Falling for the Fling

by Lili Valente

  Nothing does.

  “I’ll tell you what kind of bride,” Melody says in a conspiratorial whisper, glancing over her shoulder, though the bridal party left an hour ago and the last of the guests are drifting out to their cars in the front parking lot. “A bride with a bun in the oven.”

  “No,” Aria says, wrinkling her nose. “No way.”

  “Yes, way.” Melody plops down on the grass beside her. “I heard her mom talking after she’d had a few too many glasses of champagne. The bride was four months pregnant. They had to move the wedding up from the original date in November so she’d be able to fit into her dress.”

  “God, but she was so tiny!” Aria shakes her head. “By the time I was four months, I looked like a snake that had swallowed an egg.”

  “You totally did,” Melody agrees, giggling when Aria nudges her in the side with a sharp elbow. “Sorry, but you did. I would never have imagined your stomach could get as big as it was by the end.”

  Aria lifts one shoulder. “At least I didn’t get stretch marks.”

  “Good genes,” Melody says with a sigh. “I hope I got them too. Not that I would really care. Babies are worth a few stretch marks.”

  “My friend, Hannah, calls them battle scars,” Aria says with a smile.

  “Is there anything else left inside?” I ask, backing toward the outdoor kitchen at the edge of the botanical gardens.

  I don’t want to talk about babies. It’s one of the many topics that remind me of a perfect night that I wish I could forget.

  “No, I got everything. Sit and visit for a minute.” Melody pats the grass beside her and Aria.

  I glance at my watch. “I really should get home. I’ve got to get up early and shine the silver for the bridal shower tomorrow afternoon.”

  “No you don’t,” Aria says. “It’s my turn to prep the serving plates. Mom’s going to watch Felicity so I can take care of it first thing in the morning.”

  “Sit,” Melody repeats. “Take a load off. It’s not so bad now that the sun is setting.”

  I sigh and fiddle with the van keys. “Honestly, I’d rather head home. We’ve got a forty minute drive, and I don’t feel like—”

  “Sit!” Melody and Aria say at the same time, sending a prickle of suspicion across my skin.

  “I don’t want to Talk with a capital T,” I warn them.

  “We don’t care,” Melody says pleasantly. “Sit your butt down. Now. I’m invoking emergency sister procedures.”

  Grudgingly, I sink down to the sweet-smelling grass and sit cross-legged next to my sisters, watching the pink sunset light turn purple and the air begin to flash with sleepy-looking lightning bugs. Slowly, twilight transforms the garden into an even more romantic place than it is during the day.

  I close my eyes against the beauty of the scene, only opening them when Melody puts a warm hand on my arm.

  “This has gone on long enough,” she says gently. “We’re worried about you.”

  “What’s gone on long enough?” I play innocent, though I have a good idea what my sister is talking about.

  Melody is talking about the numbness, broken only by periods of intense sadness and bouts of prolonged crying I do my best to do in private, but can’t always, not when I spend up to twelve hours a day working with my sisters. Melody is talking about my inability to care the way I used to, and the way my smile has gone into mid-summer hibernation.

  She’s talking about me mourning the loss of Mason.

  “You know what I mean,” Melody insists, not letting me off the hook for a second. But then, I didn’t expect her to. “If you miss Mason that much, you should call him.”

  “I can’t call him.” I roll my eyes. We’ve had this conversation half a dozen times already. It’s getting ridiculous. “And you know why. So give me a break, okay?”

  “Then let us help you find someone to talk to. A counselor or something,” Melody says. “If you’re determined not to give that poor man another chance, at least give yourself one. You can’t live like this.”

  “I’m fine.” I want to stand up and storm away, but I don’t have the energy.

  That’s been happening a lot lately, too. I just…run out of steam, and can’t seem to get going again. It’s hard to believe I used to be one of those people who could go all day on three hours of sleep and a few cups of coffee.

  It’s hard to believe I was ever the happy person in the picture on the side of the van.

  “You’re not fine,” Aria says, chiming in. “Trust me, I know what depression looks like, Lark. I was there not so long ago, remember?”

  I shrug. “Well, you snapped out of it. I will, too. Just give me some time.”

  “No.” The heat in Melody’s tone surprises me. “You don’t get more time. Aria is dealing with an unrepentant asshole who’s too much of a jerk to send money to help support his own daughter, let alone come see his baby girl. You’re bringing this on yourself.”

  My eyebrows snap together, anger stirring inside of me for the first time in weeks. “I am not bringing this on myself. You know what happened.”

  I’m careful not to look at Aria. I went through a period where I blamed her for the misery cloud dumping rain all over my life, but I eventually came to realize that wasn’t fair. Aria might have stuck her nose where it didn’t belong, but Mason is to blame.

  Only Mason, and that’s why I will never see him again.

  Never.

  Even if my soul shrivels up and dies while I’m trying—and failing—to get over him.

  “This is what I know,” Melody says, holding up a finger and ticking it off. “I know Mason made a mistake four years ago that he promised never to repeat again. I know he went to counseling and said it changed him for the better. I know he loves you and treated you very well when he—”

  “For five days!” I take a deep breath and continue in a softer voice, “Five days doesn’t prove anything.”

  “What about the letters?” Melody presses. “I know he’s been sending you one every week since you told him to leave town. Have you even been reading them?”

  I bristle. “How do you know about the letters?” I ask, refusing to answer the question.

  I haven’t been reading them, but that’s none of my sister’s business.

  “Mason called me and asked if you’d been getting them so I…checked your mailbox a few times,” Melody says, sitting up straighter.

  “You talked to him behind my back?” I ask, outraged. “How could you, Melody? You’re supposed to be on my side.”

  “We are on your side,” Aria says, laying a slim hand on my back. “We love you, and we want you to be happy. That’s why we decided we had to talk to you tonight.”

  “Gang up on me is more like it.” I still feel prickly all over. Like a cactus with needles that poke in both directions—jabbing out and in at the same time.

  “Consider it a March family intervention. Because Mom and Dad are on board with this, too, and ready to add their two cents if necessary,” Melody says, showing no sign of backing down. “When Mason left the first time, we all put up with the crying and the moping and the feeling sorry for yourself for months and months on end, but this time it’s different.”

  I flinch, too shocked and hurt by my sister’s words to respond.

  “You were young before,” Melody continues. “And it was your first broken heart, and Mom and Dad told us to give you time to learn how to heal. But you’re twenty-five now. You’re a grown woman with a successful business, who’s already been down this road. Even if Mason had done the same thing he did four years ago—which he didn’t—there would be no excuse for the way you’ve been acting.”

  “I’m ready to leave.” I stand, moving stiffly to my feet.

  Melody pops up from the grass, moving to block my path to the driver’s side of the van. “Mason never should have run away without any explanation, but at least he’s done the work to make sure he’s not going to hurt someone like that again. Now it�
�s your turn, Lark.”

  “My turn to what?” I ask, my voice rising.

  “To do the work. To grow up and take responsibility for your feelings and realize no one is perfect. Not even you.”

  “I never said I was perfect,” I say, more hurt by my little sister in this moment than I can remember being hurt in the entire time we grew up together. Even when Melody was four and colored in permanent marker all over my new chef costume. “And who are you to decide what I need to do with my life? You’re twenty-two, Melody, and you’ve only dated one boy for more than six months. You’re not—”

  “I’m young, but I know what it’s like to love someone who isn’t right for me,” Melody says, crossing her arms at her chest. “I loved Brian. I didn’t want to break up with him, but when I realized we weren’t going to work long term, I did it.”

  The day I told Mason it was over, Melody came home in tears from her last date with Brian. When she took Felicity over to his parents’ farm to pet the animals, Brian not only refused to hold the baby, but made little effort to conceal his lack of enthusiasm for small, drooling people who make a mess in their diapers. Melody flat out asked him whether he wanted children in the future, and he confessed that he found babies “kind of gross.”

  No one infers that Melody’s treasured baby niece is gross and gets away with it.

  She broke up with Brian on the spot, and refused to even consider giving the boy a second chance.

  “And I’ve been sad about it,” Melody continues. “But I’m not going to let it destroy me or my relationships with the other people I care about.”

  I shrug, trying to act like I’m not bleeding inside from Melody’s attack of tough love. “Well, maybe you’re stronger than I am. Or maybe you don’t love the same way I do. Maybe it’s not as intense an experience for you.”

  Now, it’s Melody’s turn to look offended. “That’s not fair. Just because I don’t give up on life when I’m sad, it doesn’t mean I’m not—”

  “I’m not giving up! I’m hurting, Melody, can’t you—”

  “Hold on, you two,” Aria says, stepping between us. “Just wait a second.”

  Aria takes Melody’s hand. “I think what Lark is trying to say is that you’ve always been a really positive person, Melody. Like Mom. That doesn’t mean you don’t feel things, but it may mean you’re naturally better at…bouncing back. That you’re more resilient.” Aria turns to me. “And I think what Melody is trying to say is that you’ve come so far in the past four years. You’re a stronger person now, and there’s no reason to let what happened with Mason take that away from you.”

  “So you think I need to grow up, too?” I clench my jaw against the urge to cry.

  Aria meets my eyes for a long moment. “Not to be a jerk, because I love you and I understand exactly what you’re feeling, but…yes. It’s time to get help if you need it. That’s the grown up thing to do.”

  I nod before tucking my chin, hiding the tears filling my eyes. “Well,” I say, my voice trembling. “Thanks for the help, y’all. I feel so much better.”

  “Oh, Sissy, we love you, you know we do.” Melody pulls me in for a hug, crushing me into her abundant chest. “And you’re going to feel better soon, I just know it. We’ll help any way we can.”

  “Yes, we will.” Aria throws her arms around us both, turning me into sister-hug sandwich filling.

  I stiffen for a second—resentment at being blindsided by an “intervention” warring with the need to melt into my sisters’ arms—but I finally give in and wrap one arm around Melody’s waist and the other around Aria’s, pulling them close. We hug for a good five minutes, rocking back and forth in the fading light until Aria finally pulls away and says—

  “I love you both dearly, but I’m hot as the devil’s nut sack. I can’t hug anymore.”

  “Ew,” Melody says as she releases me. “That’s disgusting, Aria.”

  “So is how sweaty I am under this white button-down.” Aria pulls at the front of her shirt. “Maybe we should let the servers wear short sleeves from now on.”

  “No way,” I say, stepping in to slam the van’s back doors closed. “Short sleeve button-downs are tacky looking.”

  “So are sweat patches,” Aria says. “And servers who smell more onion-y than the appetizers.”

  “Mitch does get kind of stinky by the end of a shift,” Melody says thoughtfully, snatching the keys from my hand and heading for the driver’s seat while shouting, “I’m driving!”

  “Shotgun!” I call, making Aria groan at being stuck in the middle for the ride back.

  “But Mitch refuses to wear real deodorant,” I continue, letting Aria into the passenger’s side of the van and climbing in after. “He wears that hippy rock crystal stuff from the health food store. I think you two should give him an intervention.”

  “I wouldn’t mind intervening in Mitch’s affairs,” Melody says, backing the van out of our space. “He’s kind of cute, don’t you think?”

  “Gross, no.” Aria makes a gagging sound. “He’s about as big around as my right thigh.”

  “So?” Melody asks. “You’re skinny, and we still like you.”

  “Most of the time,” I add, earning a laugh from Melody and an elbow in the ribs from Aria.

  I smile. It feels good to goof off with my sisters, to laugh on the way home as we talk about stupid stuff like Mitch’s armpits, the bleeding deer head cake our dad wants to celebrate the start of deer season this fall, and the garden war our nana is in with her neighbor to see who can grow the biggest watermelon before the fair later this summer.

  I haven’t felt this angst-free in months. I’m not sure if the feeling is going to last, but I’m grateful for the reprieve from the misery that’s been my constant companion.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Lark

  For the first time in weeks, I make it through my shower and the rest of my pre-bedtime regimen without getting the slightest bit teary and fall asleep without a single Mason-flavored thought passing through my head.

  And then I begin to dream, a bizarre barrage of anxiety dreams that put my usual stress-induced nightmares to shame.

  Flying over an ocean of grape Jell-O in a glider made of tissue paper when it starts to rain Earl Grey tea that scalds me as I fall into the gelatinous ocean and drown?

  Check.

  Running through a field of flowers with tiny zombie faces and being bitten on my ankle right as I make it to the watermelon stage where Nana is dancing the jitterbug with a human-sized cockroach?

  Check.

  Shuffling down the street years and years from now, when I’m even older than Nana, and running into the old man Mason has become only for him to clutch his chest and fall to the ground, dying of a heart attack before I can tell him how much I still love him, or how sorry I am for wasting the lifetime we should have had together?

  Check and check and…check.

  I dream different versions of that same terrible dream at least three times. In every one, we lose our chance at love, and I live to regret it more than I’ve ever regretted anything.

  When I finally wake up the next morning, I’m truly shaken.

  It doesn’t take a consult with a professional dream analyst to know what my subconscious is trying to tell me. I may not know the symbolic significance of Jell-O oceans or Nana dancing with a cockroach, but I know I don’t want my last dream to become a reality.

  In that moment—still lying in bed, tangled in the covers I’ve twisted into knots during my troubled sleep—I make a decision. I’m not going to ask Mom for the name of the counselor she talked to after Pop-pop died. Not yet.

  First, I’m going to Atlanta.

  Filled with sudden, urgent purpose, I lunge for the phone by my bed and jab in Melody’s number.

  My sister answers after the third ring with a sleepy-sounding, “Hello?”

  “Melody, it’s me. I have an important question for you.”

  “Lark? Is everything okay?�
��

  “I was just wondering if you and Aria can handle the bridal shower this afternoon alone?”

  Melody yawns. “Um…yeah. I think so. The cake and cookies are done and most of the apps prepped, right?”

  “Right.” I swing my feet off the side of the bed and pad across the room to my closet. “And Aria is on serving dish duty. The only thing you’ll have to do is grill the bacon-wrapped duck bites about ten minutes after the guests start to arrive.”

  “I can handle that,” Melody says. “So what’s up? Did you catch Natalie’s cold?”

  “Um…sort of.” I grab my sleeveless white sundress from its hanger. “I’m definitely going to see a doctor.”

  “You should,” Melody says. “Natalie called last night, said she felt awful until she took time to rest up. This isn’t something you want to mess around with.”

  “I agree, I’m heading to the doctor now,” I say, though I doubt Mason has office hours on Sundays. I’ll just have to show up at his new place for a house call. Thanks to his letters, I have the address.

  “Okay. Good.” Melody yawns again. “You want me to call Aria and tell her what’s up?”

  “Yes, please, could you? That would be great.”

  We say our goodbyes and I hang up, dropping the phone back in its cradle as I race into the bathroom to get dressed, grateful my hair dried in smooth waves instead of curly on one side, flat on the other, the way it sometimes does when I go to bed with wet hair. I don’t want to waste any more time getting pretty than I absolutely have to.

  Now that I’ve decided to go to Mason, I can’t get to him fast enough.

  But there is one thing I have to do first…

  As soon as I’m dressed, I fix a single serve cup of coffee and sit down with the pile of Mason’s letters. By the time I finish the first, I know I’m making the right decision. By the end of the second, I’m sniffling, and by the end of the third, I’m cursing myself for being so pig-headed.

  The love Mason feels for me is present in every line, his commitment obvious in the letters that kept coming, week after week, always long and thoughtful, even when I refused to respond.