by Beth Michele
His chin skims his shoulder as he takes another look at Vance. “Yeah, I kind of think you do.”
AVERY AND TROY take off after lunch to peruse the stores. They tried every which way to persuade me to join them, but shopping doesn’t hold my interest. I need to be at Anna’s for work at three anyway. What I should probably do is dive into my presentation or finish the sculpture I started over the weekend.
Emptying my tray at the far end of the restaurant, I stack it on top of the others when I notice a book left on one of the benches. It doesn’t matter that it happens to be close to where Vance was eating his lunch. I look around first as if someone is watching me, before I walk over to check it out. The moment I see the title—The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway—I decide it doesn’t belong to Vance. Still, I pick the book up to bring it to the register in case someone comes back for it.
The spine on the novel is cracked and worn, the back cover nearly torn off. In the bottom right hand corner is a name scrawled in barely legible pen. I have to examine it pretty closely before I can make it out. When I do, it surprises me to find that it does, in fact, belong to Vance. He doesn’t seem to be the kind of person who would read books like this. I feel awful thinking that, but he doesn’t strike me as the literary type. I brush off the thought and stuff the book in my bag, figuring I can drop it off on my way to work.
When I arrive at Vance’s house an hour later, the door is wide open. I peer in then knock on the screen a few times. A man who I assume is Vance’s Dad, with whiskey-colored hair and a sharp black suit, addresses me.
“Oh, hello… who might you be?”
“I’m Ember. A friend of Vance’s?”
Friend is definitely too strong of a word.
I sound as unsure as he appears, standing there as if my words stunned him before he snaps out of it. “Sure, sure. Come on in for a sec.” I step inside as he hurries around the living room, scooping up paperwork and his briefcase. Once again I notice the house is incredibly neat; not a pillow out of place nor a speck of dust to be found. It’s comfortable, but it doesn’t appear lived in, not like our house. There are no pictures on the stark white walls. No indication of their past or who they are. Then again, they did just move in. “Vance isn’t here,” he supplies. He pulls on the lapels of his suit jacket then straightens his tie in the mirror.
I retrieve the weathered book from my purse and hold it up. “That’s okay. He left this at the mall so I only wanted to drop it off.”
“Yes.” He pauses with a strange expression before heading to the door in a rush. “Would you mind leaving it in his room?” I hesitate and he adds, “Up the stairs. Second door on the right. Just lock up when you leave.”
Then he’s out the door. Well, that was perfectly odd. It’s almost as if he didn’t want me to dirty up the room with this book. Plus, he left me standing alone in his house and he doesn’t know me. I shrug it off and make my way up the stairs.
Upon reaching Vance’s room, the door is partially closed and I suddenly feel as though I’m trespassing—which I guess I am. But I can’t deny I’m curious. Vance Davenport peaks my curiosity. Still, I stand in the hall for a full minute before deciding to push the door open and walk through it.
I blink twice, taking in his room and thinking this can’t possibly be the same house. Another galaxy, maybe. Walls painted in a serene ocean blue and, unlike the rest of the home, covered in photographs. Not an empty space to be found. On an adjoining wall is a plain oak bed frame and a bed that’s clearly been slept in. Above the bed is a quote in white brushstrokes—“I read like the flame reads the wood.” It stop me momentarily, because it seems… deep, and unexpected. My eyes move to the third wall where two wooden shelves are crammed with books. Another shelf is stuffed with computer equipment. My mouth falls open. Unable to decide where to go first, the pictures win out.
As I get closer, I discover that many of them are of Vance as a little boy. I only know this because he has that same mussed dark hair and penetrating blue eyes. A woman with those same eyes is crouched next to him—his mother I presume. With flowing dark hair, high cheekbones, and a wide smile, she is the mirror image of her son. There are also several photos of Vance and Julian, the four of them, and many with just his mom. I can’t stop staring at the pictures because the resemblance is striking.
While I know I should leave, I bite my lip and glance over my shoulder at the books. There must be hundreds. I walk backwards then turn around until I’m standing in front of them. My fingertip rolls over the spines; Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, George Orwell, J.R.R. Tolkien, John Steinbeck, Tolstoy, and so on. And on the bottom shelf—Dr. Seuss. I smile when I see Oh, The Places You’ll Go! My father used to read that to me before bed in his animated fashion.
“What the hell are you doing in here?”
I freeze at the sound of Vance’s voice, gnawing on my lip as I slowly turn around with my palms up and an apologetic smile on my face. “Um.” I point to the book on his desk. “You left that at the restaurant and I was dropping it off.”
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest in a defensive posture. “It looks like you were doing a lot more than that.”
“I was….” I pause, staring at the carpet before meeting his eyes. “I was admiring your books actually. You read.” Oh my God. I meant to say it as a statement but it came out like a question. My cheeks warm and I avert my gaze again.
“Yes. You sound surprised.” His tone is accusatory, hard. “Did you think I was illiterate?”
“No, not illiterate.” I let my eyes reach his face again. “Just not this well-read.”
“Judgmental much?” He pushes off the wall and brushes past me to drop a bag on his desk.
“I wasn’t trying to judge you,” I quickly counter, attempting to deflate the tension flying around us. “I was just being honest.”
He puts his hands together in a slow clap and couples it with a bland expression. “Good for fucking you.”
“Okaaaay.” I huff out a breath and make a beeline for the door. “I’ll be going now.” His room may be comfortable but nothing about him makes me feel that way.
He mutters a curse before his voice finds me. “Hey.”
I look back over my shoulder, one foot out the door. “Yeah?”
He holds the book up, mouth sealed in a flat line. “Thanks,” he utters, the word appearing unwelcome on his lips. Unable to reply to his feigned endearment, I focus my gaze straight ahead and bound for the front door.
My mother always says that one of the many things she loves about me is my curious nature. My most popular question growing up was Why? followed by fifty questions to explain the why. I know it drove Mom crazy. To her credit, she always took time to answer them, though she probably wanted to pull her hair out.
Right now, that curiosity is making me mad. Or maybe it’s Vance’s attitude that is making me mad. I can’t be sure. But as I push open the door to Anna’s pastry shop, all thoughts of Vance evaporate, replaced by the aroma of warm cinnamon sugar and hazelnut espresso. Anna’s is known around town for her gooey cinnamon rolls and her coffee, which are to die for.
I started working for Anna about seven years ago. She and my parents are longtime friends from their high school days. When I was younger, I’d hang out here and inhale cinnamon rolls while I watched Anna work. As I got older, I’d assist with clean-up and actually get paid. Plus, she allowed me to help her bake in the kitchen which was by far my favorite part.
“Hey, Ems.” Troy greets me as I stow my purse behind the counter. Automatically, my lips lift high onto my cheeks. We’ve been working together for a couple of years now, since the day I roped him in when he needed extra money and one of our employees quit. He makes me laugh on an almost daily basis, and he’s good for my soul. Tugging on the black and white polka-dotted bow tie around his neck, his soft brown eyes blaze with excitement. “So, what do you think?”
“I think…,” I angle my head to the side, lip
s tilting in thought, “it’s adorable, but it’s not you.”
“Agreed.” He yanks on one end with his fingers until it loosens, tossing it into a nearby trash can. “I knew I could count on you to tell me the truth. Thanks, love.”
“Wait.” My head spins around. “What just happened?”
“Your sister happened, that’s what.” He chuckles, touching his neck like he can breathe again. “You know how pushy she can be. Not to mention the fact that I had to drag her away from those stores so I could get here on time.”
“Yeah, I have no idea how anyone can shop that much. But you already know how I feel about that topic.” I lower an apron down from the hook and tie it around my waist. When I look up at Troy, he’s leaning against the register, studying me.
“Spit it out already.”
“Okay, okay.” I take in a much needed breath. “I dreamt about Zack the other night,” I confess, frowning.
“Oh, Ems.” He steps closer and wraps his long arms around me. “You miss him, I know. I miss him, too,” he whispers, squeezing me tight. His words grow quieter. “It’s okay.”
“I don’t know what brought it on. It’s been a while since I’ve had one.” I pull back from his hold and give him a weak smile. “I’m fine, though. Really I am.”
He grasps my hand in his, a softness in his eyes. “You don’t have to be strong all the time. The world isn’t going to think any less of you.” He lifts his hand from mine and taps a single finger against my nose. “Not that you care what the world thinks.”
We both laugh, right when the doorbell jingles and in walks Vance Davenport. That makes three times I’m surprised today. What is he doing here? I duck behind the counter like I’m ten years old and tug on Troy’s jean-clad leg.
“Can you handle him?” I whisper. “I’m going to see if Anna needs help.”
Troy stares down at me, a gleam in his dark eyes. “That depends. What’s in it for me?”
“Troy!” I whisper-shout.
“Okay, okay. Run along. I’ll handle the angry man.”
With my back to the counter, I casually stand up and walk through the swinging doors that lead to the pastry area. Once they close, I slump against them and let out a sigh that earns me a chuckle from Anna.
“Afternoon, doll. You okay?” she asks over her shoulder as she opens the oven to take out a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls. My stomach rumbles in response, it doesn’t care that I had chocolate cake earlier. Anna sets the pan down on the center workspace and shoots me a knowing grin. “Come on over here. You can have a hot cinnamon roll and tell Auntie Anna what’s going on.”
I slink past the oven and grab a chair. “There’s nothing going on and absolutely nothing to talk about. Can I still have the cinnamon roll? Because—”
“Ember,” Troy peeks his head in, “that guy you were hiding from, Mr. Hot and Severely Angry, he asked for you.”
“Since when do you hide from anyone, Ember?” Anna chimes in, glaring at me. “Nothing to talk about, huh?” She blows her strawberry blonde bangs away from her eyes as I reluctantly yield and hop off the chair, replacing my awkwardness with a metal suit of armor.
I have a feeling I’m going to need it.
IT FUCKING PISSES me off that I’m sitting here. But the reality is, I acted like an asshole earlier and I do have a conscience.
The smell of this place jogs my memory; Sunday mornings and homemade cinnamon rolls, fights between me and Julian over which ones had more icing while driving Mom crazy. Now she doesn’t remember it and that makes my heart fucking shrivel inside my chest.
The sound of a plate laid on the table drags me back to the now. I stare up at Ember who doesn’t look all that happy to see me. Not that I can fault her for that.
“One cinnamon roll and one hazelnut coffee.” Her words are clipped as is her tone. “You asked for me?” A lightbulb goes off in her eyes. “How did you know I was here? Did you follow me?”
“Follow you? No.” I pick up the cup, pausing before it reaches my lips. “You didn’t spit in this, did you?”
Her nose wrinkles but she’s still not smiling. “No. Why would I do that?”
I take a sip then set it down on the table. “Wow. That’s really fucking good.”
“Anna’s is the best.” She fists a hand on her hip, still staring me down with those penetrating green eyes. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Oh yeah, right.” I point around toward the back of her shirt with my index finger. “It says Anna’s Pastry so I just used some deductive reasoning and took a shot. Plus,” I add, unable to prevent my lips from twitching. “No Mickey Mouse.”
Ember lets out a strained laugh. It’s obvious she can’t tell if I’m being playful or mocking her. I think I’m teasing, but I’m so out of practice from having any normal interaction that it comes out uncertain. The sound of my own chuckle is entirely foreign that for a second I look around nervously and wonder where it’s coming from. I don’t want to laugh, because I don’t want to allow myself that simple pleasure.
“Anna is pretty strict about work attire,” she explains. She glances over her shoulder at the line forming in front of the counter, then at the dude behind the register who is watching her like a hawk. “Anyway, I need to get back to work.”
“Wait.”
She’s about three steps away when my voice stops her and she turns around. “Yeah?”
“I wanted to… apologize for earlier.”
She cocks her head to the side, eyes probing as if I’m under a microscope. The way she studies me makes me shift in my seat. “Is this an apology of your own volition?” Again, her words make my lips want to crack into a grin. But this time I hold steady.
“Yes.”
With a brisk nod of her head, she retorts. “Okay then. Apology for acting like an asshole accepted. See ya.” She’s nearly to the counter when she pivots on her heel and I end up staring at the side of her face. “I’m sorry, too.” Then she spins around and saunters off, reminiscent of a tornado. The way she whirls in and causes all sorts of commotion, then walks away, not realizing the damage she’s left behind.
Or maybe that’s me.
I LEFT WORK in a hurry. It was a long day and I’m anxious to take a hot shower and wash the remnants of it from my skin. As I steer Zack’s silver Honda into the driveway, I shift the car into park and close my eyes. Fingers curled tightly around the wheel, I drop my head against it, a mountain of exhaustion releasing on a heavy sigh.
Gathering strength to lift myself up, my eyes wander to Dad in the garage and I wonder what he’s doing here. He’s sitting on the workbench amidst the tools, his shoulders hunched over. My father is rarely in a bad mood and warning bells go off. My stomach drops to the ground as I worry my lip between my teeth.
I leave the bag of cinnamon rolls on the passenger seat and exit the car, heading straight for the garage. “Dad?” He doesn’t respond, so I walk over and lay a hand on his shoulder. He startles and practically falls off the bench, his hand going to his chest.
“Oh, honey, I didn’t hear you.”
Dad rights himself and I take a seat next to him. “What’s going on? What’s wrong? You’re not supposed to be here today.”
He places a hand over mine and pats it a few times, giving me a weak smile. “Okay, first of all calm down. Everything’s fine.” The strain in his voice doesn’t reassure me. He exhales and the air around us grows heavy. “Your mom had a difficult day and she needed me.” My jaw tenses as my free hand grips the bench, nails digging into the wood. “There was a letter today in the mail addressed to your brother. It was from an old friend of his from high school. Someone… who didn’t know he, well,” he pauses, tempering the emotion in his throat. “That he’d passed away.”
“Oh, Dad.”
“It hit her particularly hard and we talked about it for a while, but she ended up with a migraine and she’s lying down now.”
Until my brother died, I didn’t know that longing could h
urt so much. That it was a physical ache you feel in your bones; the kind of ache that nothing can tranquilize. People used to tell me it would “diminish” over time, but I don’t believe that’s true. How can losing a piece of yourself be repaired over weeks, months, years? I’ll never stop seeing his reflection when I stare at my own. I’ll never stop expecting to find him in all the subtle intricacies that made up his life.
“He’s been on my mind a lot lately.” I wipe the pain that’s found its way from my eyes and lay my head on Dad’s shoulder. “I wonder… if I make it harder for her sometimes… because I look just like him. Do you find it hard to look at me, Dad?”
“Oh, honey, no, no, no.” He turns his entire body to face me, his palm coming up to stroke my hair. “Don’t ever think that. If anything, you keep him alive.” The expression around his mouth softens. “When I see you smile, I see him smile. And when you get those sun freckles on your cheeks it reminds me of how he used to complain about the ones he had,” he admits, and relief whooshes out of me over words I didn’t realize I needed to hear.
“I loved his freckles.”
“Me too. But he hated them. Remember how he always thought it would drive the girls away, because ‘who the heck likes freckles?’” Dad shakes his head then bops my nose. “My son, all right. Thirteen going on seventeen.” His laughter lightens the mood and he pats his belly. “What do you think he’d say about this thing I’m sporting now?”
I glance down at his round stomach, my lips quirking up at the corners. “He’d probably say to have another cinnamon roll. You know food was his patronus.”
“Ah, yes.” A tiny noise sounds from his throat. “And I think patronus was his favorite word.” He places his hands on my shoulders, eyes burrowing into mine. “I don’t want you to worry about your mother, okay? She’s going to be fine. We’re going to take a drive by the coast later and maybe grab some dinner. I think the air will do her some good. Do you want to come with?”
“Nah.” I kiss my dad then hop off the bench. “I think I’m going to do some sculpting actually.”
