I make my way up the stairs to my bedroom. Although I’ve been home a few times to get clothes, it feels really different when I step into my bedroom this time. The air is cold and stale, and I whimper when I see the plants in my windowsill wilting.
“Epic fail, Bobby,” I grumble and drop my purse on the black and white comforter. I peer around at the four walls covered in photos and artwork. With an exhale, I pull off my Uggs and throw myself back on my goose down pillows. The mattress beneath me is worn and soft and mine. I miss it. So much has changed the past few weeks.
I stare up at the ceiling, trying not to think about Colton and when I’ll be able to talk to him again. This room’s changed a lot over the years, gone from flowers and pastel pinks adorning the walls to boy bands and tie-dye and every fad in between. This has been my private space these past twenty-four years, and after next week, it won’t be mine anymore.
I hear footsteps on the stairs.
“I’m in here, Dad!”
Someone steps into the doorway, but it’s not my dad.
I straighten, my heart hammers against my sternum, and all I can do is blink. “David?” Is he really here?
“Hey, Mac,” he says quietly, his hands in his pockets.
He looks good, better than when I saw him last. His dark hair isn’t straggly and dirty in his face anymore, but shaped and styled like he actually gives a damn these days. He’s wearing dark jeans and a black leather jacket—even his Chucks look brand new. But his eyes, those pale, amber-colored eyes that have always been so hauntingly expressive, look wary. His gaze drifts away from mine, like it’s too hard to look at me.
Countless nights I’ve laid in bed, practicing what I would say to him—how I would thrash at him and berate him for leaving us, how I’d apologize for everything that happened and make him tell me why he’s hated me all my life. But my arms are around his neck and I’m crying into his chest before I can even process any of it. “I can’t believe you’re here,” I breathe. Eight years of suffocated emotions pour out of me, making room for hope and gratitude and an almost frantic sense of relief. The anger subsides as I realize I wasn’t sure I’d ever see him again.
His arms wrap around me, tightening as I grab hold of him.
“You left . . .” My voice is wobbly and sounds far away, but I grip onto him earnestly.
“I know, Mac,” he says softly. “But I’m here now.”
Fifty-Two
Mac
Sitting in the backyard, in the sunshine that warms my face despite the low temperatures, I think about the forts David used to build out here, how I’d always wanted to play with them but he would always tell me princesses weren’t allowed.
The porch swing creaks in the cold and I watch my breath with each exhale. “Do you remember that time we made a snow woman?” I ask, smiling at the image of it in my mind. It was one of the only times David had forgotten that he didn’t like me and we’d actually had fun.
His barely cracked smile is a welcome sight. “Yeah, Dad was pissed.”
I bark out a laugh. “Well, she did have ample breasts.”
David’s smile eventually fades and he takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. I talked to Dad about Mom, but I hadn’t decided what I was going to do. Then I got your text about Dad in the hospital, and I knew it was time to come home.” What’s transpired between us over the years goes unspoken, and even though part of me wants to talk about it, I leave it in the past, at least for now.
Giving him a sideways glance, I take the sight of him in again. The torrent of emotions that have lingered beneath the surface these past few weeks returns, front and center, but I hold on to them as long as I can. “What are you doing these days, anyway?”
“Working for a body shop in San Diego and at a music store sometimes.”
I stare up at the clear, blue sky. “You’ve always been into music.”
He shrugs. “Yeah, sort of.” We both know that it’s cars he was into the most but my dad would never hire him; said he wasn’t reliable enough, which was true, we all knew it.
Finally, I ask the question I’ve been pondering since he got here. “How long will you stay?”
David lets out a long, audible breath. His gaze lands on a finch hopping along the fence line and he procrastinates his answer a moment. “It depends, I guess.”
“On Dad?” He responds with a slight nod. “Are you going to talk to Mom while you’re here?”
He looks at me and I can see the pain in his eyes. The longer he stares at me the more I want to know how someone so beautiful could house so many unbridled emotions in one look and have so much anger and hate in his heart. I lean back, cringing when the healing skin on my back hits the biting-cold backing of the swing.
David notices, and his brow furrows.
I eye him a moment, deciding. “I had a scar,” I admit. “I covered it with a tattoo.” The instant he catches my meaning, his features harden and he looks away. “I’m sorry about what I did, David,” I say, I can’t help it. “I was angry and stupid.”
He doesn’t look at me, and I wonder what he’s thinking—if he still hates me.
“I just wanted to hurt you, but I didn’t realize I’d hurt myself, too. It’s been hard to forget about—”
“Of course it has,” he mutters, finally looking at me. “Why do you think I left?”
“Because you didn’t know what else to do,” I say earnestly, but he shakes his head.
“I left because I didn’t want to look at you and think about it.” When he looks away, he stares down at the silver skull ring he spins on his index finger. “This house reminds me of too much shit. I didn’t want to think about that all the time, too. I knew I couldn’t take it anymore.”
“Well, I’ve regretted that day every moment since.” And I can barely help the next words I utter. “But at least I didn’t leave. You left us, just like she did.”
I watch the emotion in David’s eyes smolder to ash and shadows. “I’m sorry,” he says, and I can hear the torment in his voice. He stands, pauses a brief moment as he peers around at the backyard, then disappears inside the house. I hear the front door open and shut, and just as quickly as David appeared, he vanishes. Again.
Fifty-Three
Mac
A couple hours later, I’m sitting on the floor in Nick’s apartment, staring at the empty fireplace. I already washed and folded my clothes and did some online window-shopping for furniture, but I haven’t been very productive.
I thought I’d wanted David to come back, like it would make my mom coming back, my dad’s health—the weight of everything else that seems to be piling up these days—a little better. Instead it’s a pinprick in a heart so full of emotion I’m on the brink of overload.
I stare at Marilyn and Monroe, zipping around in their tank, envious of their oblivious life, swimming around and thinking about nothing. Except for maybe food. I’m deciding a walk down to Lick’s to get legitimately faded is the best recourse when there’s a knock on the door. Although I catch myself hoping it’s Colton, I know he’s not here. Still, I’m surprised when I open the door to find David standing there.
“Dad told me where you might be,” he says without ceremony and steps past me, nearly pushing me out of the way.
“Come in, why don’t you.”
He ignores my humorless remark. “Mac, I get that you’re pissed,” he says, turning to face me. “And yes, you have every right to be. I’m not a good brother, I know that—”
“Right, and that excuse is getting old,” I mutter, crossing my arms over my chest.
“But you don’t know me, Mac.”
I shrug. “Of course I don’t. You’ve made knowing anything about you impossible.” I’m more than exasperated now, just really, really tired. “Don’t you want your family around? Don’t you want to feel like you belong somewhere? I get that you are angry and I get that you needed to get away for a while—away from me—but did you ever think that I mig
ht need you, especially after everything? Didn’t you ever think that maybe we needed each other? All this time you’ve been wandering around, going every place you can because you’re so hell-bent on getting away from us. But why? Why have you always hated me so much?”
David puts his hands on his hips and stares down at the wood-paneled floor. “I don’t hate you, Mac. I’m sick.” His voice is a harsh whisper.
“What?”
“Like Mom.”
My shoulders slacken and the air seeps from my lungs. “What does that mean? Like . . . depression?”
He finally looks at me, his eyes nearly lifeless. “I didn’t understand it for the longest time. I resented you because she only got worse after you were born, and then she left and I was angry.” He studies me a moment. “Drugs only made it worse. What happened with Sean broke something in me—it woke me up and ruined whatever was left of me at the same time. I should never have let that happen, I knew it the whole time, but I didn’t care, not enough.” He stares through me and shakes his head. “But when I saw him—I’ve never wanted to kill anyone so much in my entire life. I was so angry I thought I was going to hurt you.”
His leather jacket protests as he scratches the back of his neck. “I thought it was anger making me feel so extreme and desperate to feel something all the time. But after I left, I realized that leaving you all didn’t help, it actually made everything worse.”
He’s been gone for so long I try to think back—to understand. “That’s when you disappeared—really disappeared?”
With a single nod, he continues. “I was scared shitless. Not only was I on my own and had convinced myself that I’d successfully pushed you all away, but I was embarrassed.”
“But why? It’s not like you—”
“Because I hated her so much for being sick. I heard them fighting all the time; she was constantly blaming me for ruining her life, for her being so unhappy. I didn’t want to be like that.” He shakes his head, determined. “I don’t want that, Mac.”
I swallow, allowing his words to settle a moment and wondering how I couldn’t have seen it before. It makes sense, of course it makes sense . . . “Have you seen a doctor?”
“Yes,” he says and sits on the edge of the couch. “I’ve been on meds for about a year now, and it’s helping. I feel mostly normal, I just have a lot of regret, I think, and I’m not sure that’s something that meds will fix.”
I take a step toward him. I can see his fuck-you air now for what it is—a façade. “I wish I would’ve known,” I whisper. “I could’ve helped you.” No matter how angry a part of me is with him, I can’t imagine feeling so lost and frightened and alone. “You wouldn’t have had to go through that on your own. You should come home, David. Dad can stop worrying about you—we can help you.”
“I’m not sure I’m ready for that, Mac. I have a lot of stuff I need to figure out still—about myself and what I need to be well.”
I slump against the wall by the door and slide down to sit. Nothing is simple. Nothing is as it seems. When I look up at David, I realize that, like with my Mom, I’m not sure what to think or do. Nothing? “What can I do?”
David steps over and crouches down beside me. He doesn’t put his arms around me, he doesn’t comfort me and tell me he’ll be okay, because that’s not how David is. But he’s here, and I’m grateful at least for that.
“Be here if I need you, I guess.”
“Yeah? And how are you holding up?”
He drapes his arms over his knees. “It was really scary in the beginning, but every day seems to make a difference. I really am doing better.”
I let out a ragged half-breath and peer up at his knitted brow. I want to weep for him, but for the first time in a long time I see no resentment and detachment in his eyes and I’m hopeful.
“That’s why I’m not sure it’s a good time to come home,” he finally says. “Whatever I’m doing is working.”
It could be a matter of minutes or hours before he’s gone again. “I get it.” He needs to do what’s best for him, especially now. “But for Dad’s sake, you won’t vanish again, will you?”
His mouth quirks up in one corner. “I’ll try not to. In fact, I was going to leave tomorrow since Dad’s better, but he’s asked me to stay through Christmas.”
My eyes widen. “And?”
David studies me a minute before he lifts a shoulder. “I was thinking about it.” I can’t help my smile, even if it’s small. It’s been five years since he’s managed to come home for the holidays. If he’s going to stay until Christmas, that means something. “Dad told me you’re moving soon,” he says. “I can help you pack, if you want.”
David, helping me pack? I smile. “I’d really like that.”
Fifty-Four
Colton
My gaze wanders around my parents’ living room, taking in the life I left behind. The giant fake tree in the far corner that nearly reaches the ceiling sparkles with golds and silvers, over-adorned and garish like I’d expected. Bookshelves line the wall behind me, and one of my dad’s desks is situated in the far corner by the window. There’s a fake flower arrangement on the coffee table and a great fire blazing in the hearth. The mantelpiece is one of my favorite parts of the entire house—marble and carved in ornate, French scrollwork that gives the drab, modern house an exotic flare.
“What’s your favorite color, Cassandra?” my mom asks, and I give her the look. She’s always trying to be so formal. My mom shrugs. “Oh, alright. I can’t help it if I like her full name better.”
“If she doesn’t mind Cassandra,” I say, “go for it.” I rest my elbow on the arm of the tuft-back chair, surprised to find it’s more comfortable than it looks. “Case,” I say, drawing her attention up from a photo album she’s flipping through. “Your grandma asked you what your favorite color is.”
“Purple!” she says gleefully. “It’s Mac’s favorite color, too.”
The ever-present knot in my stomach cinches.
“Oh?” My mom looks at me. “And who’s Mac?”
I rub my forehead. “She’s—”
“She’s Daddy’s girlfriend,” Casey says absently and she points at one of the photos.
My mom’s clear blue eyes linger on mine for a moment and then she looks down at the album Casey’s so interested in.
“Grandma, look. Daddy’s not wearing any pants.”
My mom breathes out a soft chuckle. “He sure isn’t. That’s when he was about your age. He didn’t like breeches, rarely wore them, and when I told him he had to, he would shout and cry and throw the biggest fits.”
“Thank you for sharing that, Mother.”
She only smiles and waves my displeasure away. “All kids are like that when they’re five.”
I raise an eyebrow as Casey looks up at me. “Don’t you get any ideas, munchkin.”
“Yeah, right,” she says.
My phone vibrates in my pocket again, and for a quick moment, my heart sputters to a stop with hope. When I finally pull it out, I see that it’s Kylie again. She’s texted me a couple times since we’ve been back, and I haven’t responded yet at length. “Hey, Mom,” I say, glancing at her. She points to another photo of me from when I was younger, a teenager this time, and she looks up at me. I lift up my phone. “Can you watch her for a minute, please?”
“Of course,” she says, and Casey’s already tugging on her grandma’s sweater, trying to get her attention again.
I text Kylie back as I step into the foyer. My steps echo in the vacuous space and I stop at the round table in the center of the room. I used to get shit for throwing my sweatshirt and lunch pail on it every day after school when I was a kid. Now, I lean against it and reread my unsent text message to Mac, oblivious.
Me: I’m sorry about last night. There are things to say.
I miss you.
Stupid. I delete the message, realizing how lame it sounds. I should be having this conversation over the phone at least, not in some
text. The more out of reach Mac is, the more desperate I am to see her—to hear her voice and reassure her the best I can. I need to know how bad this really is between us, if I’ve pushed her away so much this time that it’s over for good. I might not be able to tell her exactly what she wants to hear, but if I would allow myself to be honest without the heat of anger and the unrelenting threat of fear, she might understand.
Realizing my phone is still blinking with Kylie’s message, I decide to give her a quick call. I report in about the trip and what and how Casey’s doing before I promise to have her call Kylie after lunch.
“Colton!” my mom calls from the library.
After saying goodbye, I end the call, watching the screen fade back to black. I feel like I should text Mac something at least, even though I can’t really have a conversation about us with her right now.
“Colton,” my mom says, and I spin around. “Your father’s home.” She points over her shoulder. “He’s showing Casey his coin collection,” she whispers enthusiastically. “And he’s laughing.”
Laughing? That’s a petrifying thought. “I’m coming.”
I brace myself for the cold shoulder or maybe a few disgruntled looks as I step back into the room. I stop just inside the doorway and watch my dad and Casey poring over his coin book on the floor in front of the fire.
“. . . this is the biggest one in the world,” Casey says in absolute awe.
I notice my dad’s tightlipped smile and my heart warms and aches at once. He’s never smiled at me like that, at least not that I can remember, and he’s never even taken the time to show me his coin collection. And then I shove the complaints of a twelve-year-old back down and out of mind.
“Look at this, Casey. It’s the oldest one I have.”
I take a seat in the chair beside my mom and she lifts up a teapot in offering.
“Yes, please.”
She pours me tea, puts in one sugar cube, and stirs it around, slowly, methodically, like she’s done this a million times. When she’s hosting she’s in her element, something I’ve always seen in her, but it feels different when it’s me. I can tell she’s not just going through the motions but genuinely, openly happy.
Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series Page 63
