by Lyla Payne
The mirror reveals an atrocious rat’s nest of dark waves and an impressive array of pink crease marks on the right side of my face. My eyes look as though they belong in the face of a girl who drove nineteen hours, guzzled two bottles of gas-station wine, and passed out in the car, so at least the mirror doesn’t lie.
I’m not tempted by the shower, instead choosing to wrestle my hair into a lopsided bun, then brush my teeth and throw on some deodorant. It won’t fool Gramps, but he’s not going to get on me about it. Today. He’s an advice giver, but has a knack for knowing when a kind word will help or push me over the edge. I’m already dangling.
Soft snores fill the living room, even though it only took me about fifteen minutes to get downstairs. Gramps’ mouth hangs open, head drooping onto his shoulder while an Atlanta Braves game blares from the television. I turn it down and head into the kitchen, deciding to whip up something fancy, such as grilled cheese sandwiches. He’s awake when I return; I plop a plate of gooey goodness on his lap and a grape soda on the end table next to him, then settle on the couch.
“Have a nice nap?” I ask.
He nods. “How was yours?”
I don’t know why I’m embarrassed about napping mid-morning. Maybe because I’m a girl in my mid-twenties with a doctorate, not an infant. “Yes. I didn’t mean to fall asleep, but there’s something about that room. It still smells like Grams.”
“The woman buys the same laundry detergent.”
“I’m pretty sure her name is Laura,” I venture around a steaming bite.
He grunts, swallowing half of his sandwich in a couple of bites, then taking a swig of his soda. “There’s a new couple down the street, invited us to dinner tonight. Not new to me, new to you. Been here about five years.”
“I don’t really want to—”
“Already said we’d be there. I can roll my old ass down the street with my walker alone, if you’d rather.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. What time?”
“Five.”
Old people and their eating habits. I’m going to have to start eating lunch at ten-thirty in the morning if my meals are going to be taken with Gramps and his friends. Which, since I have none of my own and little desire to leave the house, seems likely.
“Braves are winning,” I observe, setting my empty plate on the coffee table and snuggling back into the sagging cushions. They smell like my Grams, too, among other vestiges of the past.
“They’re ahead, sure.”
We watch in silence, the easy togetherness warming me in exactly the way I’d dreamed since deciding to come back here. He doesn’t ask me what happened with David, why there’s a pale ring of skin on my finger instead of the flashy diamond I’d worn to Grams’ funeral. I don’t bug him about his diet, or needle him about being nicer to his cleaning-slash-laundry-slash-grocery-shopping woman.
There are a million questions surrounding me, waiting not so patiently on the sofa at my hips and thighs, that need to be answered. What I’m going to do with myself, with my graduate degree in Archival Studies here in Heron Creek. When I’m going to take a good hard look at my part in what happened in Iowa City, because there’s always two sides. Whether I’ll be able to live here without falling so deep into the past there’s no way to generate a future. But for this afternoon there is acceptance from Gramps, and the scents of my childhood, and these things allow me to pretend those little piles of insistent words and letters don’t peer up at me.
And the Braves. There’s always them, too.
Purchase Not Quite Dead
I love giving you guys looks at some of my FAVORITE books that you might be missing out on – and First World Problems by Leigh Ann Kopans is something I know you’re going to love. Read the first chapter and then tell me I’m right!!
Chapter 1
In my eighteen years on this planet, I’d learned I could distract a lot of people with pretty words, expensive gifts, and a sweet smile.
I’d also learned that those things rarely worked on my father, which meant that at this exact moment, I was in a shit ton of trouble.
I refused to show a single crack in my facade as I sat waiting for him to see me. The ridiculousness of having an appointment with my own dad, and then having to wait for him, wasn’t lost on me. It was only trumped by the fact that he had an actual waiting room. I swore he tried to make it seem like a normal living room—smallish, with only upholstered wood-frame chairs, magazines on the coffee table, and hardwood floors covered in homey flowered rugs. I nudged against the corner of the one beneath my feet with the toe of my Italian leather flats. I wrinkled my nose when I practically heard it crinkle. Polyester. So gross.
Even if I could have imagined I was lounging in a living room like a normal kid waiting for her dad, my pretend life would have been disturbed by the chirp of the phone at his receptionist’s desk in the corner. I talked to Karen almost every day, but it was normally a six-word exchange. I called the office, said, “It’s Sofia,” and she said, “I’ll put you through.”
Actually having to look at Karen was another issue altogether. If she made more than minimum wage, she’d be nipped and tucked and polished and dressed within an inch of her life like the rest of this town. Instead, she was round and doughy, as though she’d change shape to fit into whatever container you poured her into. Her eyes drooped at the corners with a decade of wrinkles, her streaky blush and eyeliner practically screaming that they’d been picked up at the drugstore. I fought back a shudder. She raised a too-far-plucked, penciled-in eyebrow at me when she hung up the phone.
“You can go on in, honey.”
I stared at her, mesmerized by the combination of her horrific Hawaiian print shirt and the condescension in her voice. Honey? Nobody ever called me honey. “Young lady” or sometimes “princess” was as close as my father got to an endearment in the last couple years, and him affectionately calling me by my first name was a distant middle school memory. My mom had called me “sweet girl” with a love in her voice that I only got to experience on old family videos someone had uploaded to YouTube a lifetime ago.
Maybe I was a sweet girl back then.
“Sofia?” Karen asked.
My stomach clenched and resolve washed through me as I stood, tugging my white button-down over my dark jeans. My hair hung straight, dark and shining over my chest, and I pulled it back with one hand, letting it drop down and swing against my back. Should have tied it back, stupid. Do you want to look like a sorority girl?
I willed the hard sense of resolve at my center to stay. I’d need it. I turned a steely gaze on Karen. “You can call me Miss Cole.”
Her eyes widened for a split second before she sat up straighter and cocked her head. Any trace of a smile disappeared as one eyebrow tented slightly upward. “Go on in, Miss Cole. He hasn’t got all morning.”
“Of course he doesn’t,” I muttered as I forced myself to take calm, measured steps into his office.
Poise and control, poise and control. It was a mantra from one of the instructors at the finishing school camp Dad had sent me to last summer, and as much as I hated the feeling of being trained like a dog, I had to admit it was useful. Being in control of myself meant being able to keep everything from affecting me. I allowed myself three seconds of focus and breathing while I kept a hand on the doorknob, making sure it clicked quietly shut behind me. Then I slowly turned, still standing up straight, and let a pleasant smile flood my face.
“Hi, Daddy!” I made my way over to his desk, ten paces away, trying to gauge with each step whether we’d hug or kiss or maybe shake hands? The message on my phone from Dad—Please call Karen and find a time to see me. This morning.—hadn’t been awesome for preparing me, but I had a pretty good idea of what we’d be talking about regardless. Hugging and kissing was most likely out of the question.
Dad sat stone-faced waiting for me, not moving a muscle. Most people wouldn’t have noticed the fires of rage smoldering behind his eyes, but I did. I looked exa
ctly the same when I was pissed off. I’d only ever seen Dad look like this before he screamed at other people—a contractor who screwed up a job or an accountant who refused to claim an extravagance as a tax deduction. Never at me. I didn’t exactly know what to do, but he still hadn’t moved or spoken when I reached his desk, so I lowered myself into one of the chairs facing him. This furniture was the real deal—upholstered in ivory silk, framed by shining mahogany arms. There was nothing like sliding your butt over silk, and for a moment, I felt something like happiness. I crossed my ankles—only whores crossed their knees—and fought to keep the same pleasant smile on my face as Dad rested his forearms on his desk and cleared his throat.
I knew that posture. This was serious. This called for the little girl voice. I started summoning it, just to be ready. A little whine, a little cuteness. Loads of innocence. Half an octave higher.
I had a manipulation-mode switch in my brain, and I would not hesitate to use it.
“I hope you’re having a good morning, Daddy.” I leaned back in the chair, making myself look a smidgen more helpless.
“It’s one o’clock, young lady.”
Yep. “Young lady.” Dammit.
He cleared his throat again, a clear sign that he really didn’t want to be having this conversation. Whether it was because speaking with me face-to-face constituted actual parenting or because I was an unexpected interruption in his down-to-the-minute schedule remained to be seen.
“Last night,” Dad continued, “I received a phone call from the American Express office. They wanted me to verify that the charges on my card——the one I gave you when you graduated from high school——were not unusual and did not constitute fraud.”
I cocked my head to the other side, like a puppy begging for bacon. I hated myself when I acted like this, but the first head-cock hadn’t worked. Time to step it up.
“Is there a problem, Daddy?” Of course I knew what the problem was. Paris.
“The problem is that I trusted you with a $100,000-limit card, young lady. I never imagined you would ever come close to reaching the limit, let alone maxing out the goddamn card in one weekend.” His hand clenched into a fist with the last word.
I barely stifled a snicker. He never imagined I could spend that much in a weekend? Had he been living on another planet? I opened my mouth to respond, but he cut me off.
“Clearly, I didn’t realize exactly how spoiled, entitled, and self-centered you are.”
Indignation sliced hot through me. So many retorts sprang to mind. “You’re one to talk,” and “you don’t know anything about me,” and “of course I’m entitled after dealing with all your bullshit,” most of all.
But I kept my mouth shut tight. I knew, from the time I’d been caught with a drink in my hand between junior and senior year and immediately shipped off to finishing school camp, that arguments wouldn’t help me. I struggled to keep my poise and control and let the smallest of pouts combined with surprised eyes transform my expression. I knew I’d spent a lot throwing myself a birthday party, but I also knew I damn well deserved it. Besides, my father made over ten million dollars last year, and there was only me and my brother. Even though my twin brother Vincent was the same age as me, minus three minutes, he barely spent anything. Being a boy, he cared far more about conquering unsuspecting girls than shopping designer fashion. What was one twentieth of Dad’s net——not gross, net——earnings from last year? A drop in the bucket, especially after what he’d done to me.
I steeled myself as I let the next words out.
“Clearly, you’re out of touch with what’s really important. Like your only daughter turning eighteen. I became an adult and you didn’t even give a shit.” Okay, maybe not the most diplomatic of retorts. Still, I meant every word. I mentally patted myself on the back for managing not to yell.
Dad winced—it wasn’t often that he betrayed his emotions through facial expressions, and I was usually grateful. After all, I’d taught myself to maintain an emotionless mask by watching him. I used to imagine that one day I’d be a cutthroat businesswoman working alongside my dad, like Donald and Ivanka Trump. But after he’d basically shut me out of his life, and then the bullshit with finishing school camp during what was supposed to be a summer full of cruises, all I wanted was to milk him for as much as he was worth. A high-profile business school education leading to a nice cushy position somewhere that paid me plenty and let me take a spa weekend once a month would do the trick. I’d be happy to rise right to the top of a company, bossing other people around. There would be no mail room for me.
“Language, Sofia. For claiming to be an adult, you’re certainly not speaking or acting like one. And some would say that an adult would pay for her own ridiculously extravagant Parisian birthday party, complete with a private jet, penthouse suite overlooking the Eiffel Tower, and more champagne than I served at my wedding.”
With the word “wedding,” he slammed his fist onto the desk. The end ball on Dad’s Newton’s cradle crashed into the others, filling the silent seconds that followed with ominous tapping. I swallowed a gasp, holding it in a tight ball in my stomach, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Dad was rarely so pissed off that he hit stuff, and my body shook like he’d pounded me instead of the desk.
I replayed the events of the last week in my mind. Since I’d be spending my first year in college in Paris, majoring in something like art or fashion or hair—I didn’t know yet and hardly cared—I’d initially planned a Paris-themed birthday party in our Pittsburgh mansion’s sprawling backyard. In short order, the main stretch of garden had been formed into a Parisian street scene. I’d booked waiters in berets and strolling violinists and asked for mocktails that I trusted my dumbass “friends” to dutifully spike.
And then, as the caterers had just started to buzz around the cook’s kitchen, I’d gotten the call. I could barely hear Dad’s voice over the opening doors, the roll of the carts against the marble tiles, and the clinking of silverware as the waitresses polished it a final time, like I’d insisted.
“Anne’s big talk is tonight, and she’s very, very nervous. This one could make or break her career, you know?”
A flash of rage had burned through my chest, but I’d chanted my old mantra—poise and control—and plastered a smile on my face. Most people don’t realize this, but you can hear a smile in someone’s voice. Even if you’re just trying to sound a certain way, you have to look the part in real life, too. Assured. Flawless.
“Well, tell her good luck from us, Daddy!” I hoped the bitch fell on her face. “So the caterers just got here and they’re setting up. When do you think you’ll get here? I’ll let you taste a crepe.”
“That’s what I’m trying to say, Sofia.” I could practically hear him rolling his eyes. “I’m in Chicago, and I had planned to leave earlier, but with the storm rolling in, my pilot doesn’t think he’ll be able to get me back to Pittsburgh in time. You’ll be okay, won’t you? Anne is so stressed about this talk anyway. It might be for the best if I have to stay.”
If. For once, I had been speechless. He was lying through his teeth, probably slipping his hand around Anne’s skinny ass as we spoke. They were probably giving each other that stupid smile and resting their foreheads together in that damn annoying way they’d done every fucking time I’d seen them since they met, got engaged, and had the most embarrassing barefoot hippie wedding of the century last year.
“Anne asked you to stay with her, didn’t she? That’s why you’re not coming to my party.”
Dad was good at a lot of things, namely funding my spa treatments and boutique shopping sprees, but he was shit at lying. There had been a nervous chuckle from his end. “Honey, you’ll probably have more fun without your old man there anyway, won’t you?”
Now it had been my turn to lose my cool. “It’s my birthday, Dad. My birthday.”
“I know, and we’ll celebrate the minute I get back. Anything you want. Dinner at your favorite place, and Anne’ll
take you shopping. We’ll go to New York, see a show.”
A show? He thought a fucking show would fix this? The Cole family didn’t have many traditions, but the one thing we always, always did together was birthdays. Vincent and I had made it as easy as possible by being twins. Losing the traditional birthday vacation after Mom died had been bad enough, but something about Dad saying he wouldn’t be there for my eighteenth birthday had felt like he was saying the tradition had never existed in the first place. At the very least, it was damn sure not important to him. And that meant Mom’s memory wasn’t either.
I had sucked in a breath, feeling like Dad was ripping my heart out, pulling it through the phone line, and stomping on it while Anne watched.
My gaze had caught on the chrome photo frame on the mantle. Dad, Vincent, and me. We were fourteen, and Dad had an arm slung around each of our shoulders with the Grand Canyon in the background.
Not very many people managed to hurt me, and the fact that Dad had done it so easily, with apparently so little thought, only added insult to injury.
Dad had to pay. Not only that, he had to pay in a way that gave me the upper hand. In a way that made it look like I was feeling even better than I actually was.
“Whatever you want,” Dad had repeated. “Do something nice for yourself. Whatever makes you happy.”
I knew he’d been telling me to go shopping. But his words had left a lot of latitude. The credit card he’d given me with half a million dollar limit left even more. The fact that Vincent hadn’t given a shit about our birthday had only made me twice as lonely and added twice the fuel to the fire.
I plastered the grin back on and sounded like myself again. “Okay, Daddy. I’ll do that.”
