Now And Always (Crown Creek)

by Theresa Leigh

  “Yeah, but you’re doing it and not me, so that makes it delicious,” Heather always said with her mouth full.

  I was the one who brought taco dip to Thanksgiving dinner. What can I say? It’s tradition.

  “Hey!” I yelled, kicking the door in lieu of knocking and risking my sister’s taco dip. “Someone open up!”

  The door swung open to reveal a mass of hair that resolved itself into my cousin Taylor’s bearded form. “You actually closed?” I gasped.

  “Yeah, but I shouldn’t be,” he grumbled, holding the screen door open so I could maneuver my way into the steaming hot house. “I’m losing business like crazy.”

  “It’s Thanksgiving. The only people who want to be at the bar are people who hate their families.”

  “Yeah, and that’s a lucrative market of drunks, right there.” Taylor let the door swing shut with a bang that made someone in the kitchen—it sounded like my Aunt Pat—yell, “What the fuck?”

  “Sometimes I think you actually hate it there,” I observed as I kicked off my shoes. My mother didn’t allow shoes in the house. Taylor must have forgotten this, because he kicked his off, too, revealing the hole in his sock.

  “Only sometimes?” My cousin grunted something that might have been a laugh and lifted his beer to his lips. “I’ve got a perpetual backache and I’m constantly worried about money. I’m like a fifty-year-old without the solid retirement portfolio.” He shook his head, staring off into the distance. “I’m trapped by a legacy I never asked for. I spent my childhood washing glasses around a bunch of drunks. Nah, I don’t hate it sometimes. I hate it all the time.”

  “Well, hell, man, I hate to say this, given how much time I spend there, but it sounds like you oughta just close the place.”

  “Ha!” Taylor made that grunt-laugh again and drained his beer.

  I nodded and headed to the kitchen. Taylor loved to bitch about his life, but he never got around to actually changing it. Listening to him complain about the Crown was like listening to the wind in the trees. After a while it just faded into the background.

  I headed into the kitchen with my dip and kissed my mom on the cheek before setting the dish on the counter. Mom looked as frazzled as always by Thanksgiving. She gave me a wild-eyed look and pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. “Did you bring the butter?”

  I glanced at my empty hands. “Did you…ask me to bring butter?”

  “I could have sworn I did. Ah, Christ. Never mind.”

  “Here.” My sister slipped a beer into my hands.

  “How bad is she?” I whispered around the neck of the bottle.

  “Stage seven.”

  “Already?”

  “If Aunt Pat doesn’t stop opening the oven to ‘check if it needs basting,’”—Heather mimed air quotes—“Mom’s going to stab someone. Might be Aunt Pat. Might be whoever is closest.”

  “Ah. Thank you for the warning.”

  “Don’t say I never did anything for you,” Heather said before grabbing a tortilla chip and using it to scoop roughly half of the dip into her mouth.

  I took this as my cue to scurry away from the kitchen. But before I could disappear entirely, my aunt Pat’s third, maybe fourth husband stepped in my path.

  “There’s the lumberjack!” Gary was as bald as a cue ball and wore a huge mustache that completely covered his upper lip. It was like all the hair on his head had migrated south to his mouth. “How’s business?”

  “I’m not a lumberjack,” I explained for the millionth time. I heard a snort behind me. Heather was pointing and mouthing “ha ha!”

  I scratched the side of my face with my middle finger and smiled winningly at Gary. “I’m a woodworker. And thanks, business is really picking up.”

  It wasn’t a lie. I’d had three more orders for my custom plant shelves this week.

  “I know a guy in Reckless Falls if you need a hookup.” Gary elbowed me a little too hard, and I wondered how much he’d already had to drink. “Start selling in shops and stuff.”

  “I’m purely commission based. Custom orders. I don’t do mass produced stuff.” I hated how stuffy that made me sound, but it was true. There was no point in making the same thing again and again. Not when there was so much still to learn. “I’m working on a custom piece for a local right now.” Claire. “But I’m selling online too.”

  Gary looked skeptical. “Tell you what. I’ll write down his number for you, just in case.” He grabbed an old receipt out of his wallet, and then turned around, looking alarmed. “Pat! Where’s my pencil?”

  My aunt shut the oven door guiltily. My mother turned toward the knife block.

  I fled.

  The house was wall-to-wall people. Cousins and second cousins and third cousins. In the living room, I bent down to kiss my great-aunt Delia, then escaped before she could make me feel the scar from her brain surgery (she always did that. She must have forgotten the first time she scared the daylights out of me by grabbing my hand and running it over the divot in her skull. When I was eight.)

  I shouldn’t have come this early. I wished I was back at my quiet house.

  I wondered how Claire was doing.

  Just then, my nephew Caleb tore past me, nearly knocking me off my feet.

  The next thing I heard was a splintering crash, followed by my sister’s horrified, “Oh, God!”

  I rushed back into the living room. Heather had her arms around Caleb, who looked dazed and clutched his leg. He saw me and started to blubber. “I didn’t see it!” he wailed. “It’s not s’posed to be there!”

  I looked where he'd pointed. To make more room, my mother's coffee table had been shoved to the side. It now lay on the floor, broken in two as if God himself had karate chopped it from heaven. I knelt down and inspected the break.

  “It’s okay,” I told Caleb. “I can fix it.”

  “See? Uncle E. can fix it. You don’t have to feel bad.” My sister stroked Caleb's head. Heather was usually a no-nonsense, figure-it-out-yourself mom. But she turned into a fierce mama bear lightning fast when her babies were hurt. “You just let the grown-ups worry about the table and you worry about making your leg all better. Put it up on a pillow and I’ll get you some ice. Aunt Delia, can you make room?”

  Caleb's lip trembled, and he nodded, obeying his mom and lying down on the couch once Great-Aunt Delia hauled herself clear. A single tear slipped free as he mumbled, "Tell Mom-Mom I'm so sorry."

  Heather pressed her lips together and hurried toward the kitchen but paused next to me. Ducking her head, she murmured, “Can you really fix it? He feels terrible.”

  “Luckily it’s real wood and not that particleboard crap. Yeah. I can do it.”

  “Can you, uh…do it now?” Heather tossed a concerned look at Caleb, whose silent tears were more worrying than his usual gutsy wails.

  I took a look around at the crowded crush of people. “Gladly,” I sighed in relief. “I’ll take it down to Dad’s shop.”

  I hefted the broken halves under my arms and inched my way through the crowd with repeated calls of “Excuse me!”

  Shutting the door on the noise was a relief. I paused at the top of the basement stairs to catch my breath.

  I heard a low murmur from below me. Followed by a feminine laugh.

  Peeking down into the basement rec room from the top of the stairs, I caught sight of a familiar braided tangle. Sadie Jordan? What was she doing here?

  And why was she sitting so close to my cousin?

  Because that’s exactly what she was doing. Her head tilted close to his. I couldn’t see her face, but when he said something else, she nodded enthusiastically, giving him all her attention the way only Sadie could.

  Well, this was…interesting. Sadie and Taylor? Did Claire know about this?

  I braced the table halves against my leg and whipped out my phone without a second thought.

  “Guess the hell what?” I typed with my thumbs, then tucked my phone back in my pocket. I grabbed the
broken pieces, and as I finished my journey to the workshop, Taylor and Sadie peered at me over the back of the couch. Sadie looked serene, but Taylor looked guilty.

  Had they been kissing?

  Claire would die if she knew she was missing out on this choice gossip. Once I’d shut the door to the workshop, I pulled my phone out again.

  She hadn’t replied yet.

  Screw it. I dialed her number. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t tell her this right now?

  “Yeah?” Her voice sounded fuzzy, like I had just woken her up.

  “You asleep?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Turkey hit you hard, huh?”

  There was a fumbling sound, like she'd dropped her phone. Then she heaved a sigh. “I guess.”

  What was going on with her? “You okay? You sound…” I paused, trying to think of the right word. Sick? Sad?

  Whatever it was, she sounded all wrong. “You sound different,” I finished.

  “I’m—” She paused. Then changed the subject. “What’s up?”

  I debated telling her now. She didn’t sound in the mood. But then again, a good bit of butting into other people’s business always cheered Claire up. “I’m down in the basement at my parents’ house, and I think I just interrupted a moment between Taylor and Sadie.”

  “What? Really?” I was right to tell her. She perked up instantly. “You know, I’ve been wondering about that. Can you even imagine? How would that relationship even work?”

  “Maybe Sadie could help Taylor chill a bit. He could do with a bit of yoga.”

  “If he gets all grumpy and hurts her feelings, I swear to God I will end him.” Claire was notoriously protective of her girlfriends, especially flighty, floaty Sadie.

  I pondered this. “I think she’s more likely to hurt him. Just by losing interest sooner. You know I love her, but she’s kind of a flake.”

  “You’re lucky I’m not there to throat punch you right now for talking about her like that.”

  “I guess I am.” I laughed as I clamped the table pieces together. I needed something for a brace. “Kind of wish you were though. If only so I had someone to hide from my family with.” I remembered something. “Hey, so is your dinner really over already? Did Gabe make it home? I know he was meaning to.”

  “Um.”

  The wrongness in her voice was back. And all at once, blood started roaring in my ears, making it hard to hear anything. I had to strain to catch what she said next. “I don’t know," she said. "I left early.”

  “You did?” That wasn’t like her at all.

  “Yeah, I—” She cleared her throat. “I got nauseous.”

  My hands started to tingle. “Okay.”

  “I left and I’m, uh—” Her voice caught in a little sob that shot through me like an electric shock. I was already moving to the door when she said, “I’m at your place.”

  “Okay.” I mounted the stairs two at a time.

  “Ethan?”

  “Yeah, Claire?”

  I heard the click of her dry throat as she swallowed. “Scuse me,” I said, shoving past Gary way too roughly.

  On the line, Claire was openly crying now. “Do you still have that test?”

  I burst into the cold air and sprinted to my truck. “Yeah, I do. Don’t do anything yet though, okay? Let me help you, Claire. I’ll be right there.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Claire

  The pharmacy was closed for Thanksgiving. Not that it mattered. It wasn't like I could actually duck in there to discreetly buy a pregnancy test. Even if I managed to avoid running into my second grade teacher, or my next door neighbor's hair dresser or something, I'd still have to face Lisa at the register.

  When I left my parents' house in a panic, I headed to the only place I felt safe these days. Ethan's house.

  I tapped the code into the keypad and the garage door growled open. Just being inside his workshop—the air heavy with the smell of wood shavings and linseed oil—unknotted the tension in my chest. But I still had that roiling, rolling feeling in my belly.

  Dinner had been an nightmare. It wasn't just the horror of sitting down with my family and forcing myself to pretend I was okay. It wasn't just the exhaustion of playing the role of the bossy, know-it-all little sister like they expected.

  It was the fact that I was working as hard as I could to seem perfectly normal but I couldn't convince my mother. She'd passed me the mashed potatoes, and then hesitated. "Claire, what's wrong? You're not acting like yourself."

  If I couldn't fool her, then I couldn't fool myself either. I made my excuses and fled to Ethan's house, ready to take the test.

  I opened the inner door that led from the garage into the kitchen, and flicked the light on. His sketchbook lay open on the kitchen table, and it crossed my mind to leaf through it.

  Then the exhaustion hit me. My body was so tense from trying to hold it together at Thanksgiving dinner that I felt like an overtuned guitar string. I staggered to his bedroom and collapsed into his bed. Burying my face into the pillow that smelled more and more like me, I let myself cry until my tears became sleep.

  I'd jerked awake when he called. “Let me help you, Claire. I'll be right there,” he'd told me, and I knew he was on his way.

  This should have made me feel better, but it only made me feel worse. Sad and…guilty. Why did I feel guilty?

  I hated feeling guilty. I'd rather feel anything else. I clutched my chest, gasping, until the guilt morphed into anger.

  Why did he think I needed him here when I took it? I wasn't some Stage 5 clinger. If I couldn’t do it by myself, then it couldn’t be done.

  I would take the test, then leave. Then I’d call Ethan on my way home. “Oh, I’m fine,” I imagined myself telling him with a toss of my head. “No, I didn’t need you there, why would I? I can take care of myself.” Then I’d give him clothing advice, or maybe set him up on another blind date since he couldn’t seem to manage his love life himself. He needed my help.

  Not the other way around.

  He’d tucked the test in his medicine cabinet. I’d seen it there when I needed a Band-Aid the other morning. I pulled it out now.

  As I read the directions, a strange calm washed over me. It was just a simple box. With shapes and letters that formed words that were so clinical that I could happily drain them of all meaning. Peel the wrapper. Aim the testing strip into the stream of urine. Ew. I actually wrinkled my nose. When I finished, I hummed to myself as I washed my hands thoroughly.

  It was fine. I was fine. This was just a scare. A little hiccup in my plans, but nothing would come of it. How could it? I finally had my life exactly the way I wanted, and there was nothing that could change that.

  I glanced at the test. “Hurry up,” I scoffed at it. “Spare me the dramatics, I’ve got shit to do.” I leaned over the little window.

  And my heart stopped.

  Ten minutes later, I sat straight-backed on his bathroom floor.

  His bathroom was outdated. Pink and black tiles—the height of fashion in the 1950s—marched across his floor in an alternating pattern that made me dizzy. But there was an order to it that I liked. Pink, black, pink, black, intersecting at perfect right angles. How clean and sharp those square tiles were. How neatly they fit together. Everything in its place. Clean. Clear.

  That’s how it was supposed to be for me.

  The lines of grout in between the tiles weren’t so pleasing though. Chipped and dirty, the lines crisscrossed around me, forming plus signs everywhere I turned.

  Plus signs. I was surrounded by plus signs.

  The first tear slipped free. Then the next one. Then the next. They flowed silently and freely, like I was melting instead of crying. Like I was a late winter icicle melting under dazzling spring sunshine.

  There was a muffled slam in the distance, but I barely registered it. I just kept my eyes on the intersections of tile.

  The plus signs.

  “Claire?”


  His voice on the other side of the door made me pull my knees up to my chest and hug myself. I wanted him to come in so badly, but I didn't want him here at all.

  A soft knock, then another one. He gently tapped until the door swung wide open…

  And there was no hiding anymore.

  His eyes skimmed over me, like he was checking I was still intact. Nothing bleeding, no broken bones.

  Then his eyes alighted on the test, and the single plus sign that showed in the window.

  Something unreadable flashed on his face. The guilt I’d pushed down sprang back up again, because in that moment I felt like I'd let him down. I had never hated myself before. I never even knew what people meant when they said they hated themselves.

  Now I knew.

  Ethan’s mouth tightened into a grim, flat line. Any minute now, he would turn and walk away.

  He didn't walk away. Without a word, he stepped into the bathroom and slotted his large, long body into the small space between the tub and me.

  We sat there in silence so profound I could hear the slow thump of his heartbeat. I turned my face into his shoulder at the same time that he moved his arm up and around me.

  And then he was holding me. He held me close as I cried. He tightened his arms around me as I screamed my frustration—my regret—into his chest. I clutched at his shirt, leaving trails of tears wherever my cheeks touched.

  He held me until I had no more tears left to cry and pulled back. He reached behind me and tore off a few squares of toilet paper, then handed them to me. I blew my nose noisily.

  “What do you want to do, Claire?”

  I closed my eyes and shook my head. “I don't know yet.” It was the honest truth. I knew I didn't want this. But I also couldn't think about having to do something about it. It was too much.