Relapse

by J. P. Nicholas

  "Oh, dear God."

  "Keep reading," Kelsie giggles.

  IdiomLover93: I'm normally a straight-A student, however, in this class I received a C+ (intentionally). Truth is, I wanted more excuses to visit Professor Gracen in his office, so I may have botched a few assignments just to have more reasons to set up a meeting. I highly recommend you do the same!

  That is beyond stupid.

  OnceUponATaco: Take this class and try not to picture him shirtless. Or better yet, naked and on top of you, whispering naughty things into your ear with that pussy-dripping accent of his. I DARE YOU!

  "Alright. I have read enough," I proclaim, passing Kelsie's phone back to her.

  "And think, that's just the crap they post online. Imagine how descriptive they get in person when chatting with their friends. Real Kama Sutra type shit."

  I shudder at the thought. "I'd rather not."

  Kelsie's bellowing laugh fills the room. "You know, it's not a problem to have all your students find you studly."

  Wyatt comes running up to my side, barking for my attention. I know exactly what he wants. "Sure thing, lad. Just let me get changed."

  * * *

  The wind smacks across my face as the sand wedges between my toes. Wyatt is running by my side, his fur coat blowing crazily in the breeze.

  This is how we both prefer to start our mornings. I've always loved running. I picked it up when I moved to the States for university eight years ago. Running isn't as fun back home, with the busy London traffic and hectic Londoner lifestyle. That's partly why I decided not to move back home after I graduated. I would miss this pastime too much.

  Wyatt must love it too. Ever since he was a puppy, he has gone running with me every single morning. Rain or shine. And here we are, five years later, continuing the tradition.

  There is just something relaxing about running. As the foamy waves crash against my feet, I suck in a deep breath, replenishing my lungs with oxygen. My body succumbs to the overwhelming urge of excitement surging through my veins. God, I wish I could bottle this feeling and carry it around with me everywhere. That's how much I love it.

  Running refreshes both my body and my mind. It has helped me get through a lot of tough times in my life. Like the time I told my father I wasn't coming home after graduation. Or the time my mum had a miscarriage. And the worst day of my life. The day I dubbed Dark Tuesday. For that was the day when I stupidly let the love of my life walk away forever. Ever since then, I bloody hate Tuesdays. All of them can go fuck off.

  I ended up running a marathon the year she left, to help get my mind off her. It worked for a little while, but once the marathon was over, she returned to my thoughts. That's when I knew I needed to find someone to fill the void in my heart that she left. That's when I rescued Wyatt. Or more accurately, that's when Wyatt rescued me.

  The original owner surrendered him to a shelter at only six weeks old. According to the woman at the shelter, he had three days to find a new home before he would be euthanized. As soon as I laid eyes upon him, I knew instantly that he was just what I was missing. And not a day goes by that I am not eternally grateful for that decision. Wyatt is my best mate, and I wouldn't have it any other way. He is family, and I love him unconditionally.

  "Yoo-hoo! Darren, wait up," Ms. Abney's peppy voice stops me in my tracks. What on Earth does she want now? Usually, I try to avoid her at all costs. I'm a very private person who doesn't like attention. So naturally, the gossipy woman who owns the Gazette is not somebody I like to engage in conversation. Everything you say to her can and will be used against you on pages one through six.

  As Ms. Abney sashays her way over to us, in high-heels nonetheless, Wyatt starts to growl under his breath. My thoughts exactly.

  "I'm so happy to have caught you." She pauses when she catches sight of Wyatt's unwelcoming demeanor. "You know, your dog is never happy. It's not normal."

  "He was quite content a few moments ago,” I grit out, reaching down to pet the top of his head. This seems to ease his frustration because he stops growling and decides to go play in the ocean. I've never been more envious of a dog in my life. He gets the luxury of running away. I don't. "What is it you want, Ms. Abney?"

  "I will never tire of your accent, Dear. It's quite lovely on the ears." I can't help but be reminded of the reviews I read this morning. This accent seems to appease a lot of people, according to Kelsie anyway. "You know you are a fine young gentleman. It's really a shame you are still single after all these years."

  I start to lose my patience with her. "Is that why you're here? To try to set me up again? Because I won't stand for it."

  She shakes her head. "No. That's not it. I had a phone call with Dean Chambers this morning. He wanted me to tell you to meet him in his office at ten tomorrow morning."

  I narrow my eyes at her, well aware that she is up to something. I just don't know what. "Why would the dean of the history department want to meet with an English professor?"

  She shrugs. "Beats me. I'm just the messenger."

  "Sure, you are," I remark, my voice oozing with sarcasm.

  She raises her hands to re-fluff the ends of her red hair, which was tousled by the wind. "Well, I'll leave you to it then."

  She starts to walk away before she turns and calls back to me. "Remember, tomorrow at ten. Don't be late!"

  Chapter Five

  Aly

  We pull up onto the driveway of my mother's new house off Dolphin Parkway. It's drop-dead gorgeous!

  It's a beautiful pastel yellow house with a white wraparound porch, just like she's always wanted. Clearly, my brother, Logan, bought this for her when she decided to move down here. By the looks of it, he must've used that new TV money he recently acquired. This house just screams expensive! I mean, there is a frickin' fountain in the middle of this massive driveway, spewing out its fancy streams of sophistication.

  Logan, who used to be an established Broadway actor, signed on to film a new television series on the Universal lot in December. I don't know what the show is about yet because he has been sworn to secrecy with all that legal mumbo-jumbo. But since he told me last week that the pilot was picked up, I can only assume I will find out soon enough, hopefully before it pops up on my TV. Being the sister of the star, I would like to think I would get some kind of VIP insider knowledge.

  "Thank you so much for the ride, Mr. Jones," I say, leaning over the stick-shift to give him a grateful hug. He puts the car in park before he wraps me into his embrace.

  "Anytime, darlin'. Let me get your luggage from the trunk."

  "Oh, that's not necessary—”

  “—but it's my pleasure," he cuts me off. I should have known better. Mr. Jones has always been the epitome of a Southern Gentleman. If I remember correctly, his mother forced him to take cotillion with his cousin when they were preteens. That is a secret I swore to take to my grave as he told it to me in the strictest of confidence. His words to me were if Ms. Abney found out, my life would be over. That may sound like a drastic exaggeration, but I honestly believe it to be true. If she ever found out, Ms. Abney would never let him live that one down; that’s for sure.

  Mr. Jones is fast. He grabs my luggage from his truck bed and is opening the passenger side door for me all before I can jostle the handle loose myself. Damn, he's good.

  He offers me his hand, and I take it, allowing him to guide me back down to ground level. "Thank you."

  He shrugs as he releases my hand. "Did you forget what I've taught you already? You don't have to thank a gentleman—"

  “—for being kind," I finish for him. A classic Mr. Jones mantra.

  A grin stretches across his face. "You remember."

  I laugh. "How could I forget? You told it to me every day for at least twelve years."

  "'Cuz you kept thanking me."

  "'Cuz I'm polite," I justify, mimicking his southern drawl. This earns me a rare and hearty belly laugh, causing his shoulders to shake with mirth.

  He
checks his watch before he nods his head toward his truck. "I hate to leave so soon, but I've got to get back to the Joe. Darlene can't handle the two o'clock rush like you can."

  We wave our goodbyes as I watch his white F150 reverse off the driveway and roll down the street.

  I turn on a dime and stride up the gray brick driveway. I cannot wait to see the look on my mother's face when she opens the door. She didn't know I was coming this early. Hell, a week or so ago, neither did I. But after the whole Wine Debacle, I just had to get away from there. It pained me too much to walk around aimlessly without a job and purpose. I was just on the verge of making it, truly living my dream once and for all. I was supposed to be in Spain right now for heaven’s sake. And just like that…POOF! It’s all gone in the blink of an eye. I may never drink an ounce of wine again…probably. Maybe. Oh, who am I kidding? I’m not giving up wine.

  I wipe the one stray tear that fell from my cheek. Just thinking about it now still makes me emotional. I decide to shake the thought out of my head as I knock on the wooden door. When it swings open, I find myself just as surprised as she is. Hoisted on my mother's hip is my eight-month-old nephew, Jack. She opens her mouth to speak, but I beat her to it.

  "You have Jack?" I try my best to contain my excitement, but I fail. I haven't had the chance to come down here and see him much due to work obligations. Guilt pangs at my chest when I realize that I haven't seen him since he was born. Well, in-person anyway. I have definitely been sent the weekly pictures from both Hannah and Logan. Honestly, I live for seeing his adorable face light up my phone screen in the morning. I've been a horrible and neglectful aunt, but I'm determined to make up for it now while I'm down here.

  "I do. I'm babysitting him every day this week while Hannah is on her virtual book tour." She turns to her grandson and switches to her baby voice. "You love visiting Grandma. Don't you? Don't you?"

  Jack giggles in response. Note to self: Jack loves when you speak to him in his native tongue.

  My mom turns her gaze back to me. "What brings you down so early? I thought you were supposed to arrive with Ethan next month."

  Even though she is my mother and we have always shared that unbreakable mother-daughter bond, I have never been the kind to burden her with all my problems. "I thought I'd come down here to help Hannah with the wedding preparations."

  Her eyes narrow as she scans my face. She is going to see through my bullshit; I know this, but I still lied to her anyway. Being able to read me like a book has always been one of her special motherly powers.

  We Lance children have a theory. Sherry Lance had four children, granting her the four motherly superpowers she has today. Despite losing our brother Ryan in active duty, our mother still has all four of her superpowers. Losing him didn’t change that. The first superpower she possesses is her magnificent bullshit detector. She can see through any pile of bullshit that her children throw her way. Two, she has owl-like hearing. There is no word that can be murmured or whispered under your breath that her ears cannot attune to. Three, she has invisible eyes all around her head, not just in the back! To this day, my mother can still see everything that is happening in a room, whether she is looking at you or not. Try sneaking cookies from the cookie jar with her in the vicinity…I dare you. And last, but certainly not least, she has the look. You know the kind I'm talking about. Every mother in the history of forever has perfected that look over generations. The kind that she just shoots your direction and you freeze. The look that strikes fear into both her enemies and her allies alike. Regardless of what you are doing, once the look comes out, you stop whatever it is and go to her ASAP. It's a mother's summoning call. A bat-signal for her children, if you will.

  "Nice try, Alyssa. Now tell me what's actually going on."

  She gestures me inside and guides me to the kitchen table, where, coincidentally, lays a freshly baked cinnamon apple pie—her signature dish. My mouth waters as the cinnamon aroma lingers in the air. As we gather around the island in the kitchen, she puts Jack in his highchair, and I fill her in on everything that has been going on over the past month.

  We sit there in silence as my mother processes the overload of information I tossed her way. Her nose scrunches as she purses her lips, her brain kicking into overdrive. I can almost see the steam blowing out from her ears. She is trying to connect the dots; I know that much. What I don't know is what specific part of my story she is considering so intensely.

  While my mother is lost in her thoughts, I shift my gaze over to Jack. He is experimenting with the Cheerios resting on the lip of his highchair. Poking them with his fingers, examining every single one before deciding which lucky one is the chosen Cheerio to pop into his mouth. Pop. I guess we have a winner.

  I want to play with him, but since he is preoccupied at the moment, I guess I'll just settle for watching him. Jack has his mother's beautiful crystal blue eyes and button nose, along with my brother's smile. And God help all the women he encounters growing up because with that smile comes my brother's infamous dimples. The kind that has been known to make your heart flutter and your mind grow hazy—or so I've observed.

  Growing up with three brothers, I have seen many females lose their minds with just a dimple flash and a wink. Most of them were my friends whom I invited over for sleepovers. I had to hear all about how all my brothers were extremely hot and how much they wanted to, for lack of a better word, tap that. Trust me when I say that no girl ever wants to hear that her brothers are anything but gross and annoying. So, words like fuckable and attractive top the do-not-mention-to-me-ever list.

  "Are you going to meet with Ms. Abney?" My mother's questioning tone snaps me back from my train of thought. I shift my gaze from Jack and back to her.

  "I don't see why I shouldn't. It's just a meeting, right?"

  It is just a meeting. And I’m kinda in need of a job at the moment.

  My mom rubs a finger over her bottom lip before she points it at me. "I've learned never to trust that Abney. She is always up to something." She pauses to grab the Cheerio box on the table and pour some more for Jack, who pounds his highchair enthusiastically. "However, having experience as a college professor will open a lot more doors for you back home."

  I wave my hand in the air. "My thoughts exactly!"

  "I don't know what she is planning, but I guess we will just deal with it when the time comes. For now, I think you should meet with her and try to land this position."

  "Ba. Ba. Ba. Ba. Baaaaa."

  We both turn our attention toward Jack. He is giggling infectiously as he slams his hands on the flat surface in front of him. This causes Cheerios to fly to the floor, but he's so damn adorable, his grandma doesn't seem to mind. I don't blame her. I wouldn't mind if I was in her position either.

  I think it’s time for a much-needed aunt-nephew play-date.

  * * *

  I spent the rest of the afternoon playing with Jack. That consisted of rolling around on the floor, crawling in-and-out of a cardboard box, and pretending that watching the same episode of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse—that my mother had previously DVR’d—repeatedly was riveting each and every time. Although it was kind of tedious, I enjoyed spending time with him. However, I think I will lay off watching anything with Mickey Mouse in it for a while. I'm moused-out.

  After I finish unpacking in my mother's guest room, I glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand. A quarter to six. Time to head to the bakery to meet Ms. Abney.

  "You can take my car," my mother yells down the hall, quickly clasping her hand over her mouth when she remembers that Jack is taking a nap in the other room.

  I shake my head. "No, thank you. I prefer to walk. Ring My Bell isn't that far anyway."

  Before she has the chance to argue, I slide out the door and quietly close it behind me, being mindful of my slumbering nephew. I sprint down the long, winding driveway and around the fancy-ass fountain, not giving my mom the chance to open the door and chuck her car keys at my head. She has bee
n known to do that in the past.

  The summer breeze tousles my brown hair, convincing me to put it up in a ponytail as I walk down Dolphin Parkway toward the roundabout. I can spot Miller Manor towering in the distance. The once cyan colored house is now a sun-bleached white. Its plantation shutters are hanging on the hinges. Shingles are still scattered all over the yard from Hurricane Francine, which hit Sandy Heights two years ago. The house has clearly seen better days. It’s such a shame too. The house used to be so vibrant, full of life and happiness. It was an iconic staple of this beautiful town, but now, it's just an eyesore.

  I check my watch. I've got time to spare. I take a quick detour down Mango Avenue and stop right in front of the Miller Manor. Swiftly, I slide my phone out of my back pocket, snap a quick picture, and send it to Ethan.

  Aly: What the Miller Manor looks like since Mrs. Miller passed away. Sad, isn't it?

  Ethan: No! That house was so beautiful. I would LOVE to get my hammer in there ;)

  Aly: Gross! That sounds so wrong!

  Ethan: Get your mind out of the gutter, Aly. Any word on who's restoring it?

  Aly: Nope. Mom told me that the deed to the house went to her granddaughter. Who is clearly neglecting it. SMH.

  Ethan: Keep me posted if she decides to fix it up.

  Aly: Will do.

  The screen fades to black as I lock it and slide it back into my pocket.

  I mosey my way around the roundabout to Starfish Court, aka the residing street of the Ring My Bell Bakery. Quirky name for a bakery, I know. To any outsider, it would make no sense. But to a native such as myself, it makes perfect sense. The owner is a lovely woman named Evelyn Bell. From what I remember, she is as sweet as her delicious treats. I doubt she has changed much. Between her and her husband, you have all your basic food needs covered. Frank Bell owns Farm Fresh Groceries, the only grocery store in all of Sandy Heights. I don't know how he came up with that name. He never answered that question when I interviewed him for the school paper back in high school. Maybe there isn't a reason for it. I guess not everything needs a rhyme or reason. He must have just liked the name.