by Dee Lagasse
“We'll be there, Mom,” I tell my mother, grinning and nodding when Hollis giggles at the extra emphasis I intentionally put on ‘we.’ “I need to go though, okay? I'm being rude to Hollis.”
My mom and I exchange a quick exchange of “I love yous” before we hang up, and I slide my phone back into the pocket of my basketball shorts.
“I haven't been to your mom’s in...” she trails off as if she’s trying to figure out when she was last at my childhood home. Dread fills her eyes when she realizes how long it’s been.
“A year. Since Tucker's graduation,” I finish for her, knowing saying it is too much for her right now. “Don't feel obligated to go to brunch. I know I kind of put you on the spot. I can bring you home in the morning before I head over there.”
“Ha!” She scoffs. “You’re out of your mind if you think I’m going to pass on your mom’s blueberry pancakes.”
Remembering the bag in my left hand, I hand it to her. Her puzzled expression indicates exactly what I assumed. She thought I forgot her birthday.
“I know today’s been a little crazy, but don’t think I forgot it’s your birthday too, Hurricane.”
Bending down, I place my lips on the top of her head, staying a few seconds longer than I probably should have. The coconut scent of her shampoo infiltrates my nostrils, the scent of her lingering as I lift her legs—which are stretched out on the wicker loveseat—and place them back down on my lap as I take the empty space beside her. I could have taken any of the three other open seats on the patio, but I just can’t seem to get close enough to her tonight.
Every crinkle of the gold tissue paper as she slowly pulls out a sealed envelope and a black square jewelry box feels like pins and needles in my stomach. Second guessing my gift choice, I worry that maybe I did too much. Maybe I presumed this would be a good idea.
“Chase!” she gasps before lowering her voice to a whisper. “What is this?!”
“Just open it, woman.”
Placing the box on her lap, she carefully tears the seal of the envelope and pulls out the card. A silver tiara is the only thing on the outside of the card. She opens the card and immediately a small manila envelope falls from the inside. Catching it between her fingers, she opens the smaller envelope containing the gift card for “The Sound Garden.” Handwritten on the card is the package the receptionist had easily talked me into. Twenty-five hours of studio time with an in-studio sound engineer.
There are pools of water building up in her eyes, as she looks over the inscription written inside her birthday card. I’d been planning on giving it to her Sunday at her family dinner, so I had kept it simple.
“Go chase your dreams.
Happy birthday, Hurricane.
- C”
Chapter Seven
Hollis
Gentle shaking on my arm wakes me from the best night of sleep I’ve had in, hell, probably ever. Swatting the hand doing the shaking, I flip onto my stomach and bury my face in the fluffy white pillow. Right now, I’m not even sure how I got here. Everything after opening Chase’s present is a scattered blur of moments.
If I was anywhere else, I would panic, worrying about any bad decisions I could have made while being under the influence of an entire pitcher of margaritas. But I wasn’t just anywhere. I was at Chase’s. I know I’m safe.
Despite my still closed eyes, the longer I lay there, the more I wake up and begin to piece together last night. My head had started to feel heavy and I remember being dizzy, so I had laid my head down in Chase’s lap. The last thing I can picture was him playing with my hair. I must have fallen asleep outside by the fire. I know I didn’t walk up here, so Chase must have carried me up. Per usual, there’s Chase to pick up the pieces when I become a mess. God knows I earned my “Hurricane Hollis” nickname.
Thankfully, other than the possibility of snoring or drooling in his lap, both of which I’m sure I’ve already done at some point in the past, I don’t think I could done anything embarrassing. Unless I said something. The possibility that I could have spilled my heart out, admitting more than I should have, courtesy of some liquid courage is pretty high though. I don’t even know how I’ll be able to face…
Chase. He’s here. Feeling his presence in the room sends my stomach in knots and somehow, calms me simultaneously. It’s the most contradicting feeling. After mumbling something that was meant to be, “So comfy, go away,” the soft fleece of the blanket covering me slides down my legs as if it’s being pulled from me. Goose bumps cover my bare legs the moment they’re exposed to the cool air.
Where the fuck are my pants?! The realization that I’m also wearing one of Chase’s t-shirts hits me like a ton of bricks. I don’t know if it’s the hangover or my nerves, but suddenly I feel like I could throw up. The tight, bright red boy shorts hugging my ass are all that separates my naked butt from Chase’s eyes.
In a panic, I reach behind me hoping to grab the blanket back. With no luck, I blindly stretch my arm, reaching over to the side of the bed that the blanket slid off. Instead of fleece though, I grab a handful of Chase. And, when I say Chase, I mean, Little Chase. Which is not actually little. So far from little.
Any normal person would let go the instant they realize they’re holding onto their best friend’s penis. But, me? Oh, no. I panic and freeze.
I. FUCKING. FREEZE.
With my hand on his dick. For a good, solid minute. I just lay there, face down in the pillow with my hand stuck in place. When I feel it twitch and harden, my brain suddenly starts working again. If my life was a cartoon, a big light bulb would have popped over my head when the brilliant idea to let go of his damn penis finally comes to me. Letting go like I am dropping a hot potato, I bring my hand up to cover my face as I turn to look at Chase. A hot flush fills my cheeks and I’m sure it’s a thousand different shades of red when I finally get the nerve to peek up at him.
He’s in only loose gray sweatpants. Opening my mouth to apologize turns into me losing words and sitting up silently gawking. What the fuck is with me and suddenly becoming tongue-tied these last twenty-four hours? If you asked me right now, I wouldn’t be even able to tell you what animal he has tattooed on his chest. Despite it being the exact same lion that I have tattooed on my shoulder. You know, the tattoos we got together on my eighteenth birthday.
Because right now, I’m stuck on his V line. I don't know what it's really called. It’s the abdominal lines leading to well, lower areas…But if you ask any girl what a guy's V is, she'll be able to tell you. Chase has one. And it's fucking beautiful.
Holy fuck. I need to put my hair up. It's not just my face anymore. The whole room must have risen fifty degrees in temperature in the last five minutes. Suddenly, it’s hot as Hades in here. Or Hell, because Hades is a person and Hell is the place. And, oh my God, I can’t even fucking think straight right now.
It's the hangover. It's gotta be the hangover. It's the frickin’ hangover, I repeat to myself over and over again. Maybe if I keep lying to myself, I’ll be forced to believe it. Because there’s no way it’s the guy I've known since I was a fifteen, my best friend on this entire Earth, and his stupid, perfect V line.
Instead of the mortified look I was anticipating, plastered across Chase’s face is an amused, shit-eating grin. He looks so proud of himself. Cocky bastard. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he could have read my thoughts while I was frozen there. Great. Just what he needs. Another female to stroke his already inflated ego.
It’s not necessarily all his fault though. Since we were teenagers, girls—and now women—have thrown themselves at him, eagerly. He’s gorgeous. He’s charming and funny. He’s athletic. And kind, and genuine, and loyal…shit. I’m supposed to be apologizing for grabbing his dick, not making a list of what makes him worth throwing myself at…I mean, women. How I can understand why women in general throw themselves at Chase. Because, I wouldn’t do that. Nope.
Shit. What was I doing? Oh, yeah. Apology.
“I�
��m wicked sorry,” I start to ramble. “I was reaching for the blanket. I didn’t think you were so close. I didn’t think. I just, I, Jesus Christ, Chase, I didn’t mean…”
He cuts me off with wave, like it was nothing, like it was no big deal I just had my hand cupping his not-so-little Little Chase. “I hate to be the guy that wakes Sleeping Beauty, but if you want to stop at your house to shower and grab clean clothes, we should probably head out soon.”
Head out? To where? What did I agree to?
My confusion must be written all over my face because he immediately follows with, “After a few margaritas, you agreed to going to my mom’s for breakfast this morning. If you’re not up to it though, I can just bring you home. I’ll tell my mom that you weren’t feeling well. Though I have it on good authority she got up early to get fresh blueberries to make a certain someone – “
“Sold,” I laugh. “All you had to do was say, ‘Mom’s making blueberry pancakes,’ and I would have been up and ready to go.”
“But, then we would have skipped over the last ten minutes,” Chase smirks, looking down at me one more time before tossing the gray fleece blanket back to me.
“Yeah, how do we go about a redo?” I ask, shaking my head, covering my legs. “I would like to take it back, please and thanks.”
“Oh, no, Hurricane. There’s no take backs here.”
Chapter Eight
Still Hollis
It takes me an hour to shower, throw my hair in a side braid, and pack everything I could possibly need for tonight. I don’t think we’ll be at Chase’s mom’s all day, but just in case I don’t have time to come back here before my gig at Cap & Co. tonight, I would rather have everything together. Nothing is more frustrating to me than feeling like I don’t have everything under control.
The second I lose control, I feel overwhelming anxiety. Anxiety is no good anytime, but especially before singing in front of a hundred or so people. Especially today, considering one of the few things I do remember before my tequila induced nap on Chase’s lap is that he said he was coming tonight. And despite my weak attempt to rationalize the flutters in my stomach as part of a hangover, I know the quickly multiplying butterflies have nothing to do with alcohol consumption, but everything to do with where I am about to have breakfast and who will be at my gig later this evening.
It’s not like this is the first time I’m meeting Chase’s family. Hell, Mischa Merrimack is more of a mother to me than my own is. Despite not having stepped foot in her home in just about a year, I got a birthday text bright and early and got tagged in a super sweet Facebook post made by Mischa yesterday. Of course, there wasn’t a peep from Linda, the woman not so affectionately known as the egg donor.
Not that I honestly expected anything though. Linda, my mother, was the woman who abandoned her husband and two fifteen-year-old children while they were at work and school. The only reason we knew it was done purposely was the signed divorce papers left on the kitchen table. The last any of us had heard, Linda was in California somewhere, fresh off her fourth divorce…and that was a year ago, so who knows where she is now.
Not only did she abandon her children and her marriage, but the rest of her family as well. My Gramma, Grampa, and my Aunt Grace—who I was named after—all still live in Abbott Hills and have never stopped being a part of our lives. My dad made sure of it, inviting them to every birthday and school event growing up…and they never missed one. Over time, they became just as much a part of the Capparelli family as me or anyone else. While my grandparents didn’t often make Sunday dinners, my Aunt Grace was there every week. There wasn’t a Christmas or Thanksgiving without a place set for my grandparents too.
The guilt of making a choice to step back from Chase and our friendship that coincided with a trickle down to Mischa, Tucker, and Lola makes the butterflies in my stomach do a set of pissed off back-flips. Mischa was under no obligation to continuously have open arms when it comes to me. I wasn’t her daughter or one of her boys’ girlfriends. I was just the sassy, smart-mouthed girl that had spent summers in her pool and played football with the all the boys on her street.
After hearing that Chase, Tucker, and Mischa were planning on spending their first Thanksgiving back in Abbott Hills home alone, I took it upon myself to invite them to Nonna and Nonno’s for dinner. Mischa had argued with me at first, not wanting to inconvenience anyone, but after my grandmother made a point to stop by her house and invite her personally, Mischa couldn’t say no. The three, now four, Merrimacks have come to every holiday and family event since, because that’s what they became…family.
All it took was a bottle, or three, of red wine for Mischa, my Zia Kat, and my Aunt Grace to become insta-bff’s. Chase knew my Uncle Leo from football, but my dad took him and Tucker under their wings that day too. And then when Lola Grace Merrimack was born five years ago, she became the first “great grandchild” of the Cappa-O’Brien-Mack family. I would have been Auntie Hollis regardless—Tucker is the little brother I never had—but when both my Gramma O’Brien and Nonna “adopted” her as their own, it lead my Grampa O’Brien and Nonno, and everyone else to follow suit.
The baby shower we threw could have given some celebrities a run for their money. Tucker and Mila wanted for nothing, we made sure of that. And when Mila “pulled a Linda” and took off right after Lola was born, it was Mischa and my family that pulled together to figure out schedules, ensuring that Tucker didn’t have to stop going to school and work. And that Lola didn’t end up in daycare as a newborn.
For the first four years of her life, Lola spent alternating mornings with my Nonna and my Gramma O’Brien until I picked her up after my shift at the radio station. Afternoons were spent with me until Mischa or Tucker picked her up at night. I think that the day she started pre-school a year ago was just as hard on Nonna, Gramma, and I as it was on Tuck.
I saw Tucker often in passing because he works for my father, but if we weren’t at Capparelli & Co. or Nonna’s house for Sunday dinner, a holiday, or someone’s birthday, I didn’t see him or Lola. I made sure to have an Easter basket and I, of course, went nuts for her birthday and Christmas, but I was officially the worst God-mother, ever.
I needed to make it up to her…to all of them. It seems I’ll be doing a lot of that, making things up to people. I need to make last night up to Davis. My brother kicked an entire house full of people out to come make sure I was okay. I need to make up for two years of being a shitty best friend to Chase. And, I need to make sure my pseudo-Mom, little brother, and niece don’t think I forgot about them.
I’d take breakfast today to figure out what Lola was into these days and I’d go from there. But first, I needed to figure out what I’m wearing. Grabbing my phone, I check the weather app. Sunny with a high of 62 degrees today. After three weeks straight of ninety plus temperatures, this random cool mid-September day feels like a real New England Fall day – my favorite kind of weather.
Taking Chase’s black Adidas athletic shorts, gray Abbott Hills Football hoodie, and his signature black snapback into consideration, I choose a pair of solid black leggings and a ribbed black cotton tank-top. After toying with a few sweatshirt choices, I settle on an oversized slouchy, maroon one that says “Hogwarts Alumni,” fully anticipating getting teased immediately.
Giving my face a quick once over in the vanity, I take a seat. There’s no way I’m showing up looking like Casper the Freckled and Hungover Ghost. The combination of a late night and dehydration left some hefty bags under my eyes as evidence. Not wanting to make it blatantly obvious that I am trying, I use concealer, but skip the contouring step, applying only a light layer of mineral foundation. A swipe of black mascara on my lashes and a once over with lip balm and I think I’m ready to go. Or, well, as ready as I’ll ever be.
Any additional make-up I could possibly need for tonight goes into my black make-up bag. Bending down to grab the leather guitar case sitting in the corner of the room, I use my free hand to pick up the bag
I put together just in case I don’t get back here tonight before it was time to head to the restaurant.
With one last, final inspection in the mirror before I leave my room, I head back up to the first floor where Chase opted to wait. Just as I’m about to step foot into the kitchen, I hear him say “Hey, it’s Chase.” Knowing that is not how he would greet my dad if he came home stops me in my place. He must be on the phone. To give him his space—and partially because I’m nosy—I hang back, allowing him to finish his phone conversation without me in the room with him.
“So, something came up and uh, I’m not going to be able to meet up with you for dinner tonight. With school and football, I just don’t know when I’ll have free time in the next few months. I’m sorry, Amanda. I just didn’t want to blow you off and, yeah. Well, this is awkward now, so, I’m going to hang up now. Bye.”
Covering my mouth to stifle the laughter, I stay put until I gain my composure. I have no clue who “Amanda” is, but I’m assuming they had a dinner date. The last thing, whoever she is, is probably expecting on a Saturday morning is to wake up to that voicemail. A tinge of guilt hits me when I realize the reason he called off his plans is because he said he would come to my gig tonight. Maybe I should tell him I don’t really expect him to come tonight. And I don’t. Expect him to be there, that is. I just really want him to be.
Deciding that admitting I was eavesdropping probably isn’t the best way to start rebuilding our friendship, I stroll into the kitchen as casually as possible. Chase turns from washing his coffee cup in the sink as I come into the room. I swear, the two of us got a weak ass version of Spiderman’s senses. Instead of badass web-slinging and being able to sense danger, we can just feel each other’s presence and have an odd sense of intuition when there is something going on with the other one.
