by Brea Viragh
What was family for if not to lighten the mood?
“I might need to check out this fantastical Tooth before long. Finn can definitely drive a girl to drink,” I responded.
Which he seemed content with in perpetuity. When he wasn’t commenting on my breasts or inquiring about my ability to handle a pole.
“I will tell you one thing before I leave.” Nell struggled to rise, losing her balance and knocking back against the coffee table. She winced. “Finn is…rough around the edges. Watch yourself with him. He’ll make you bleed.”
I cocked my head to the side. “Why? At least give me a hint instead of mysterious dribble-drabble.”
Her answer was an enigmatic, heavy-lidded look. “Nothing concrete. I just have a feeling.”
Part of me wanted to push her for knowledge. To see what she had to say about the subject of Finn and his rough edges. There was too much talk and not enough answers.
I zipped my lips. All in due time.
I watched Nell finish packing and helped with bags before getting in the car, cutting a left, heading away from town. Soon buildings gave way to nothing but trees. Acres of farmland with cows and sheep grazing on sparse golden grass.
The split-level loomed ahead, visible from the road, the driveway lined with towering pines. I knew the view. With my eyes closed, I could recall the stark mountainscape, the killer curve where many a car fell into the ditch and relied on my mother’s hospitality to call for a tow truck. The landscape where nothing changed and the same worn lawn ornaments sat breaking apart from wind and weather.
The doomsday countdown to dinner was in its final seconds. I’d wasted enough time and was able to watch the sun finish its trek across the sky. Evening was my favorite time of day. Not to do anything in particular, mind you. I simply enjoyed the flavors of the air, the scents and sights when the sun began to dip below the horizon. The chance to do whatever the hell I wanted, which may or may not include stuffing my face with my favorite things of all time. Tan and brown edibles.
I always did what had to be done before twilight. Checking chores and responsibilities off the list, seven days a week, and doing it all before six. Or five, depending on the season. Or how badly I wanted my cheese puff fix.
I had to say, living with my mother had some perks. Since she worked night shift, she was out of the house around the same time I came home. I divided my time between home and Weston’s little townhouse north of the main drag.
Main drag, sure, like it was the happening place to be. Beyond the crowds of the Friday night jamboree, we saw little in terms of action. The change was appealing in many ways. The night life wasn’t me anymore. I wasn’t sure if it ever was me. Part of what lead me to start over in Heartwood, the town where it all began.
Trista must have noticed my distraction during dinner. In the end, her steak had been burnt to a crisp and her salad drowned in dressing. We came to a mutual agreement on going out for Mexican.
She swallowed a mouthful of tortilla chips before speaking. “You know, I talked to Loretta in HR yesterday.”
I stared down at my lap, a sick feeling swirling below my collarbone. She’d been beating around the bush all night and now I finally understood. “And?” I asked slowly.
Trista was considerably shorter than me. Mid-forties, wearing jeans and athletic shoes, she had lank sandy-colored hair, and a long nose. Her oh-so-generous donation to the gene pool and the one characteristic we shared.
“Loretta had a lot of interesting things to say.” Trista used her spoon for emphasis. “Apparently, there’s an open position on the manufacturing line. Isn’t it great? We could work together.”
My answer came without hesitation. “No, absolutely not.”
“River, you need a job. I’m offering you one. I’m handing it to you on a silver platter. We can carpool!”
There was nothing I wanted less in this world than to stand side by side with my mother through the literal darkest hours of the day. Examining hinges and checking for splinters, or whatever it was she did with the cabinet manufacturer.
There had to be better opportunities out there. How did I tell her without bruising her feelings?
“Sorry, Mom. I don’t want to do what you do. The data entry gets me by while I look for something better.”
“You should get back into the world of accounting. You have your degree…” Her voice trailed off when I stared her down.
Accounting had been my rock. A world of rules and regulations where I always knew what to expect. There was no room for errors or miscalculations. My job was rigorous. Exacting. Steady.
I don’t belong there anymore.
Call it too many mistakes. Call it lack of love for what I did. Call it disenchantment. The thought of going back to my old world felt uncomfortable. A favorite sweater shrunk in the dryer.
I’d loved what I did, before the passion curdled.
I shook my head. “I want to explore different opportunities.”
“You’re too young for a midlife crisis.”
“It’s not a… God, Mom. I’m only thirty—” I coughed. “It’s an opportunity for me to figure out what makes me happy and do it while I still have the time.”
She swirled her spoon around the dinner plate. “It sounds like an excuse to be lazy.”
“You dragged me here to insult me? Really?”
“No, honey, no. I want you to be happy, and I think getting back into a full-time job will help. You already have the man. Meaningful employment is icing on the cake.”
In her life, that may be true. I wasn’t sure how I measured success anymore. Staying alive each day without a mental breakdown?
“I’m thinking about stopping by the real estate office in town,” I told her, slicing through my enchiladas and watching the cheese gush from the wounds.
“No.” She sounded like a petulant toddler told she wouldn’t be able to have an ice cream cone until she finished her dinner. “Then I’ll never get to see you. I hardly see you as it is.”
Yes, and I preferred to keep our interactions to a minimum. “I know you want to see me more, but working at the same place isn’t the answer. I’d end up resenting you.”
Did she want to make things worse? I reached for the container of salsa and spilled it down the side of the table in a tidal wave of red. What was wrong with me?
Hurrying to grab napkins and stem the spicy flow, I continued. “Besides, we’re having dinner right now.” I made a show of tossing the filthy napkins aside. “See? Bonding.”
Trista’s lips plunged into a frown. It wasn’t the type of bonding she wanted. I knew it. Dinner together once a week didn’t make up for the years we’d spent apart. Years where we spoke on the phone two days out of the month and sent cards for birthdays and major holidays.
She wanted more than I could give, was ready to give.
“It’s not enough,” she insisted. “I have a lot of time to make up for with you.”
“Well, forcing me into a labor position with your company isn’t going to do it,” I said.
“I know you avoid me. Like I can’t tell you’re spending your time out of the house while I’m home so we don’t have to talk.” Her head flopped forward on her neck. “Your cold shoulder gives me frostbite.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Am I? You run out the door when you see me coming home. Or crawl into bed as I’m getting ready to leave.”
“It’s because you work the graveyard shift,” I retorted. “I’m sorry I can’t conform to your wonky schedule. Don’t think I’m intentionally avoiding you, because I’m not.”
Did I feel guilty about our rocky relationship? Not enough to carve out the time Trista wanted. That didn’t mean I would tell her. I wasn’t the type to break a heart unnecessarily. Not hers.
“I want us to be a team. The way a mother and her daughter should be,” she replied. She swallowed, held it together. Her voice was easy. The edges gone. “We have an unhealthy balance between u
s. I’m constantly walking on eggshells and it’s affecting my chakras. I’ve been getting migraines.”
“Who told you all this nonsense? Aunt Thessaly?”
Trista snapped her chin to the side, which meant I was right on the money. Something changed in her face. She tried to hide it but wasn’t quick enough. I spotted the tell. “I think we need to try harder to get along. Nothing more.”
“Fine. Whatever you want. It’s your house and I’m a guest.” I held my drink in the air and hoped my trembling fingers didn’t herald another spill. “Here’s to teamwork.”
It was the answer she wanted to hear and we both knew it. However, Trista was the type of woman to take whatever she could and turn it into a positive. She gathered my agreement to hold close to her chest.
“This is nice, don’t you think?” she asked. “Going out to dinner, a little Mexican food.”
“Sure, it’s great. I’m glad we got to see each other. It was the sort of pick-me-up I needed.”
“Bonding?”
Her optimism was astounding. “Yes, bonding. Go ahead and talk to me about whatever you want. I’ll listen,” I said absently.
At once I felt remorseful for ignoring her. The last few years of our tenuous relationship were in obvious need of renovation.
Trista turned to stare at me, that mothers’ gaze when they wonder at your easy agreement. I twisted under her look. Unable to stay still.
“You don’t know how glad I am to hear it. While we’re airing our grievances, I want you to know I don’t approve of what you’re doing with that man.”
“Weston?” I intentionally misunderstood. “I thought you liked him.”
Trista smiled with tender indulgence. “Oh, I love Weston. He’s not the issue. It’s the other one.”
“I don’t know what you mean by other one. Weston’s the only one I’m dating and I don’t mess around. That’s not the kind of woman I am.” I took a keen interest in keeping my rice and beans separated. I wouldn’t dream of mixing flavors now.
“River Elizabeth, stop being deliberately dense. I mean the fellow you’re volunteering for. With. Whatever it is you spend your time doing.” The look she gave me said she could only imagine. Like the rehab house was a known place for debauchery and sin.
I took my time in answering her. It was like Finn had been conjured here, appearing at an inopportune moment. A black cloud with ESP. He knew when to make an appearance to cause the most damage.
“I wouldn’t say I’m volunteering for him. More like I chose to volunteer and he happened to be there. He’s the one the organization felt could use the most help. I’ve only seen him two days.”
I tried to temper my voice with patience, knowing full well how Trista had the singular ability to take mundane matters and turn them into a spectacle.
I didn’t want her rolling up the idea of Finn only to spin it into a larger ordeal. Disaster-flavored cotton candy.
“He’s nothing but a no-good swindler.” Trista shook her head and waited for me to continue. Parry for parry.
“Do people use the word swindler anymore? He’s a person who needs help. I didn’t know you had such strong feelings about the less fortunate,” I returned dryly.
“You know what I mean. Let me tell you about Price. He chews up beautiful girls like you and he spits them out. My friend from work, Kitty? She said her daughter got mixed up with him…now she’s hooked on meth.” Trista dropped her fist on the table, staring at me to make her point.
“The two are not mutually exclusive. I’m sure we all have secrets in our past. AKA less than desirable men we’ve slept with and pushed from our minds.” With a shrug of feigned indifference, I defended the absent Mr. Price. If only he knew.
I tried to drive home the point that no one was perfect. We all made mistakes and lived our own experiences. Who were any of us to judge another?
Trista wouldn’t listen. “And the woman behind the counter at the fancy coffee shop? She said she saw him at the biker bar with not one, not two. Three different girls. At the same time! How greedy can a man be?”
“Also normal,” I said.
“How about his job? He fixes motorcycles, which doesn’t bring him into the right circles, if you know what I mean. His people are roughnecks. That club he goes to is a cesspool.”
“Prejudiced much?”
“You refuse to see what kind of man he is. It’s disgusting.”
Oddly enough, a flush of anger rose to the surface. “All right, firstly, I am a grown woman and I know how to handle myself. There’s no man alive who can pull one over on me.” Anymore. “Secondly, Finn broke both his legs. I’m sure he did nothing bad enough to warrant his fate. You could try having a little compassion.”
Why the hell did I feel compelled to stand up for him? It’s not like he’d done me any favors. Yet.
Trista’s voice narrowed to echo the shape of her face. Her eyes were those of a hungry alligator. “You’re standing up for him and you don’t know him. He’s lived in this town long enough for—”
“For what?” I interrupted. “For you to hear stories? To base your opinion on secondhand gossip? I know he’s done nothing to you personally. Because I can tell you with some certainty, Mother—” I snapped a tortilla chip for emphasis. “You’re not his type.”
I wasn’t surprised when she decided to cut our evening short. Trista flopped her napkin down on the table, silverware rattling. “There’s no point to us staying here.”
“What’s the matter?” I asked. Innocently enough.
“I’m tired and there’s nothing left for us to talk about. Not when you refuse to listen to me. I suggested we come out so we can get to know each other a little better. But the way you seem tonight, we aren’t going to get anywhere.”
“You suggested we come out because you ruined dinner.”
“It’s not about food and you know it.”
My first instinct was to scoff and remind her about how we weren’t two people able to start fresh. I watched her tip back her head, inhaling the noisy restaurant air. She looked exhausted.
I paused. “Maybe you would rather go home and rest?” I put in at last. “Don’t pretend you’re cutting dinner in half because of me if you want to relax.”
She shook her head until I swore I could almost hear her eyes clack together. “It’s nothing. I haven’t slept well the last few nights.”
“Sure you don’t want to stay for dessert?”
“No.”
It wasn’t like me to take no for an answer. Yet tonight, staring at her face, I did.
CHAPTER SIX
“Oh my, the prodigal daughter has returned. I wasn’t sure I’d hear from you again after you left in such a snit. Can’t say I blame you. You were probably exhausted from trying to resist me.”
I sighed, shooting Finn a look loaded with meaning—the most prevalent of which was annoyance.
“I’m neither your daughter nor reckless and wasteful. But thanks for giving me an excuse to use my GRE vocabulary words. I thought those terms had disappeared from my mind after college. Seems I was mistaken.”
Instead of rising to the occasion, Finn’s roaming gaze slid along the length of my body. “Looking good today, Ros. You’ve got the schoolgirl-esque top and glasses, definitely a raunchy teacher vibe going on. Papa likes.”
He shifted in the bed to face me, making sure he lingered on each portion of my anatomy from the tips of my boots to the roots of the hair on my head.
“Much better than whatever you wore the first time I saw you,” he continued. “You’re stepping up in the world and I’m happy to see some effort. Although the bra looks like it’s about to fall apart at any moment.”
The bra was a favorite I couldn’t throw out despite the fact that it could be mistaken for a relic from World War I. The eyeglasses were a result of exhaustion coupled with too many hours of fine print. The acid reflux was an unfortunate result of spicy food. Finn wasn’t important enough to deserve an explanation fo
r any of them.
“If you think I’m going to let you get under my skin, you have another think coming.” I placed a load of books on the bedside table and faced him, discreetly adjusting my bra straps. “Ros?”
“Short for roslin. It means red-headed in French.” At my questioning expression, he said, “You told me I needed to come up with a more original nickname for you. Without the use of my good friend Google, it was the best I could do. We’ll call it a throwback to high school language classes.”
“I appreciate the effort.” Indeed, it caused an odd sliver of excitement to build in my stomach. Ros. How had he known enough French to figure it out?
This was our fourth day working together. Four days where I had successfully squelched the urge to beat him over the head. The last time I’d even managed to squeak out the door without a single insult. On either of our parts.
I felt like throwing a parade.
“Now, I want you to get up,” I told him. “No more messing around.”
Finn gestured to the sheet covering his lower half. “In case you’ve forgotten, I have two broken legs.”
“Yes, I know.”
“The left leg was an open compound fracture on both the tibia and fibula. I fractured my tibia on the right leg and had surgery on both. The surgeons inserted a rod with screws at the top and bottom.”
“And?” This was the first time he’d cared enough to tell me the extent of his injuries. I didn’t want to burst his bubble by admitting I’d already called his doctor.
“Hello? I can’t move unless I’m in a wheelchair. I can’t shower alone.” His face twisted into a leer. “Unless you want to help me. I’ll soap your…back…if you’ll soap mine. There’s more than enough room for two.”
I struggled to ignore the lecherous expression making my skin tingle. The man was incorrigible. I could see where he got the reputation as a hound dog.
Staring him down, one hand on my hip, I plastered a pleasant expression on my face. “Hello. Nice to see you. You’re off your pain medication, and from what I was told, you should now be able to bear your weight. It’s been long enough. The bones have healed.”
