by J. L. White
“That’s true,” Rayce says levelly. “So why did you come here?”
“Rayce, that’s enough,” Lizzy says.
“Clearly I shouldn’t have.” Mason turns and heads toward the door.
Lizzy gives Rayce an exasperated look and hurries after Mason. I’m watching it all unfold, my mind spinning. I don’t know what to think. On the one hand, though I’m mortified by Rayce’s horrible rudeness, part of me is in his corner and always will be. Rayce has been there for me through some pretty hard shit. I know he just feels we’re under threat, so he’s going to protect us whether that means being rude or not.
But I’m also on Mason’s side, because apart from the attraction, I recognize that it took serious guts to come here. And isn’t it clear by now that he’s not here to hurt us?
As for why he did come, I don’t know. It’s almost like he’s searching for something. Maybe it’s answers. I don’t know. But it kills me that he worked up the courage to come here, only to have it end like this.
Lizzy hurries after him. “Mason, please. I’m sorry.”
He stops, giving her a regretful expression. His eyes skip over her shoulder to me, and linger for a moment. I want to tell him to stay, and beg Rayce to give him a chance, but I say nothing.
Mason doesn’t look at Rayce or anyone else, just returns his attention to Lizzy. “I think you all just need to get on with your lives, and I’ll get on with mine.” With that, he turns to leave.
Lizzy doesn’t try to stop him this time.
Instead she spins and marches back to Rayce, hands fisted at her sides. The second the door clicks shut, she spits out, “That was fucking uncalled for.”
“Lizzy,” he says firmly, his own anger simmering under the surface, “I have no idea why you invited him to start with.”
“I like him, that’s why! I didn’t ask you to be best friends with him, but I did expect you to make him feel welcome in my home.”
“He has no reason for being here,” Rayce says, exasperated.
“Rayce—” Connor begins.
But with his eyes still on Lizzy, Rayce holds up a hand to silence him. “Why would he come here?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he wants closure. Maybe he wants healing.”
“And you think he’s going to get that from us? Come on, Lizzy.”
She’s still scowling at him, but I see her falter. She crosses her arms.
Rayce sighs, apparently softening because he his words clearly affected her. “Let him get on with his life,” he says, more gently. “Enough damage has been done.”
“The only damage that was done tonight came from you,” she says, her voice a mix of hurt and anger. “Mom would have been so disappointed.”
“Oh, don’t give me that shit,” he says, his own hurt coming through now. “She kept it a secret just like Dad did.” Lizzy looks away, arms still crossed. “And it should have stayed that way.”
She blinks, fighting tears against his clear accusation. Brett silently goes to her and puts his arm around her, giving Rayce a look that says, You’d better fucking fix this.
Rayce exhales, softening. He steps closer to her, too. “I know you’re just doing what you thought was best,” he says, gently.
Still frowning, she looks up at him.
“And I’m sorry I hurt you tonight.”
Voice trembling slightly, she says, “But you’re not sorry you hurt him.”
“He’s already been hurt.”
Tears spill over and she impatiently wipes them away. He rubs his hand on her arm. “We can’t fix that, Lizzy. Stop trying. It’s only going to make things worse. It’s better that he’s gone. Just leave it be.”
We all stand there, silent and sober. I’m holding my arms across my chest, hurting for everybody. Lizzy, Rayce, Uncle Grant, Mason, me. Everyone.
Lizzy wipes away the rest of her tears, then looks Rayce in the eye with sad resolution. “He wasn’t after anything, Rayce. He has no reason to be.”
“He has every reason to be,” he says softly.
She shakes her head. “No. All he did was come over here and visit with us. He gave you no reason not to like him.”
Rayce’s eyes flit toward me, and I tighten my hold on myself. What was that look about?
“It was unfair.” Lizzy’s tears well up again but she continues firmly. “Have you considered that maybe you don’t like him just because he makes you feel guilty?”
I think maybe Lizzy hit on something, because Rayce straightens slightly and hesitates. But he answers with a tender, firm tone that is unchanged. “Maybe you’re reaching out to him for the same reason.”
Chapter 6
Mason
Well, that was a disaster. I don’t care if I never see any of those people again. Except Corinne. I actually wish I could’ve grabbed her hand and brought her out to the car with me. I’d take her somewhere and get to know her better, try to make her feel better after beating her at her game, see if she’d let me kiss those soft, pink lips of hers. So, yeah, I regret that I won’t get to see her again.
And all right, I guess if I’m honest, I’ll regret not seeing Lizzy again, too. Though for different reasons. I mean, who wouldn’t want a sister like that?
Okay, Brett was nice enough. And Connor and his fiancé, Whitney. Actually, I guess I liked everybody fine except Rayce. In fact, he’s exactly what I would’ve expected from a spoiled, snotty Rivers kid. But since he’s apparently head honcho of the Rivers family and part of the package deal, the whole thing’s off.
It was crazy anyway. What in the hell compelled me to have Thanksgiving with the kids of Grant Rivers? My father must be turning over in his grave.
Then I remember the thing I momentarily forgot. It was an honest accident. The kind of thing that could happen to anybody. What would my father think about all this? Would he have joined Mom in her determination to hate Grant Rivers, or would he have comforted her and encouraged her to move on?
I don’t know. And since he’s not here, I can’t ask him.
I get in the rental and push the ignition button. I’m so turned around I don’t know what the fuck to think about anything anymore. But there’s one thing I’m not going to think about. Or one person. We all need to go our separate ways, and that includes her.
Corrine
Day zero.
I’m lying as still as possible while the clicks, hums, bangs, and buzzes of the MRI machine ricochet around me. These screenings are long and freaking loud. Even with the headphones. I have a trick to get through them, though. I mentally rehearse the screenplay of Lord of the Rings. I try to recall the dialogue word for word, giving it all the emotion the actors do. The boisterousness of Pippen. The subdued pain of Aragorn. The elegance of The Lady Galadriel.
I usually skip over the parts without dialogue, which don’t distract me enough, so I can get through almost the entire extended version in the time it takes the MRI to scan my body, bit by bit, one thin layer at a time, seeking out any tiny strongholds of cancer.
I’m not as far along in the movie as I’d normally be at this point in the scan, however, because the movie I keep replaying in my head instead is the Thanksgiving Day Apocalypse. Lizzy told me she tried calling Mason this morning. He didn’t answer, so she left a message apologizing. She’s not sure he’ll respond, but said maybe it’s for the best anyway. Thanks to Rayce, she’s questioning her own motives for wanting Mason to be part of our lives.
When I back up and think about things, I can see how it would be best to let all this go. Is everyone really supposed to get over who Mason is to us, and who we are to him?
But then I think about him, just him, and I feel differently.
Click, click, bang. BUZZ. BUZZ. BUZZ.
I startle a bit. Even with all my practice, I haven’t learned how to stay perfectly still when this damn machine starts screaming at me.
BUZZZZZZZZ. BUZZZZZZZZ.
I pinch my eyes shut, settling my nerves. It’s not easy, because o
n top of the Mason thing, I’m already jacked up this time around. I get an MRI every six months, but this is the one I’ve been dreading.
It’s been two years since I was declared cancer free. That’s also how long it had been the time before, too. Two years after I thought I’d won my first battle with cancer, I came in for an MRI. Just like this. A week later, I was back in treatment. Fucking again. It all starts to come back to me—the IVs, the nausea, the weakness, the hair loss, the weight loss, the fucking close call that it all was—and a little swoosh of panic causes my heart to flutter.
Click, click, hummmmm.
I realize I haven’t been to Italy yet. Why haven’t I done that? Wasn’t that a bigger bucket list item than bungee jumping? I haven’t gone swimming with dolphins, or ridden a motorcycle, or tried the famous fried cauliflower at this little hole-in-the-wall restaurant on the south side of Swan Pointe.
Hey, that may not seem like a big deal, but I hear that stuff is like crack. I keep meaning to go get me some cauliflower crack, but I just haven’t gotten around to it yet.
I can’t even think about my degree.
Then there’s the thing I very recently realized isn’t on the list at all. I’ve never been in love. I haven’t really thought about that much. I guess I’ve been too busy not dying and trying to finally get my fucking Bachelor’s Degree.
Not that it matters. Falling in love still isn’t on the list. It’s in the same category as getting a dog. I mean, how would that be fair? But those few moments with Mason were so powerful. So thrilling. So intoxicating. I thought I was done checking that kind of stuff off my bucket list, but apparently not. I’ve sure as hell never experienced anything like that before. It made me want more moments like that. A lot more. I don’t think there’d be any harm in that. I don’t think that’s asking too much.
Click, click, click, click. BEEP. BEEP. BEEEEEEP.
Damned MRI. Why are they so damned noisy? What the hell’s going on inside of this equipment that it needs to make so much noise?
Okay, I breathe. It’s okay. I know how to handle this. I have a strategy.
I force myself to think about where I left off. Oh, that’s right. Arwen was on her white horse, racing the nearly-dead Frodo to the safety of the elves and her father’s healing. To calm my mind, I take a deep, steadying breath through my nose. I’m careful not to move, even though what I want to do is stretch like a fucking cat. I focus on Arwin’s horse galloping across the river, water spraying up, the Ringwraiths close behind.
Click, bang.
Arwin reaches the shore, then turns her horse to face them and draws her sword. There’s fire in her eyes and power in her voice:
If you want him, come and claim him!
Even just imagining it, her words give me chills.
Mason
The apology message Lizzy left this morning was nice to hear, but I’m not going to respond. I’m not letting myself think about any of them. Not Lizzy, not Rayce, and especially not Corrine. I’m here for my own reasons, and anyway, I’ll be on the red-eye back to Illinois before the day’s out.
I’m in the rental, driving through downtown Swan Pointe. It’s like something out of a picture book. Charming storefronts, inviting sidewalks lined with sculpted iron lamp posts that are being enjoyed by actual pedestrians, and tantalizing glimpses of the ocean in between buildings.
I can see why my parents chose to live here. I can’t get over the fresh scent of sea air and bright blue skies, even in November. I can’t help but wonder what my life would have been like if I’d grown up here instead of in Illinois. It’s hard to imagine. It seems so different from everything I’ve known.
I spent some time on the beach this morning before heading to the lawyer’s office. I assume my parents brought me here when I was little, but if they did, I don’t remember it. I’d always heard the ocean could be calming, but calming is not the word. I had no idea how amazing it would be. I could’ve stayed there all day, just watching the water and listening to the waves crash on shore.
But this day was built for other things. I’ve just come from the lawyer’s office—I now have a manila envelope full of signed documents giving me ownership to the house I inherited, along with some cash and stocks—and am on my way to check out the house. It’ll be up to me to contact the property management company and let them know if I’m keeping it as a rental, or what. I remember what Rayce and Lizzy said about which kind of properties are better for investments, so probably not. Plus, I don’t know that I want to deal with property halfway across the country. It’s just too far, and too complicated, and too heavy with family history anyway. I really think I’ll just sell it. But I need to take a look first.
Though I need to get going, I’m really not in a hurry. I’m feeling both compelled to go, and not looking forward to it at all. In fact, as I make my way through the downtown area, I’m relieved to spot something that gives me an excuse to stop. I find a place to park on the street, just a couple buildings down from my destination: an antique car restoration shop.
As I open the glass door, a little bell tone sounds through the building. There’s a clean but simple counter in front, with an older gentleman sitting behind it. To one side, smooth leather chairs surround a flat coffee table piled with magazines. In a nearby corner is a water cooler and a counter with a coffee machine and a popcorn maker. The rest of the space is a shiny, black-and-white tiled showroom of sorts. On display? A ’59 Cadillac Eldorado and what looks to be, is that a 1957 Bonneville?
Oh, man. This is an even better lift to my mood than the ocean was.
“Afternoon,” the gentleman says. “What can I do for you?”
“I just came in to check the place out. I’m a mechanic myself.” I nod to the cars. “Mind if I take a closer look?”
“Go ahead,” he says, putting both hands on the arm of his chair and pushing up.
As I approach the Bonneville, I ask, “Is this a ’57?” Just to confirm.
“Yep.” He’s wandering over, too.
“Man. They only made, what, 620 of these?”
“Close, 630. You know your Bonnevilles.”
I grin. “How can you not know the ’57? Did you restore this?”
“With my own two hands. This one’s my baby.”
“What kind of condition was she in when you got her?”
“Wrecked and towed.”
I’m salivating. “The best kind.”
He laughs. “You do restoration work?”
I nod. “Not as much as I’d like, but I’ve done some.” I lean over to inspect the Kenya Ivory paint job with the Bonneville red splashes, the shiny chrome that goes on for years. And that bumper. They don’t make bumpers like this anymore. I whistle in appreciation. “She’s a beaut.”
“Thank you. Want to take a look under the hood?”
I try not to bounce on the balls of my feet like a little kid who’s just been offered a giant candy bar.
“Yeah,” I say, pretty chill, if you ask me. “If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” As he gets first one hood propped open, then the other, and we spend some time talking about 347 V8 engines and hydro-matic transmissions, he explains that these two cars are from his personal collection. They’re here because he likes to show people what they can do. Showrooms aren’t really necessary, I know, because the best shops are known by reputation and don’t need props like this, but it’s a nice touch. He must be doing all right, too, if he can afford all this extra real estate in a prime location.
As we continue to look over things first on the Bonneville, then on the Eldorado, he gets me talking about some of the work I’ve done as well. Before I know it, a little over an hour has gone by.
“Wow, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you.”
He puts up a hand, shakes his head, and says, “No, no. I wanted to ask you about the ’49 Coupe you said you restored.”
This was for one of those rare clients we get in Galesburg from time to time.
Another quick twenty minutes passes as I tell him about that job, and seem to really catch his attention and when I tell him about the show it placed in.
He nods his head. “Not bad.”
“It was fun. I wish I could do more of it.”
“Well,” he says, scratching the scruff of his jaw and giving me an appraising look, “are you looking for work?”
I blink, surprised. “What?” Is he talking a job? Here?
Fuck. Why can’t he be in Illinois?
That’s one downside to being in Galesburg. There aren’t a lot of opportunities like this. There aren’t any opportunities like this actually.
“I’ve been keeping my eye out for someone who knows vintage cars. We’re always booked out a good year, so I keep toying with the idea of expanding. For the right person, I just might do it.”
I still can’t believe this turn in the conversation. I decide to come right out with it. “Are you offering me a job?”
He nods succinctly. “I think you’d be good for it.”
“Wow, um....” Damn. It. How many times have I dreamed about a job like this? I even consider it for a second. But I pretty quickly remember that my life isn’t here. It’s back in Illinois. My mother and grandmother are there, and I don’t feel I can just leave them.
I indulge in the fantasy a moment longer, then force myself to get back to reality. “Thank you. I wish I could accept, but I’m actually just visiting. I live in Illinois.”
“Ah, too bad.” He rubs his scruff with his hand. “That’s a damn shame. You sound like you know your stuff.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that. And thanks for letting me take up your time.” I offer him my hand.
“No, thank you,” he says, shaking firmly. “You gave me something interesting to do while I’m waiting for our front desk manager to return. She has a doctor’s appointment this afternoon. Manning the front desk isn’t exactly my favorite thing, but you’ve made it easier.”
