask her to be kind and visit her in-laws.

  Maybe I do because my sweet grandparents want to see their son. They still hope the boy they raised might come back. I didn’t have the heart to tell them Dad only had their last name. Everything else was a crust of cold asshole.

  Conveniently, as I think how cold, calculating, and conniving my father is, I see him, Tucker Decker. He’s coming my way, and I have to run because he’s melting my determination to stay away from him.

  “If you don’t mind,” I tell Mom, “Sienna’s been monopolized by—”

  “Leave them alone,” Mom orders. “She’s not married yet, and if Jerome works fast enough, we might be able to avoid this circus.”

  “Circus?

  “Tell me you didn’t bring him around to put an end to Sienna’s wedding,” I say.

  “She’s just trying to make a statement,” Mom says casually. “Can you imagine what will happen if she goes through with this wedding?”

  What I want to say is, Why do you have the need to destroy your children’s lives?

  What I tell her is, “It’s not our place to decide her future.”

  “He’s not what she deserves,” Mom insists.

  Isn’t he?

  Because even though I’ve only seen them together for a brief time, I’ve seen my sister happy. I envy her because her fiancé and her look like water and oil, but she has something precious.

  They have their own little world. Clearly, they’re in love with each other. Everyone can see it, so why can’t my mother acknowledge it?

  They share a love so beautiful it makes me want to steal some of it and save it in a bottle because I doubt I’ll ever be that happy.

  “See you tomorrow,” I say, not telling her what I actually want to yell.

  Leave us the fuck alone!

  Staying is no longer an option. Sienna can handle herself and, hopefully, our parents. If I’m going to be at the wedding tomorrow, I have to leave immediately.

  When I step into the elevator, I realize I’m not alone. I swipe my card, press the number of my floor, and then look up to find the unwelcome sight of Tucker.

  “Why are you here?”

  He swipes his card and presses the penthouse floor. “Sorry, did you rent the entire hotel and we’re not allowed to use your elevator?”

  “Why now?” I ask.

  Because the last thing I need right now is to be with you, feeling reckless, pissed, and needing some kind of human touch. A kiss, a hug, a way to make me feel loved. The way I’ve never been loved—maybe not even by my parents.

  “Is it hate or is it attraction, sweetheart?”

  I hate that he’s asking me that question, but not as much as knowing he’s right. I’m attracted to him. I itch for human contact and his would do for the night. But would it even be worth it?

  No, it wouldn’t. I have to raise a wall between us and reject him.

  “Having all those people adoring you messed with your head, didn’t it?” I say, sounding too spiteful—and I hate it—but I need to ensure that he stays away from me. “You believe everyone is ready to worship you.”

  He chuckles, the elevator stops, and the doors slide open.

  “Goodnight, Sage,” he says, when I step outside. “Maybe someday we’ll get that drink.”

  Will we?

  17

  Sage

  Weddings are supposed to be about the couple. Their love. A celebration of a new union. Not for Genevieve Heywood. My mother has made this all about my failures because that’s all she knows how to do, criticize me.

  Things Sage did perfectly wrong according to her wise mother: She didn’t book St. Patrick’s Cathedral three years in advance. She organized the wedding in Seattle, not in New York. The Four Seasons is not and never will be The Plaza.

  Catherine Zeta-Jones looked like a princess when she married Michael Douglas. Sage let her sister marry a loser with tattoos. She didn’t provide a wedding party. There’s no vegetarian choice available.

  For some reason, this disaster was my fault —not that it’s a disaster.

  Let’s backtrack and analyze each point. The wedding is beautiful and neither Sienna nor I organized it. Her sister-in-law—who I’ve yet to meet—planned the event with the help of her mother.

  Could we take a second to enjoy the floral centerpieces?

  Wicker baskets are set on each table. Delicate ivy climbs the handle of each one of them. It looks like a bird’s nest or a garden of fuchsia flowers. Hot pink roses, pale orange peonies, pink ranunculus, pink alstroemeria, light pink matsumoto asters, and green button mums.

  The greenery around gives it a tone of lost in the woods. I wouldn’t be surprised if tiny butterflies are released in the middle of the father-daughter dance and they settle on the centerpieces.

  The ceremony was in the ballroom next door. Big deal, it’s not like my sister is religious. My parents only set foot in a church when there’s a wedding or a funeral. Maybe that’s why my mother is pissed—she skipped mass.

  The Four Seasons isn’t The Plaza; it’s true—they’re different chains. Patrick is a loser … well, I couldn’t confirm nor deny this allegation. I don’t know much about him. Other than he plays for Midnight Buzz and used to play for Sinners of Seattle.

  I’ve no idea what to say about the bridal party. Sienna could’ve asked me to be her maid of honor but I’m fine with being just another guest.

  See, Mother, I’m a guest, not the party planner.

  I shouldn’t be surprised though. Mom’s always been this way. Everything is wrong, no one does anything right—except for her. She always finds faults and blames her children.

  Which brings me back to the part where I wonder, why did she have children in the first place?

  By the time dinner is over, I’ve walked about a million steps to avoid old family friends and acquaintances of my parents. Even a few business partners are among the guests.

  So far, there haven’t been any last-minute problems, unless I count Mom’s complaints.

  During the ceremony, I swear she was seconds away from objecting to the marriage. Thankfully, Dad mumbled, “Don’t make a fucking scene, Genevieve.”

  And people think miracles only happen around Christmas time.

  “Sucker. He fell for it, and nobody stopped him.” I hear his voice before I notice he’s right beside me.

  “Mr. Bradley,” I acknowledge Tucker sarcastically. Earlier, my parents were all over him, and calling him Mr. Bradley.

  He chuckles. “That’s not me, Ms. Heywood.”

  “My father seems to know you too well.”

  “
He doesn’t know shit, but don’t tell him that.” He winks at me.

  “So, which is it? Bradley, Cooperson, or Decker?” I ask curiously, because maybe Decker is just a stage name.

  While in the band, he was called just, Deck.

  “All, none. It’s complicated.”

  “I take it you don’t believe in marriage.”

  “It works for some.” He tilts his head toward Sienna and Patrick. “The problem is, I don’t know them as a couple, so I can’t say if they’re meant for each other.”

  “Does he have a family?” I ask, because Patrick didn’t have many guests on his list.

  “Us,” he states. “The band, we’re his only family. What about you?”

  “My paternal grandparents, which you already met. We have a brother who lives in Singapore and my parents. So, the band is everything you have?”

  I ask, intrigued by the story behind the statement, the band is our family. I shouldn’t care, seriously, but this man’s posture says cold and unattached. His actions paint a different story, and sometimes, I feel like there’s an energy of a lonely man behind the mask.

  Is he the product of foster care?

  That would explain why he’s so defensive and keeps others at arm’s length.

  He hesitates for a second, but says, “Most of my family lives here, in Seattle. You’ve heard of the Deckers, haven’t you?”

  “The Deckers?” I repeat. “Like the twin brothers whose fathers are Chris Decker and Gabe Colt?”

  I don’t follow celebrities like they’re my gospel, but I don’t live under a rock. I’m somewhere in between blissful ignorance and knowing some pop culture. Everyone knows the Decker family.

  Chris Decker is one of my brother’s idols. I know those things because of Dexter. He loves celebrity gossip.

  “They are triplets,” he corrects me. “One of them is my father. I have plenty of family. All of them live here in the Seattle area. Never believe everything you read, though. Ninety-nine percent of the tabloid gossip are fabrications to sell their shit.”

  “Okay…” I blurt, unsure how to follow his statement.