by Melody Grace
He looks sympathetic.
“He was here,” I breathe. “All this time. And he never…”
I stop.
He never came to see how I was; never even cared enough to call.
“It’s up to you what you do with it.” Emerson sighs. “I don’t know what shape he’s in, or if he’ll have any answers for you. And maybe you shouldn’t even try—”
“I’m going.” I leap to my feet.
“What, now? Brit, wait a minute,” Emerson tries to calm me, but for the first time since this mess with Hunter, I have a sense of clarity—some calm cutting through the terrible ache in my chest.
“No, I need to talk to him,” I insist, reaching for my purse. “You’re right. I need answers. I need to face the past.”
“At least think about it,” Emerson follows me across the room. “Sleep on it, maybe when you’ve had time—”
“No,” I stop him. “I have to do this now. I’ll be back before dinner,” I add. “I promise, I’ll be OK.”
Emerson doesn’t look convinced, but he can’t stop me, and he knows it. “Be careful,” he murmurs, “We don’t know what he’s into these days. He could have done time, been mixed up in all kinds of stuff.”
“I know,” I reassure him. “Believe me, I’m not expecting daddy dearest to come meet me with open arms. I just want to talk to him.”
Emerson nods. “Call me the minute you need, and I’ll be there, you know that, right?”
“I know.” I smile at him. “Love you.”
“Love you right back.”
I drive fast, flirting with the speed limit as I head out to the address on that scribbled sheet of paper. I clench the steering wheel, my thoughts in a whirl, a million questions running around in my mind. Like why he left, what made him turn around and walk away from his family, his own flesh-and-blood? Did he think of me the way I thought about him when I was younger, watching other kids in school get picked up by their fathers, safe in a world of belonging I could only dream about?
One thing’s for sure, I need answers from him if I’m ever going to be free. I want so desperately to break this damn cycle I’m in, feeling so worthless that I can’t believe anything good will ever last. I pushed Hunter, I know it, but I can’t help myself. I’m always waiting for the house of cards to tumble and fall, for every moment of happiness to crumble into ash. It was the first thing I ever learned, what if feels like to be left, and that knowledge has colored every day of my life since.
I can’t do it anymore. I can’t live like this, expecting love to leave me. I know I’ll never love anyone the way I love Hunter, but still, I have to have hope. That good things will come into my world, and they’ll stay there. That one day, someone will stay.
My nerves are on edge as the miles speed past, all my emotions focused laser-sharp on the task in front of me as I dream up a hundred ways this could go. I try to talk myself down from this state of wild expectation. Emerson was right: we don’t know what James is into these days. He could be bad news, hell, he was bad news even back when we were kids. I remind myself to expect the worst. Drugs, violence, prison maybe.
But when I pull up across the street from the address, my jaw drops open. Nothing I imagined could have prepared me for this.
It’s an ordinary house, on an ordinary street. Safe. Suburban. The cul-de-sac curves gently past his split-level ranch house, a two-car garage by the small front yard. The grass is trimmed, a tree casts shade over the house, and through the side gate, I can see the brightly-colored frame of a kids’ bike.
I feel a chill, but I don’t have time to process it before a mini-van slows and turns onto the driveway, pulling up outside the house. The doors open, and two kids pile out. A boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, glued to the gaming console in his hand, and a little girl. She’s wearing a ballet outfit: a pink leotard and leg warmers, her hair pulled up in a bun.
“Jamie, help your mom with the groceries!”
I hear the man’s call through my open windows, but the van is blocking him from view. I turn down the radio and lean out, watching across the street as a brunette woman in soccer-mom athletic wear circles round to the back of the van, pulling out bags of groceries. The boy makes a big show of helping her, clearly annoyed, while his sister turns pirouettes on the lawn.
I’m holding my breath. It won’t be, I tell myself. It can’t be. Ray Jay screwed up the address, or maybe he’s already long gone. I never got to know him, but the father I heard about was a deadbeat, a lazy, no-good piece of scum. I was better off without him, that’s what I’ve told myself all these years. I’m better off on my own.
The man finally steps out from behind the van.
My heart freezes.
It’s him. He’s older, sure, but the face and dark hair are just the same as the old photos I saved. My father. Standing fifty feet away from me, reaching to sweep the little girl up in his arms. He tosses her in the air, and she lets out a shriek of delight, laughing happily as he carries her into the house.
The mom and other kid follow, and then the door closes behind them all, and the house is quiet. A happy family, the picture of suburban bliss.
I sit back in my seat, reeling. He has a family – a whole new life? I’ve always known it might be a possibility, but somehow, I never really imagined it. After all, he couldn’t care less about raising us, so I figured he didn’t want a family full stop, that he left us to go his own way, whatever that had been.
I was wrong.
I hear a strange tapping noise and look down to find my hand shaking against the dashboard. My whole body is trembling, overcome with the realization that all these years, he’s been right here: waking up in a house with his other children; fixing them breakfast, driving them to school. He’s been showing up to dance recitals and football games, fixing burgers on the grill on Friday nights, and falling asleep in front of the TV with them tucked safely under his arms.
He chose this. He chose to walk away from us, and never look back. He chose to be there for somebody else, instead of me. He chose this, all over again, every single day.
He chose to stay gone.
I feel something break apart inside of me, cleaved clean in two. Emerson was right, this has nothing to do with me. I couldn’t change it if I tried. Whatever his reasons for leaving me this way, none of them can make a difference to the pain he’s caused, the hurt and rejection I’ve carried with me all these years—tainting every relationship, conditioning me to expect the worst. Accept the worst. No words will ever take back the nights I spent lying in bed, wondering why he didn’t love me enough to stay. No apologies will ever erase my anger, and confusion, and all the tears I’ve cried.
It’s done.
I realize it with a mix of sadness and relief, sweet and true. It’s been over for years now, I just couldn’t let it go. But I have to move on now. I’m the only one who can make a change.
I’m the only one who can decide I deserve to be loved.
I reach for the ignition. I came here looking for answers from him, but it turns out I’ve had them inside me all along. I feel the weight slip from my shoulders, the deep, knotted tangle of my heart finally unbind. I take a deep breath, the evening air cool and crisp in my lungs, the scenery brighter outside my window. It’s like I just broke free through the surface, after spending years caught adrift in the murky undertow.
I’m enough. I was always good enough. It’s not my fault they couldn’t stay.
Movement comes from across the street. My father exits the house, heading for the minivan to fetch a forgotten bag. He pauses on his way back to the house, looking across the street at me.
Our eyes meet for a moment, two strangers staring across the street. A world apart, sharing more than he’ll ever know.
I turn the key in the ignition. The truck rumbles to life.
This time, I’m the one leaving him behind.
I call Emerson and leave my apologies—the dinner will have to wait for some other visit.
“There’s something I need to do,” I explain. “I don’t know if I’ve got the time, but I have to try.”
“Atta girl,” I can hear the smile in his voice. “But just so you know, that’s a standing offer to smash his face in. Any time you need me, I’m there. You know that, right? I’ll always be there.”
“I know,” I smile, “I can always count on you.”
“Don’t be a stranger,” Juliet’s voice comes down the line. “You’re welcome here any time. And I want to talk about wedding dress designs!”
Emerson groans. “I thought we were keeping it simple. A Christmas wedding in Beachwood Bay, no fuss.”
“Small doesn’t mean un-stylish,” Juliet argues with him. “Anyway, Brit has things to do and boys to win. We’ll talk soon. Good luck!”
I hang up, and get back on the road, heading for Beachwood as fast as Garrett’s old truck will take me. And with every mile, my brother’s words echo in my mind, driving me on.
That’s life. That’s love. You have to figure out what you want and then fight like hell. Because it’s never easy, not when your heart’s on the line.
I’ve never fought for a man, I’ve never cared enough to try. But for Hunter, I’d wage war against a thousand armies, cross the world, travel to hell and back. He’s the only man I’ve ever loved, and the only one I ever want to.
For all that, I can surely face down his mother.
When I get home and pull in the driveway, I find Garrett waiting on the porch.
“No time to explain!” I cry, flying up the steps and into the house. “I have serious work to do!”
“What kind of work?” Garrett follows me.
I reach the living room and look around, breathless. “The big anniversary party is tomorrow night, which means I have exactly twenty-four hours to turn this,” I hold up the lengths of purple silk, “Into this.” I show him my sketches of the dream ball-gown, the one I’ve spent months designing.
The dress I’m going to wear to knock Hunter off his feet.
Garrett’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t protest. “OK then,” he rubs his hands together, “What do you need?”
“I’ve got the tools, the fabric, everything, except… Coffee. Lots of it,” I tell him, kicking off my boots.
“I’m on it,” he grins, “How about some burgers too?”
I shake my head, already reaching for the patterns I cut, and the lengths of cotton mock-up fabric. “I’m not hungry.” I couldn’t eat, not with exhilaration thundering in my veins like this, every cell in my body vibrating with purpose. I’m on a mission, and I’m running out of time.
“Trust me, you’re going to want to eat,” Garrett corrects me, grabbing his keys back from the table. “This is going to be a long night.”
Garrett is right in the end; I do eat the burger, and drink down at least three pots of coffee. I work through the night, cutting and pinning until the pattern is perfect. Then, only then, do I cut into my precious silk, carefully slicing the panels that will fit together into the finished design as dawn breaks outside the window, and golden morning light replaces the glare of the bulb overhead.
“What time is it?” Garrett yawns, sitting up from where he fell asleep on the couch.
“I don’t know.” I don’t lift my eyes for a moment. One wrong slice of the scissors, and the whole panel will be ruined. I don’t have enough fabric to replace any of the pieces, and besides, I don’t have the time to start again.
“It’s after ten, you should really get some sleep.”
“No time for sleep. I still have to sew the panels, and finish the hem, and stitch the bodice…” I feel a tremor of apprehension at the mammoth task still ahead of me, but I push it down. I’ll finish. I have to finish. There’s no two ways about it.
I feel Garrett approach to stand over me. “Wow, you did all this while I was sleeping?”
“You snore.”
“Do not!” He protests.
“Mmmhmm,” I make a dubious murmur as I carefully cut the last piece of the pattern.
“You think someone wouldn’t have told me by now if I did snore?” Garrett challenges me, laughing.
I finally look up. “Please, like any of those girls would tell you the truth. They wouldn’t know a solid opinion if it knocked them over the head.”
Garrett looks hurt. “I told you, I’m taking a break from all of that.”
I pause, seeing the genuine expression on his face. “Then I guess we’re both trying something new.”
“I’m not being a manwhore, and you’re not being a destructive bitch,” Garrett agrees with a grin. “Look at us and our emotional maturity.”
I laugh, feeling the ache in my shoulders, in every muscle in my body. “Gold stars all around.” I yawn, then clap a hand over my mouth. “No!” I yelp. “I can’t be tired. The party is tonight, I can’t show up in a half-finished dress!”
“I bet Hunter wouldn’t mind.” Garrett remarks. “You could show up in jeans, and he’d still fall at your feet.”
I shake my head furiously. “You didn’t see our fight. It was awful. The worst. He might not take me back at all. And besides, this isn’t just about him,” I add, “It’s about all of them. I have to show him, I don’t care about his family and all that society stuff. I’ll play along, I’ll make them like me. I’ll do whatever it takes to be with him.”
I thought that it was a choice, between them and me, but I was wrong. Hunter needs to work through issues with his family—and I’m going to be right by his side while he does it.
“If you won’t take a nap, then we’re going to need some more coffee.”
“Coffee, yes! And donuts,” I add, remembering Hunter’s surprise gift with a nostalgic smile. “And maybe pancakes.”
“I’ll do a breakfast run to Mrs. Olson’s,” Garrett offers, heading for the door.
“I’ll be here, losing my mind!” I call after him, but he’s already picked up his phone and is talking to someone, probably figuring out someone to cover our shifts at the bar while I spend the day sewing on my fool’s errand.
No, I correct myself, before the whispers of doubt can take hold. It’s not foolish to believe our love is real. For once in my life, I have someone worth fighting for, and I’m not letting him get away, not this time.
“Get ready, Hunter Covington,” I mutter to myself, setting the dial on my sewing machine to its finest thread. “You aren’t going to know what’s hit you.”
By evening, I’m dead on my feet. My fingers are raw, I’ve pricked myself with pins a dozen times over, and I’m so tired I can barely see straight. But the dress is finished.
It’s a dream of a dress. Everything I ever imagined, and so much more.
“And… done.” I say, pulling the final thread through the bodice. I check with seams, running my fingers over the sweeping hem before slumping back in my chair, exhaustion hitting me like a ton of bricks. “Did I make it in time?”
Garrett checks his watch. “You’ve got just enough time to shower and get ready if we’re going to make it into the city by eight.”
I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror and let out a wail. “Look at me!” I cry. My hair is sticking out in all directions, and there are shadows under my eyes for days. “I look like a zombie!”
“Then we got here just in time.” There are voices from the doorway, and I turn to find Emerson and Juliet—and Lacey, Juliet’s best friend in tow.
“What are you guys doing here?” I blink.
“A little birdy said you had a party to get ready for,” Juliet beams, coming to sweep me into a hug.
“Garrett!” I cry. He gives me a bashful look.
“I can help with coffee, but I’m no good with all of that.” He waves from my messy hair to my bare feet.
“And I am,” Lacey interrupts, beaming.
“You guys…” I feel tears well up, overwhelmed by the long day and all the friendly faces around me.
“Oh no!” Lacey cuts me off.
She grabs my arm and propels me into the hallway and towards the stairs—surprisingly strong for such a petite pixie of a girl. “No crying. Your eyes will get all red and puffy, and believe me, we’ve got enough problems to be fixing. You got the supplies?” she calls back to Emerson.
“Right here.” He answers with a grin, handing off an armful of bulging bags to Juliet as she follows us upstairs.
Lacey fixes me with a look. “I’m a miracle worker, but I have only one rule. Sit down, and shut up, and do exactly what I say.”
“That’s three rules,” I point out, laughing. My tiredness is fading, pushed away by the infectious enthusiasm swirling all around me.
“You’re right, she is a problem child,” Lacey tells Juliet.
“Hey!”
“Relax, kid.” Lacey winks. “By the time I’m through with you, you’re going to look like a million bucks.”
“Can I look yet?” I swivel impatiently in my chair. Lacey’s had me sitting here for an hour now, as she applies my makeup: painting and smoothing with total concentration.
“Nope.”
“But we’re late, the party starts at eight—”
“Sit still, or I’ll poke your eye out with a mascara wand.”
“And you better believe her,” Juliet adds, perched on the edge of the bed, watching us. “She nearly blinded me once with an eyeliner.”
“It was worth it though.” Lacey smirks. “I do the best smoky eye.”
“That’s not what you’re doing on me, is it?” I ask, fearful. “Because this is a classy event, super-fancy.”
“Relax.” Lacey rolls her eyes, patting one last layer of powder on my face. “That should fix it. OK, look.”
She turns me to face the mirror for the first time. I gasp.
“Oh my god!”
“Pretty damn good, if I say so myself.” Lacey looks proud, but I can’t take my eyes off my reflection. I look like a polished, gorgeous version of myself: the shadows are gone from under my eyes, and there’s no sign of pale tiredness, just flushed, rosy cheeks, and eyes that shimmer under expertly blended layers of pearly pink eyeshadow. Juliet fixed my hair, pinning it back in a simple up-do and then teasing strands in gentle ringlets to frame my face.
