Picturing Perfect (Meet the McIntyres Book 2)

by Rebecca Barber

  “Because you couldn’t. And now you’re not going to do anything else tonight but stare at the shiny pots, are you?”

  “I wouldn’t…”

  “Hell yeah, you would, Pay. It’s your thing!” I teased.

  After we unloaded her arms and grabbed Payton a beer, she asked, “So, what’s wrong with what?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with it!” Beau protested defensively.

  “Wrong with what?”

  “My place.”

  “Huh?”

  “Calm down, Payton. Beau happened to notice I was looking for somewhere to live and suggested I think about his place.”

  “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. Beau’s place is beautiful. It would be perfect for you, Carly.”

  “How much do you want for it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  I know Beau was a country bumpkin, but I didn’t think I was talking Spanish. “How. Much. Do. You. Want. For. It?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What? You’re kidding, right? I have to pay rent.”

  Beau chuckled and it bounced off the walls. Like his moans and groans, I guess. “We’ll figure something out. Wanna take a look?”

  “Sounds good.”

  First thing the next morning, two days before Christmas, I found somewhere to call home. Payton and Beau walked me through, watching my reaction to every detail. I wanted to push them out the door, lock it tight, strip off my clothes, and dance around. It was perfect for me. One of the bedrooms, the smaller one, the one that’d be turned into my office, had a view out the huge window of nothing but trees and grass and sun and sky.

  PRESENT DAY

  Lying on the hard, unforgiving bed, I flicked through the channels, desperate to watch something. Anything to take my mind off the impending torture otherwise known as the Christmas lunch from hell. Last night had been bad enough.

  Mum wanted me at the house at six o’clock. Not five past. Not five to. Six o’clock. She was one of those people. One of the ones who took it personally if anything didn’t adhere to her rigid schedule. I knew this. I’d always known this. Over the years I’d witnessed firsthand the consequences of showing up late. Or worse still, incorrectly presented. So when I knocked on the door at quarter past six wearing a tank top and a pair of tiny, completely inappropriate and objectionable denim cut-offs, and a pair of rubber thongs, I thought her head was going to spin off and bounce down the front steps. I was counting on it, actually.

  No one answered.

  I stood there, my duffle bag hitched over my shoulder, sweating my ass off in the Sydney heat. It was that oppressive heat you couldn’t escape. Like there was no air. Everything was so hot and still. Not a breath of wind ruffled the trees.

  Wanting nothing more than an icy cold can of Coke and to wash my face, I knocked again. Harder this time.

  A moment passed.

  The longer I stood there looking at the imposing two story, red brick monstrosity, the greater the urge to run was. At some point in my life, it seemed almost another life time ago now, this had been my home. My safe haven. The place where I made my wishes and dreamt my silly dreams. It hadn’t felt like that in a long time, unfortunately.

  I had my back to the door, glancing around the yard. Nothing had changed. Not at all. The hedges were still trimmed perfectly. Their corners could have been measured with a protractor and it would show nothing but a perfect ninety degree angle. The water fountain was bubbling away, while the goldfish swam, completely unaware of the stifling heat above them.

  “Can I help you?”

  Spinning around, I came face to face with my dad. Holy shit! This was happening. I mean, I knew it would when I knocked on the door, I had to know that someone I was related to would open it. I just hadn’t really considered what that meant.

  “D-d-dad?” I hated the fact I stuttered, but my mouth was suddenly so dry, and I was so choked up I could barely get anything out.

  “Carly?”

  I couldn’t’ answer. I felt the tear slip down my cheek before I knew what it was. Dropping my bag to the ground with a thud, I threw myself against him. I didn’t give him any warning, and it certainly wasn’t something that occurred in my family very often. Outward displays of affection were discouraged and frowned upon. Maybe that’s why Payton and I were so close. While she had no family of her own, I craved the affection that my best friend could give me. I struggled to remember a day through all the years I’d known her when we’d been together and we didn’t share a hug.

  Dad caught me.

  He didn’t even flinch.

  Holding my head against his shoulder, he kissed my hair before whispering in my ear. “I can’t believe you’re home, sweetheart.”

  I just sobbed harder.

  It was pathetic.

  I was pathetic.

  Here I was, a grown woman who had no issue with packing her life into a bag and travelling anywhere to take photos, standing on the doorstep in the unbearable heat crying into her daddy’s shoulder.

  Pulling back from him, I wiped away the tears and sucked in a deep breath. Maybe coming home wouldn’t be all bad.

  “Come on in. We were just sitting down to dinner.”

  “O-okay.”

  “You know, Carly,” Dad began as he grabbed my bag and led me inside, “Your mother’s going to have a fit seeing you dressed like that.”

  It was like a dagger to the heart. The overwhelming happiness and joy of seeing my dad was iced with his simple reminder. One I didn’t need. I knew I was going to disappoint Mum. Everything I did and everything I was disappointed her. I thought I was over it. I really did. I’d told myself over and over and over again that I didn’t care about anyone’s opinion. They didn’t matter. Only what I thought did. Standing here, in the foyer of my childhood home, a foyer lined with photos of our achievements, the latest one of me my high school graduation over ten years ago, I was swamped by the realisation of just how wrong I was.

  “Can-can I just wash up first?”

  “Of course, sweetheart. I’ll leave your bag here. We’re in the dining room when you’re ready.”

  Bounding up the stairs as quick as I could, I remembered this. This was so ingrained, it was sad. I felt like I was suffocating. My room, at the top of the stairs and down the hall, was my safe haven from the weight of some very heavy expectations. It was the only place growing up where I was truly free. After I’d turned fourteen and started getting into way too heavy eyeliner and weird coloured hair dyes, Mum and I had our first big falling out. I wish it was the last, but sadly it was just the first of many. From that day she never set foot in my room and I stopped pretending to be okay with being trotted out like a trophy for show and tell.

  When I reached the top of the stairs, I don’t know why, I don’t know what compelled me to, but I turned and looked back. Dad was standing there, hands buried deep in his pockets, his hair ruffled from my fingers with a beaming smile across his face. One so wide he had no chance of hiding it. At least someone was glad to have me home.

  I took my time getting washed up. I knew I shouldn’t. I should get done as quickly as possible and make my appearance, but my feet felt like lead.

  “Carly? Are you okay up there?” Dad’s voice shook me out of my funk.

  “Coming.” Wiping my face on the perfectly lined up peach hand towel, I dropped it on the counter beside me. Glancing down, I realised what I’d done. It would piss Mum off, no doubt. The image alone gave me the confidence to head downstairs and face the music.

  Pushing off the counter, I checked the time. Almost six thirty. I was half an hour late. Oh well, shit happened, really.

  Eighteen minutes.

  Eighteen minutes was all it took for me to get myself a drink, settle at the table, exchange fake pleasantries before the screaming match began. I guess that was better than normal. Some days I didn’t even get through the door before her disappointment and disgust at my choices and appearance pissed her off so much, she was r
eaching for the gin.

  “You…you show up here, looking like…well, looking like that…with barely even an apology for arriving late and interrupting our meal,” Mum huffed, exasperated. Her face was flushed with fury almost the same colour as her hair. If I wasn’t the target of her anger, I’d be as amused as all hell.

  “I did apologise, Mum. And I explained why I was so late. There wasn’t much I could do to hurry the plane onto the ground. Well, nothing legal, anyway. I got here as soon as I could. Besides, where the hell is the golden child, Hayden? He’s not even here yet and it’s almost seven.”

  I knew this would happen. Every second that ticked by while we circled the sky high above Sydney, I was mentally preparing myself for this. Rational people would understand. It was Christmas Eve, after all. My mother, though, she was so far from the rational, normal people category she couldn’t even find it using Google.

  “Carly.” Dad’s deep voice was full of warning. I knew I was skating on very thin ice at the moment, but I couldn’t find it inside myself to care. I was so sick of this shit. So sick of feeling like an outcast and a disappointment to this family. They needed to get over it and pull the stick out of their asses. I was who I was. It took me thirty years to find this person and learn to love her and be okay, and some days I still forgot to. The least they could do was accept me. I wasn’t about to hold my breath, though.

  “Well, where is he?”

  “Your brother is doing Christmas Eve dinner with Felicity.”

  “Who the fuck is Felicity? I thought he married Paula.”

  “Carly! Language!”

  “Seriously? My language is the issue. Fuck me, Mum! Get over it. I might have moved away, and I’m not around every day, but I didn’t drop off the face of the planet. What happened to Paula and his daughter, Emily?”

  “Carly, please calm down,” Dad tried to pacify me. The more he did though, the more worked up and pissed off I became. “You’re right. We could have told you. We should have―”

  “Would it even have mattered?” Mum muttered as she gathered up the plates and scurried towards the kitchen.

  She was the queen of avoidance. Sometimes I wondered if I was even her daughter. I never avoided shit. It didn’t get you anywhere. Not really. Why pussyfoot around the subject talking in riddles when you could just come out and say it and get to the point?

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I was ready to punch something. Or someone. At this point, I didn’t exactly care.

  “It means that had you actually shown up to your own brother’s wedding, you would have known exactly what was going on. Wouldn’t you?”

  “I was out of the country! For work! You knew that. Hayden didn’t care.”

  “He did!”

  “No, Mum, he didn’t. I spoke to him.”

  “You did?” I thought she was going to topple over from shock. Her previously once red, raw face paled as she toppled into the seat sideways. Thankfully Dad caught her arm and righted her before she slipped onto the floor.

  “Yeah, I did. I spoke to him the night he rang looking for Payton.”

  “Looking for Payton?” There went Dad. I thought about finding my phone and calling for an ambulance just in case. Both Mum and Dad looked like they were ready to hurl or pass out. Probably both. Fuck, I hoped not. I didn’t do vomit. Not today. Not ever!

  “Yep. He rang, drunk out of his mind, rambling on about how he lost the best thing that ever happened to him and he wanted to find her. He wanted to know if I’d seen her.”

  “W-what did you say?”

  “I told him I didn’t know where she was, but if he didn’t know either, then she didn’t want him to. I told him if he loved her the way he said he did, he’d let her live her life and be happy.”

  “Shit!”

  “How’d that go down?”

  “He cried. I hung up.”

  “Did you know where Payton was?”

  “Sitting opposite me at the dinner table.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, oh. He doesn’t know. He can’t know.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why? Come on, Mum! Surely you’re not that naïve? Payton is happy. The happiest I’ve ever seen her. And she’s met someone. He worships the ground she walks on. I’m not fucking that up for her. And neither are you!”

  If they thought for a second I’d choose my manwhore of a brother over my best friend, it would only reaffirm how little they knew me.

  “Forget Payton for a second. She’s done and not coming back. What happened to Paula and Emily?”

  I needed a drink. Something stronger than the Coke in my hand. Dad must have read my mind. A moment later he handed me a tall glass filled with orange juice and ice. Taking a small sip, I was almost knocked over by the very healthy swig of vodka he’d thoughtfully added.

  The eerie silence scared me. Within minutes we’d gone from screaming so loudly I’m sure the neighbours knew I was back to a painful silence. I’d missed something big.

  “Come on. Spit it out…”

  “Emily wasn’t Hayden’s.”

  Mum’s confession was so meek I almost missed it. To be honest, I hadn’t seen that coming.

  “What?”

  “He found out right before the wedding.”

  “What do you mean, just before the wedding? Like she was halfway down the aisle, fell to her knees, and confessed her sins? Or like the day before?”

  “Such a drama queen,” Mum said sadly, shaking her head.

  I felt bad. I don’t know where it came from or how it’d crept up on me, but I felt like shit. I wasn’t sure if I felt sorry for Mum and Dad, who were being forced to regurgitate and relive it, or for Hayden, who probably suffered as a result. He deserved to suffer a little for what he did to Payton, but he was still my brother and I did love him. At least, most days I did.

  “The morning of. After being up most of the night, Paula rushed Emily to the hospital. She had some kind of virus. They couldn’t get her temp down. After some tests and antibiotics, everything started to settle. It took a while though.”

  I might have dyed my hair one too many times, ’cause I felt like I missed a major point to this story. Yep, I get Emily was sick. Yep, went to hospital. Yep, got drugs, all good. Where’s the part that Hayden wasn’t her dad? “How did Hayden know?”

  “Blood tests.”

  “Huh?”

  Mum was obviously flustered. I watched as she stood on shaky legs and headed straight for the bar before pouring herself a whiskey and tossing it back in one hearty swallow before refilling her glass and coming back to the table.

  “While she was there, they ran blood tests. We all donated, you know, just in case. Hayden did too. He wasn’t a match.”

  “How’s that work?” I was a photographer, not a scientist. I thought most blood types matched together.

  “Hayden is B positive. Emily was O positive. They’re not compatible.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was Hayden…”

  “Distraught? Fucked up? Pissed off? All of the above? Pretty much. He stayed until everything was okay and Emily was resting. Then he just left. He asked us to take him home, so we did.”

  Now I felt like the world’s biggest bitch. I should have been there. I shouldn’t have cut myself off from them. This was what I was missing out on. Their lives. Hayden’s life. Mum and Dad’s life. They weren’t getting any younger. They wouldn’t be around forever. I needed to make more of an effort.

  Mum threw back the rest of her drink before looking at me through glassy eyes. Usually it didn’t take too much to get her pissed, and tonight was no exception. “You should have been here.”

  Equally as pissed, I retorted without thinking about it. “You should have told me.”

  “Would you have cared?”

  “What the fuck sort of question is that, Mum? Do you really think I’m that heartless that I want to see Hayden shattered like t
hat?”

  “Heartless, no. Selfish, yes.”

  “Selfish? How the fuck do you figure that?”

  Just when I was starting to feel sad and guilty about being gone, Mum had this uncanny ability to push every single one of my buttons and make me so furious I wanted to slap her.

  “You don’t care about anyone but yourself. Look at you! Just have a look in the mirror. Do you even care that you look like something the cat dragged in? Do you care that the neighbours probably saw you standing on the doorstep with your ass hanging out of your shorts, if you can even call them that. Then there’s your hair. Who has hair like that?”

  “Tell me what you really think, why don’t you…” I invited.

  Inside, my fury was bubbling. This, right here, this was why I avoided coming back to this hell hole. This was a perfect example of why I stayed away. Nothing I did was good enough. I’d never be good enough. If only I could accept that and stop trying.

  “You want to know what I think?”

  “Yep.”

  “You sure you can handle it? You’re not going to go running off back to some bush hideaway to pretend you’re something special?” Her words shredded me. I was shaking and ready to explode. Instead I bit my tongue and invited her opinions. Maybe I was a sadistic bitch. Maybe once I heard the words I could stop hoping for a normal, loving relationship with my mother and just let it go. Somehow, I nodded. I don’t remember it, and I’m not even sure I did it, but at some point, Mum decided to let fly with both barrels. “You, Carly, are an embarrassment. You’re an embarrassment to me, to your father, and especially your brother. He’s your blood, Carly. And you sided with the fat nobody, Payton. You run around the world taking pictures with no thought or consideration for the consequences. You aren’t a child anymore. You are a grown woman. It’s about time you started acting like it. You’re thirty. Why can’t you give up this stupid obsession with photos and get a real job? Find somewhere to live instead of just, what do they call it—that’s right, couch surfing—and intruding on your friends. Get a boyfriend. Get a respectable job. Get yourself together. Dress appropriately. Act appropriately. I don’t know why that’s so bloody hard for you to do.”