I get behind the wheel and conversation flows freely as we drive to her family’s restaurant. We chat about little things. Silly things. My choices in music, mostly. She likes a wide range of music. Pop, rock, heavy metal. She’s into most genres, which is cool, and I quickly wonder if I’ve entered the friend zone. I mean, she’s already like a friend. Someone I’d have a beer with and have some laughs with. Still totally hot, with sarcasm that turns me on brighter than stadium lights. But along with that jolt between us is a level of comfort that I can’t deny.
She seems to take great pride in making fun of my musical preferences. Namely Neil Diamond.
“I’m a dork. I admit it.”
“Recognizing one’s shortcomings is part of the healing process.” Cami smiles at me, leaning against the headrest.
“You sound like a therapist.” I do a double take. “Didn’t you say you went to business school?”
“Absolutely. I also minored in psychology. With a family like mine, you never know when that knowledge will come in handy.”
Laughter fills the cab of my truck. Mine and hers. It’s refreshing. It’s also a high, one huge adrenaline rush. Approval from her. Making her laugh. It’s akin to what I feel on the ice. When I feel most free. Being a dork usually bores women. Not Cami. She’s amused by it. I feel a sense of pride about that fact.
Of course, Cami is going to work. Not even a sprained ankle can keep her away. Though she’s late, she is still the first to arrive, and I park in front of Benetti’s. By the time I walk her to the door, I’m running late for practice.
“Thanks for the non-date,” she slides her key in the lock. “I owe you. And the doctor.”
“About that…it’s confession time. I covered your visit. You won’t be charged. If you are, let me know and I’ll pay for it. It was completely my fault.”
“Nice gesture, but I can’t let you—”
“It was my fault. You owe me nothing.” She arches her dark brows as if waiting for me to rescind my assertion that she owes me nothing. Chalk it up to my skills of deduction, but I think she wants me to make a caveat, so I run with it. “You could always grant me a date. If you want, that is. If you do, I’ll let you keep trashing my choice in music.”
She laughs and it’s music to my ears. “How can I resist that challenge? Oh! I remember. I don’t date hockey players.”
“Right. But Nicholas Alexander isn’t a hockey player. It’s in my Scorcher profile.” I wink at her. “You should look me up on the app.”
Leaning against the doorframe, she grins. “Nicholas Alexander…what does he do, again?” Her tone is teasing.
“He’s self-employed.”
“An entrepreneur? Hmmm. That is an acceptable profession and doesn’t break any of my dating rules. I would say yes to a date with Nicholas. If he asked, but only if I name the place.”
If Camille wants control, it’s fine by me. “Deal.”
“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into, Nicholas.” Her voice is husky and as she grabs a pen out of her purse, then writes her number on my hand, she says, “Oh, and I am paying you back for my visit to urgent care. Every penny. That’s nonnegotiable.”
Little does she know, I can be just as stubborn as she is. I won’t cash any check she gives me. What’s right is right, after all.
“I’ll be out of town for a few away games. How about when I get back?” Which will make this the longest wait ever.
Opening the doors, she turns to face me. “Hopefully I’m still available. Apparently, I’m a hot commodity on the Scorcher market. See ya, Nicholas.”
With that, she enters the restaurant and locks the doors behind her. This woman flirts like a pro, gets me hot and bothered, and pushes all my buttons. Damn, she’s impressive, which says a lot, coming from me.
Next week can’t come soon enough.
Chapter 3
Camille
“I can’t believe you put me on Scorcher! Why not just advertise me on Craigslist?” I load dishes into the dishwasher with lots of noise.
“Can you please be more careful? Don’t break anything,” my sister chastises me.
“Oh, this noise is intentional. At the very least you deserve a headache for offering me up like some prize pig at auction.” I halt in the process of loading the last dish. “Okay, that’s a bad analogy. You get my point.”
It’s time for the kid plates. The plastic ones, from Ikea. Different colors. Each child has a favorite color and fights for it. Especially my nieces and nephews. So, I bought duplicate sets for each of my siblings with children. It makes babysitting easy on me. Which happens often, considering my best meal is boxed mac and cheese with added American cheese for extra flavor. I’m the aunt everyone wants to have over.
“There’s no way I’d put you on Craigslist,” my older and only sister Beth states in a matter-of-fact tone. “That would probably be considered human trafficking. I didn’t want to go to jail.”
Beth is totally serious. Unlike me, the snark isn’t strong where my sister is concerned. Instead, she’s known for her volatility and competitive nature. It was tough at times, growing up with Beth. She always needed to be the center of attention, the perfect child. Then the perfect wife and mother. I learned to adapt, to ignore a lot of what she does and says. To be extra supportive because she needs it so badly.
Once the dishes are loaded, I move onto her sofa, where I shove the scattered clean laundry aside. I settle in with the empty basket beside me and take a sip of my coffee. It’s bitter and on the cool side. Like my current mood as I study my sister’s living room. It’s complete with taupe walls, matching furniture, and all kid proof—just like the rest of her house.
Beth has three kids, ages five, seven, and ten. I often help her with some mom duties. Today it’s loading the dishwasher and folding laundry while they’re at school. The weekend’s coming and the kids will soon stay with their dad. Weekly, like clockwork.
The separation has been hard on all of them, especially my sister. Disappointing our dad has been even more difficult. Unlike me, she’s never been a disappointment to him before. Not once. Daddy loves her husband Scott. She still loves Scott, too, and misses him, though she wears a brave front.
My sister watches me with the intensity of a hawk and takes a huge gulp of her coffee from a mug that reads World’s Greatest Mom, her light brown hair a little messy. It’s not like Beth to forget to run a brush through her hair. Even her clothes are a mess—the label for her shirt is in the front.
“What’s with you?” I study her pronounced features and wide eyes. “Why am I doing all the work today? There’s something else, isn’t there? What did you do, Beth?”
Beth downs another gulp of coffee. “Nothing. Just Scorcher. I swear.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
Placing a stack of neatly folded shirts in the empty basket, Beth answers me at long last. “Matty and I know you need someone. Even if you’re too stubborn to admit it.”
“First, I don’t need a man to make me happy—”
“Stop quoting the Pussycat Dolls. Especially to my kids, please.” Beth blows a piece of hair out of her eyes.
“One PCD song is on my playlist, and it’s tame. You want free babysitting, that’s what you get,” I remind her with a smile. “My next point, and a very good point it is, is this: name one marriage in our family other than Mom and Dad’s that has led to anything but disaster?”
I fold her daughter’s clean underwear, awaiting my sister’s answer. This chore falls under the category of things only a sister would do. Unless you’re me. Then you also wonder what would have been.
Don’t do the math. It’s always the same. No matter how much I love my sister, my brothers, my nieces, and nephews, whenever I see the kids, it’s always the same…Don’t do the math.
“You can’t have
sex with the family restaurant, Cami.”
My head jolts immediately to my sister. “That’s uncalled for. And disgusting.” I grimace at the thought of all the health code violations.
Beth stands defiant with her arms crossed in front of her chest, staring at me. “Well, you can’t.”
“No shit, Sherlock. I’m not having sex with anyone, anywhere. Not since…” Ugh! “Why are you bringing this up? You know this topic is off-limits. Besides, marriage is more than sex. If it were as simple as sex, the Benetti clan would be much better at it. At least I’d hope so. I mean, let’s face it, with three out of five siblings married, how many are happily married? I’ll give you a hint…what is zero, Alex?”
My bad Jeopardy reference aside, this is logic she can’t argue against. All three of my married siblings are older and supposedly wiser, yet all have had their share of problems. Mike is our eldest brother and works more than he should. He’s a high-powered lawyer, and his wife and kids rarely see him. It’s tough, and there are nights that he doesn’t come home, though no one is allowed to discuss that with him. Then there’s Beth, who’s separated. Meanwhile, our brother who suffers from middle-child syndrome, Ben Benetti, is not only scarred by a name like Ben Benetti, but the fact that his wife never attends a family function. They don’t have kids yet. That may be a reason. Dad is all about his grandchildren and on baby watch. I’m exempt from that—
Don’t go there. I don’t move, don’t speak, paralyzed by memories that still haunt me, though they are always magnified at my sister’s house.
Why am I always brought back to the worst moment of my life whenever I’m around Beth? Because when I’m around her, I’m plagued by what could have been. Because my life, my future, turned on a dime and I had no control over it. I still have no control over it. What I can control is this conversation. “How is everything going with Scott?”
My sister takes another swig of her coffee, followed by a second, then a third. Three large gulps followed by a belch. I know that belch. It is a rarity and only happens when she’s inebriated. “Are you drunk?”
My sister wears guilt like nobody’s business. Her wide eyes and expression of sheer terror mean only one thing: I’ve busted her. I grab her mug from the table and sniff. “Baileys? At ten in the morning? I hate to break it to you, but you can’t lecture me when you’re drunk. Or at the very least buzzed.”
I reach for another piece of clothing to fold and it’s a man’s button-down shirt. Unbuttoned and wrinkled, it reeks of cologne. It’s not clean, that’s evident as I tug the hem from beneath a sofa cushion. “Oh my God, you’re having sex. With Scott! This is Scott’s, right?”
This preppy button-down is definitely something her husband Scott would wear. My sister still hasn’t answered me. Instead, she’s nibbling on her lower lip.
“Do you want a snack?” My sarcasm jolts her to attention.
“I thought you saw him when you pulled up. So, I poured some liquid courage in my coffee.”
Liquid courage? Baileys is my sister’s liquid courage. I’d find it sad if I weren’t so preoccupied. “ ‘Him’ being…Scott?” I struggle to keep up with her confessions. “Just rip the Band-Aid off, already. Who are you doing the deed with?”
“Of course it’s Scott. Who else would it be? Anyway, he left through the back door. I forgot you were coming over. That’s his shirt.” Her eyes dart from mine, to the shirt, then back again.
Slowly, I piece it together. The living room was a shambles, laundry everywhere, with this shirt at the bottom of the pile. “Oh my God! You had a quickie with your ex on the sofa? The same sofa I’m now sitting on?” I bolt from the couch and toss the shirt on their polished hardwood floors. “Yuck. This is just…yuck.”
I head toward the kitchen counter, then pause. Where else did they have sex? The kids get on the bus at seven. That leaves plenty of time. “Please tell me that’s the only place you sexed it up. Otherwise, I don’t want to touch anything.”
A spray sound and the wafting scent of linen causes me to cough. I’m choking on it. “For God’s sake, what is that smell?”
“Lysol. See? No cooties.”
Just when I’m certain my sister is trying to kill me with the aerosol spray can, she adds, “You missed the part when I admitted that Scott and I are back together. A happy marriage.” Beth points to the can. “Snap out of it or I’ll spray you again.”
Taking several steps backward, I wave my hands in the air in surrender. “You’re sneaking around while the kids are at school. That’s not the definition of together. At least not in my dictionary. Besides, the thought of a shirtless Scott driving away is a little distracting.”
“Technically, he wasn’t shirtless. He put on one of my blouses,” my sister admits, her lips pursed.
That’s another vision I don’t want to imagine. “You’re sharing clothes. That must be a good sign.” My tone is teasing, and I’m trying really hard not to laugh. My lips quiver, as do Beth’s. Then we both burst out laughing.
“It’s absurd isn’t it?” She’s laughing so hard that she has slumped over.
I shake my head no as my shoulders shake and I laugh harder.
My sister slides down a wall, sitting on the hardwood floor in her living room as I join her. We don’t talk, we can’t until our laughter subsides. Beth traces the rim of her now empty coffee mug. “Scott and I are discussing getting back together. We don’t want to get the kids’ hopes up.”
Raising her mug defiantly in the air, she announces, “Now that you know, there’s no use in calming my nerves.”
I find it funny that Baileys calms my sister. Right now, I need something a whole lot stronger to process the image of Scott wearing one of her silk blouses and sneaking out to his car. Still, I push that aside because she’s staring at me, waiting for my approval. Even though she’s older than me, Beth has always been the one who needs my approval. Even before Mom died, I filled that role. Of big sister, of protector, then of mom…holding the family and business together. Like I could ever take my mother’s place. She was one of a kind. What would Mom say to my sister at this precise moment?
“Beth, honey, if you’re happy, then I’m ecstatic for you.” I place my arm around her and lean my head against her hair. My ability to sound like Mom is uncanny and makes me miss her even more than usual.
My sister shudders, her tension melting away with an exaggerated sigh. “I was afraid to tell you. After everything that happened.”
Beth never did tell me everything. I often wondered if Scott cheated, but he’s not the type. I know the type. I’ve had first-row seats to how a cheater lies and turns someone’s world upside down. Scott isn’t that guy. Even after their separation, he tried to work things out and, to this day, looks at Beth like she’s some rare gem. “What exactly did happen between you and Scott? You’ve kept it hidden for so long that it’s now the size of Fort Knox.”
Pulling away, Beth rises, returning her attention to folding laundry. Staying busy is her go-to when discussing difficult topics. She cooked while we planned Mom’s funeral, she bossed the nurses around demanding an abundance of pillows and blankets when Dad was in the ER last year after a fall, and now she’s folding laundry in record time. “It’s silly, really. Things got boring. It became all about the kids. Don’t get me wrong. I love them. We just…Scott and I lost that spark.”
I glance at their sofa. “You’re lucky that the spark you shared today didn’t set your sofa ablaze.”
Laughter fills the open floor plan room again. Mine and my sister’s. It’s good to hear her laugh. It’s been a long time. Too long. “I didn’t want to tell you how I felt because it would make me sound ungrateful for our kids. That wouldn’t be right, especially when speaking to you.”
When speaking to me. Why does she always go there? I know there are some who categorize by using the word always and are overst
ating it, but not me. Not when it comes to my sister and the one topic I’ve deemed off-limits. Scratch that. It’s supposed to be off-limits, yet Beth manages to work it into our conversations every time I see her. It’s enough to make me question why I volunteer to help her at all.
Don’t think about it. Don’t talk about it. The same words are on a silent loop in my mind. I can’t, no matter how much my sister tries to begin that conversation, allow it to happen. For my own sanity. Instead, I change the subject one last time. “Why Scorcher?”
“Something had to be done. What’s the saying about desperate—”
“I’m not desperate. I’m happy. I’m running the business for Dad while planning for my future.” Granted, mine is a future that’s in flux. The business is in dire straits, and Dad wants to keep it as it is, which is costing us dearly. I want to renovate and reinvent the family restaurant. Dad won’t let me. I want to buy the restaurant, but he doesn’t want to keep it in the family. He justifies his lack of trust in me by saying that with Mom gone, he can’t watch the restaurant change. He’d rather sell it to some stranger.
Leaning my head against the wall behind me, I admit something I haven’t said aloud, at least not to my sister. “I’m losing the restaurant. Dad won’t sell to me. He’s more stubborn than I am.”
“That answers your question. Why Scorcher? Why not? You need to live your life.” Beth is suddenly my big sister. Protective of me now. Something she hasn’t been for years. Funny how our roles reverse when I least expect it. “So, how was coffee with Nick?”
I laugh. “There was no coffee. I fell, ended up going to urgent care, and spent time in an exam room with him and some cat-cooking nurse.”
“Did you bump your head?” Beth rounds on me. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s an inside joke, I suppose. To answer your question, I didn’t hit my head and thankfully my ankle is back to normal.” Yes, it has healed. Just in time for our date. Date…A shiver of anticipation shoots up my spine at the mere thought of my date with Nick.
Ice Hard Page 4
