by Cat Carmine
And then Blake Holloway waltzed into my life. Muffin Girl. With her short skirts and her blonde braid and her incessant arguing with me.
It came back. That voice. The desire to actually talk to someone, to let someone in.
And now there’s only one thing I want to say. One thing I need to say. And it isn’t to Laura. I just wish I felt ready.
“We were happy, weren’t we?” I say to the cold morning air. “We were happy,” I say again, more decisively this time.
Then I think some more.
“Maybe it’s just that … I’m a different person now than I was then. You made me a different person. Or at least, losing you did. And so, what felt like happiness back then doesn’t have quite the same flavor now. Does that make sense?” I pause, as if I’m actually waiting for an answer. But there’s only the rustle of the breeze through the flowers on the ground beside me, only the distant buzz of the weed whacker.
“This is pretty corny, huh?” I chuckle to myself. “See, the old Logan never would have done this. I would have just put my head down and gone straight into the office. Channeled this all into work. But maybe I don’t want to do that anymore. Maybe I want to be better. For her. And I’m sorry if I wasn’t that man for you — God, believe me, I am. But I think I want to be that man now.”
I wait for some kind of sign. Something. Anything. To tell me that I’m doing the right thing. That it’s okay to finally let go of Laura and move on with my life — with Blake.
But real life isn’t like the movies. You don’t get signs. At the end of the day, you just have to man up and make a choice. A choice to be happy or a choice to keep on dying slowly. And after eight years of choosing the latter, I’m beginning to feel that it isn’t really a choice at all. Dying slowly is a default setting, one most people — including me — are all too happy to slip into.
Maybe that’s what drew me to Blake, I think. I like the way she grabs life by the balls. There’s probably a lot I could learn from a woman like her. A lifetime of lessons, really.
If only I’d figured that out before I left her alone at the hospital.
I fish my phone out of my pocket and scan through the recent texts and emails. Nothing from Blake. But what did I expect?
I scroll to her name in my contacts. I think about hitting it, letting it ring through so that I can hear her voice again, so that I can tell her all this stuff I’m thinking, even if I don’t have it all quite sorted out yet. But what would I really say? I love you but I’m afraid that loving you is always going to be tinged with guilt? I’m sure that’s exactly what she needs to hear right now.
With a couple of choice curse words, I shove the phone back in my pocket. I need more time, I think. That’s all.
I just need a little more time.
And at least we have that. Blake will be back at the office soon enough — maybe not Monday, I know she’s going to want to spend time with her family right now. But she’ll be back. And then maybe we can figure this all out …
Together.
Twenty-Six
“Corn Pops or Trix?” Rori’s boyfriend Wes waves two boxes of cereal at me.
I rub my bleary eyes. This whole scene is surreal — Rori, Emma, Wes, and Tyler, sitting around my parent’s breakfast table, in their tiny sun-drenched kitchen, eating cereal out of the same bowls my sisters and I used when we were kids. Tyler’s bowl has Bugs Bunny on the side of it, and Emma has her Smurfette bowl. Figures. That one was always her favorite — she used to scream blue murder if either Rori or I ever dared to touch it. Which, of course, we did with regularity. Once, I stole it out of the cupboard and hid it in my bedroom for almost three months before she found it.
I almost laugh, remembering the sheer fury in eight-year-old Emma’s face, but nothing feels funny right now. I barely slept last night, except when I managed to stop crying long enough to close my eyes for a few minutes. This morning, my eyes burn, my throat hurts, and my stomach feels like I ate a pint of curdled ice cream. And for once it has nothing to do with morning sickness, which finally seems to have passed. Thank you, baby Jesus, for at least that small favor.
“No cereal for me,” I say, shaking my head. Wes looks disappointed, but he sets the boxes back on the counter. I open the fridge and stare into it, trying to figure out if there’s anything I do feel like eating. Everything looks exactly as it did last time I was here — the cream Dad likes to take in his coffee, Mom’s obsession with coconut flavored yogurt, the same cheeses, the same sandwich meats, the same half-eaten loaf of sourdough. Okay, not the same loaf, but you know what I mean.
I close the fridge and slump against it.
“You okay?” Rori asks. She slurps up a spoonful of what looks like CocoaPuffs. I have no idea why my parents have this much children’s cereal in the house. All my mom eats is All Bran, and Dad’s more of a bacon and eggs kind of guy.
Probably why he ended up having a heart attack, I think with a sniffle.
Rori is still looking at me, her brow etched in worry. Emma is purposefully staring down at her bowl, as if she doesn’t want to meet my eye. Fine. If she wants to be a bitch, she can be a bitch. I expected judgement from Emma — we don’t call her Emma The Perfect for nothing — but this level of spite is surprising, even for her. Unfortunately — or maybe fortunately? — it’s about eighty-fourth on my list of current concerns.
“I’m fine,” I eke out, though Rori looks far from convinced. “We should go back to the hospital soon.”
She nods. “We’re just going to finish eating, and then we thought we’d all drive over there. I texted Mom, and we’re going to pick her up a bagel and some coffee on our way.”
“Oh, good.” I manage a smile. Leave it to Rori to take control of this situation. The quintessential older sister.
We all dress and then head over to the hospital in Wes’s car, stopping only to pick up Mom’s breakfast order.
A sense of dread washes over me as we walk down the hallway. Panic lines my throat with acid. I get the strangest sense that something is wrong. What if something happened to Dad? What if he’s worse than last night? My legs wobble, and I barely make it down that long corridor.
But when we get to his room, we find Dad sitting up in bed, propped against a bunch of pillows, while Mom spoon-feeds him something that looks like glue but is probably scrambled egg whites.
“You have to keep your strength up, honey,” she coos.
He chuckles. “Janine, I think I have enough strength to feed myself.”
“I know, but I want to do this.”
“All right, darling.”
This exchange is so typical of my parents that it makes my throat knot up. I catch Rori’s eye, and we share a smile. Even Emma looks touched. It almost seems a shame to interrupt them, but Dad sees us standing there.
“Janine, I think your breakfast has arrived.”
“Oh, the kids are here!” Mom jumps up off the bed. Even though she’s obviously exhausted, she looks better than she did last night. The lines of worry in her face have eased, and her eyes are bright.
“How are you feeling?” I direct my question to Dad while Rori gets Mom set up with the breakfast we brought her. Mom tries to slip her a ten dollar bill, and Rori looks mortified.
“Absolutely not!” I hear her hiss.
Dad is watching the scene play out, and he laughs. “Janine, I think you can let your daughter buy you breakfast.”
“Well, I’m just saying, the money is here if you want it.” She sticks the bill on Dad’s little nightstand, which makes Rori rolls her eyes. That’s also typical of Mom. She sometimes seems to forget — or ignore — that her children are actually grown-ups now.
Dad finally turns his attention back to me. “I’m feeling better, sweetie, thank you for asking. The doctor says I should only have to spend another couple of days here. I’ll be back at the shop before you know it.”
“That’s great!”
Mom frowns. “Yes, she said you could come home. But
she also said you need to take it easy, Tom.”
“I plan to.”
“Mmhmm. That means no going to work. No golfing. Not even any gardening. You’re to embrace the life of the layabout. Nothing but naps and lounging in the living room, watching daytime television.”
Dad pretends to roll his eyes. “If you think I’m going to spend my time watching Days of Our Bold and Beautiful Hospital or whatever…”
Rori and Emma and I exchange another laughing glance.
“I think you’ll like it, Dad,” Rori teases. “The stories are very captivating on … Days of Our Bold and Beautiful Hospital.”
Dad makes a harrumphing noise while Mom chomps down on her bagel, laughing.
There aren’t enough places for everyone to sit down, so Wes and Tyler go steal chairs from the room next door, and then we all hang out with Mom and Dad. Not really doing anything, just talking and laughing and trying to stay distracted from the reality of why we’re all here. Because that reality is enough to gut me every time I stop laughing long enough to remember it. And even though the doctor said Dad’s doing better, it doesn’t change the fact that a heart attack is a life-altering event. He’s going to have to completely overhaul his lifestyle once he gets home. It isn’t going to be easy.
Not for the first time, I find myself wishing I was still living here in Connecticut. I could be here to help Mom, to support Dad, to take over the extra work at the flower shop so that they wouldn’t be too overburdened by it.
“You look thoughtful, Blake,” Dad says. It draws everyone’s attention to me, which is the last thing I want, so I sit up straight and smile.
“I was just thinking … how are you guys going to manage at the shop if you can’t work?”
He and Mom exchange a look. “Don’t you worry about that, Blake,” he says finally. He rubs his hands together as if something’s been decided. “We’ll manage. They can’t keep me down for long. Now, how long are you girls in town for?” He says at is if we’ve just popped down for a visit, as if we weren’t just talking about the repercussions of his health crisis.
“I have to get back tonight,” Rori admits. “I have a board meeting in the morning, and Wes also has a meeting he can’t get out of. But we’re thinking we’ll head back down next weekend.”
“I’m going to stay all week,” Emma announces. “Tyler has to go back to the city tomorrow, too, but I have my laptop and can stay for the rest of the week. At least until Rori is back.”
“And what about you, Blakey?” Dad turns to me.
“I’m not going back.”
The room seems to still. Dad’s eyebrows are practically into his hairline, which is particularly impressive, given how much it’s receded in recent years. “What do you mean, you’re not going back?”
I cross my arms defensively, even though no one’s said anything. “I mean, I’m not going back. Moving to New York was a mistake. I’m moving back here, and I’m going to help out at the shop.”
“Blake, you don’t have to do that.” Dad looks appalled and ... guilty. I realize he thinks it’s his fault that I want to move back. I almost snort. If only he knew the truth.
“Don’t worry about it, Daddy,” I assure him. “I know what I’m doing. This is what I want.”
Emma and Rori are both looking at me, but I can’t bear to see the pity in their eyes, so I look at a spot on the floor, instead.
Around me, I can feel everyone exchanging glances, but finally Dad just nods. “Okay, sweetie. If you’re sure that’s what you want. I know we certainly won’t turn down the help.”
Mom murmurs in agreement. “Especially after we lost that intern…”
“What? What happened to the intern? You never told me this.”
“Oh ... well, she turned out to be allergic to just about everything under the sun. She couldn’t touch any of the plants. Kind of a requirement when you run a flower shop.”
“Don’t forget she was also allergic to milk,” Dad adds.
“And cats.”
“And mosquito bites.”
“And wool.”
“And all soaps.”
“Cigarette smoke.”
“Even porcupines. Not too sure how she found that one out. I didn’t ask.”
“Anyway, the point is, she didn’t really work out.” Mom folds her hands in her lap. “So yes, Blake, it would be great to have you back. Just till your Dad gets back on his feet.”
“Absolutely,” I say agreeably. “Just till then.” Guilt is rocking my stomach. I wish I’d known about the intern. I don’t know how they’ve been handling the workload on their own.
A few minutes later, I excuse myself and take my purse out into the hallway. Once I’m alone, I lean against the wall and take a few deep breaths, trying to steady my nerves. A part of me can’t believe I’m doing this, that I’m already willing to give up on New York, but another part of me knows it’s the right thing to do. My family needs me right now. And to think, just a few days ago I was thinking about crawling home and letting them take care of me.
I let out a sharp breath. God. I can’t ask my parents for help now. Not with Dad out of commission and Mom stretched to her limits. They should be enjoying their golden years — or at least their silver years — and living it up now that their child-rearing days are over. Supporting their knocked-up daughter and her eventual kid is probably the last thing they want. Not that they wouldn’t love their grandchild, but there’s a difference between once-a-week babysitting and full-time care-taking.
No. I can’t ask that of them. Not anymore.
But without my parents, who else is there? Emma’s made it clear she doesn’t support my decision. Rori — well, Rori seems a little more understanding, but between her marketing company and her board position, plus Wes and their dog, I doubt she has heaps of free time.
Logan? I rub my temples. A week ago I had hoped that maybe, just maybe, this was something we could do together. If not as a couple, then at least as, I don’t know, co-parents. But last night made it clear that I can’t count on him. He doesn’t have the stomach for the tough stuff. I can’t say I blame him, either, not after what he told me about losing his fiancee. I get it. But it doesn’t mean I have to accept it. It doesn’t mean I can’t want better for my child.
I rub my palm absently over my belly, which is barely more than a small mound at this point.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I whisper. “It looks like I’m all you’ve got.”
And if that’s the case, then so be it. I’ll step up. It’s the least I can do after the glorious way I’ve managed to fuck everything up so far.
I give myself one single minute — just sixty seconds — to feel sorry for myself. To let the tears come. Then, after I’ve collected myself, I dig my phone out of my bag. I run my fingers over the rhinestone heart on the back of the case, and then take a deep breath and hit the contact number.
Logan picks up on the second ring.
“Blake.” He sounds breathless. “I was just going to call you.”
“Right.” I don’t know if that’s true or not, but it doesn’t matter, anyway. I know now what needs to be done. “Logan, we need to talk. And I don’t want to do it over the phone. Do you think you can come back down to Connecticut?”
“Sure.”
“You owe me this, Logan. And you — wait, what?” I had been prepared to have to argue with him, to make my case, to tell him that he owed me this after ditching me here last night. His simple acquiescence takes me by surprise.
“I said sure. Of course, I’ll come, Blake. Whatever you need.”
“Oh. Well. Great, then. See you soon.”
“Blake!” He catches me before I can hang up.
“What?”
There’s a pause, and I can picture the way he’d be running his hands through his burnished blond hair. “I’m glad you called.”
I sigh. “I’ll see you soon, Logan. Text me when you get into the city.”
I hang up and think a
bout what he said. I wonder if he’ll still say that after he hears what I have to tell him.
Twenty-Seven
Logan texts me an hour and a half later to tell me that he’s just crossed into the city limits. I give him directions to a little spot called the Green Street Cafe which is, confusingly, not on Green Street but on Lilac Boulevard. It takes a bit of back and forth, but I think Logan finally figures it out. I beg Rori for a ride, and she drops me off while she’s picking up lunch for everyone.
“You going to be okay?” She purses her lips as I grab the door handle.
“I’ll be fine,” I say breezily, even though my gut feels anything but. “Hey, Rori?”
“What?”
I almost ask for her advice. After all, she’s my big sister. Surely, she could tell me what to do. But I suck back the words before they can spill out. Even though she hasn’t been bitchy like Emma has, she probably still thinks I’m an idiot for getting myself into this situation.
“You’re not going to get Dad that burger he asked for, are you?” I say, instead. Before we’d left, Dad had pleaded with Rori to pick him up a smothered bacon burger from his favorite diner. He claimed the scrambled egg whites he’d had for breakfast were not a sufficient source of nourishment for a man of his stature.
“Oh, hell no!” She laughs. “He’s getting a spinach salad. Hold the egg and hold the bacon.”
“So, basically just spinach?”
She considers this, then grins wickedly. “Maybe I’ll ask them to put some tofu on it.”
We both snicker at the thought of Dad eating tofu. He can’t walk past it in the grocery store without calling it ‘tofooey.’ It’s one of his all-time favorite Dad jokes.
“I’m glad you guys are all here,” I say to Rori now, and she squeezes my knee.
“Of course.” Rori hesitates for a minute. “Are you sure you want to come back here full-time? What about New York? What about Lucy?”
Fuck. Lucy. I’m going to have to call her and sort that out as soon as possible. “If it comes to it, I’ll pay her a couple extra months rent.” Logan has been paying me very generously, so I have enough saved to cover it if I have to. But God, I’m going to miss her. And not just because of the never-ending supply of baked goods.
