by S. E. Harmon
“You seemed pretty fond of the churros they were selling. Enough to eat four.” I sent him a pointed look. “So I’m still not coming.”
He growled. “The next time you want to see bent silverware in a picture frame, you get to go alone.”
“Yeah? Maybe I’ll actually get a churro next time.” I pushed the loupe back down over my eyes. I was familiar—very familiar—with his guerrilla tactics. “Goodnight, Julian.”
I ignored both his scowl and his “suck it” gesture. Once he finally departed, I cranked the music back up—Sia this time. If I wanted to get out of there any time soon, I had to get a move on. I had no time to think and for once, that was perfectly all right with me.
An hour later, I leaned back in my chair with a sigh. I’d finally finished the iPad, but the little patience I’d had was frayed. My mind had been somewhere else, and something that normally would’ve taken me twenty-five minutes had taken over an hour. But I’d made it through the day, and that was something I could hang my hat on right now.
A quick flip of the lights and a few buttons on the alarm keypad, and I was out of there. I hit the button on my remote fob and my Beemer chirped. I slid into the car and started it up, plugging in my iPhone and thinking of all the things I was going to do when I finally got back home. At the top of that short list was a hot shower and a glass of something that would make me very, very forgetful.
I usually wasn’t that girl—the Sex and the City-watching, Monolo Blahnik-wearing, wine-drinking girl. I liked flats, documentaries, and flavored vodka, and not necessarily in that order. I didn’t have three gorgeous, neurotic girlfriends to complain to. I had one guy friend to confide in. He was plenty neurotic, so there was that.
No matter. When I finally got home, I was going to try to take refuge in bodily pampering. And if I had to channel the hell out of Sarah Jessica Parker to do so, then so be it.
CHAPTER TWO
I never miss a beat… I’m lightning on my feet…
I cracked one eye blearily and glared at the adjoining townhouse wall, where the strains of my neighbor singing “Shake It Off” filtered through.
Now yes, it was a beautiful Saturday morning. Golden sunshine streamed through my bedroom window, warming my skin and reminding me of lazy beach days spent basking in the sun. And yes, sometimes you just had to shake it off. But the noise coming from the other side of that wall was… I tried to think of a word to describe the cacophony and came up blank.
She hit a particularly high note with gusto and I rolled over with a groan. Godawful. While that didn’t exactly cover it, it was a good place to start.
Slowly, I began the process of hauling my carcass out of bed, one limb at a time. A townhouse had sounded like such a brilliant idea five years ago. It was two stories of wide open-floor plan—three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a lot of sleek, modern lines. I’d been particularly drawn to the huge glass windows that were an architect’s dream, but the very devil to clean.
Most importantly, it was part of a co-op, which meant I didn’t have to paint, water grass, drag out a lawnmower, or cut shrubs. Ever. In other words, I didn’t have to do anything remotely related to the sun and sweating. Overall, it all worked for my lifestyle and I loved my home. But on the line graph of my life, my older and grumpier lines were increasing together. Exponentially. It was becoming readily apparent that I was far too old and irritable to share a wall with anyone.
Pancakes.
That was what this morning needed. Sugar, butter, and syrup. I stuck my feet in a pair of Hello Kitty slippers and shuffled to the kitchen. It was small, but it had been more important to me that all the fixtures were top quality. I didn’t enjoy cooking that often, but I did enjoy putting my takeout containers on a beautiful amber granite countertop.
Working on auto-pilot, I stuck a pod in my Keurig and pressed the power button. While I waited, I grabbed a glass bowl, some pancake mix, and set about whipping up a late breakfast. I glanced at the kitchen clock over the stove. 12:36 winked at me in digital numbers. Lunch, then. The smell of brewing coffee went a long way to restoring my mood.
My phone buzzed on the counter and I answered with a yawn, tucking the screen between my cheek and an upraised shoulder. “What?”
“Avery Jane Winters, I left you four messages yesterday. Where the hell have you been?”
I winced at the volume of my sister’s greeting as I threw a handful of blueberries into the batter. “Don’t you middle name me.”
“I’m your older sister and I’ll middle name you all I want.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Older by four years and she’d spent most of that time running her mouth, waiting to torture me right out of the birth canal. Seeing as the need for caffeine had now been upgraded from kind-of-necessary to mission-fucking-critical, I snatched my mug from the Keurig without waiting for the last few drops.
I blew on it briefly and took a long sip before answering. “What do you want?”
She sniffed, clearly in full-blown miffed mode. “Do I need a reason to call my little sister?”
I snorted. Lane never did anything without a purpose—her Type A personality practically demanded that every action be fraught with purpose and meaning. The woman turned a simple trip to the grocery store into a military coup. You get the fruits and veggies, I’ll get the meats and dairy. We’ll meet down the drink aisle in 0800 hours. Go, go, go! And for God’s sake, don’t forget your rewards card!
A breezy four calls on a weekend? I didn’t think so. But I could play along. “Well, if this isn’t an official call, it’s good to hear from you.”
“You too, AJ.” Her voice was sweet as buttercream frosting and I silently called bullshit. “So what have you been up to?”
“Oh, this and that.” I put a pan on the stove and hit it with a couple spritzes of nonstick cooking spray. “Making breakfast. I decided to have blueberry pancakes. What’re you up to this lovely Saturday morning?”
“Oh, I slept in. Did a little laundry. You know. The usual.”
“You sound like you’re in the car,” I said suspiciously.
“I am. I’m picking up the kids from band practice. Then we’ll head home. You know, a lazy Saturday.”
Hah! I knew she was lying, lulling me into complacency, trying to make me comfortable for when she finally laid the evil on me. I was the one who stumbled out of bed mid-morning. By noon, my sister had probably done more than most people did all day. I was willing to wager she’d already been to the dry cleaners, the pharmacy, the post office, and shown her face in at least one superstore… I squinted, thinking. Maybe Target.
I dropped batter into the hot pan, trying to think of anything I’d done lately to warrant four calls and a full name greeting, and came up blank. Luckily, I knew how to push her over the edge. There was one surefire way to make her eyes glaze over—when I started yammering on about my favorite subject. Anything with a plug and a hard drive.
“After I finish breakfast, I’m probably going to work on my computer a little. The cord is fitting a little loose. I’m thinking the cable probably came out of the socket again.”
She paused. “Oh yeah?”
“Mmhm. You know, I stripped the USB cable the last time I pulled it apart, so while I have it open, I’ll probably just install the new one. Computer design flaw, if you ask me. I mean, I love my DV7, but to get to that cord, I’m going to practically take the entire thing apart.”
“Uh huh.”
The glazing had begun. “I have to remove the hard drives, the keyboard, the optical drive and about a million screws before I can even open the case. And God knows that optical drive screw is going to be a bitch. Last time I almost stripped the thing—”
“Mercy!” she finally cried out. “For the love of all that’s holy, mercy. I cave. Christ, you’re an evil little thing.”
“And don’t you forget it.” I brandished my spatula like a pair of nunchucks and did a Jackie Chan kick that sent a Hello Kitty slipper flying. “Now that I’ve
broken your spirit, what do you want?”
“Dad’s sixty-fifth birthday is coming up.”
“I’ll alert the media.”
She ignored me, which was probably for the best. “I know we usually don’t do any huge celebrations or anything, but I think we should throw a party. A small one for the family. I mentioned it to him and he seemed onboard. He wants all his kids there.” At my silence, she prodded, “That means you, Avery.”
“I don’t know if I can get away right now. Work has been really busy lately.” I flipped the pancake out of the pan, aiming for my plate and it landed on the stove’s glass top. I picked it up with a few fingers—hot!—and slid it on the plate anyway. “I can’t leave Julian in the lurch.”
“I spoke to Julian. He said it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle.”
That overly tan, hipster, tight jean-wearing Judas. “When did you speak to Julian?” I demanded.
“This morning. He knows how to return a simple phone call.” Lane sniffed. “He also said you guys have never been doing better, and you’re thinking about opening another location in Miami.”
That spiky-haired little weasel was a dead man when I saw him next. And since he was two inches shorter than my modest five-foot-eight and had not utilized the jujitsu Living Social deal he’d insisted we both buy, I was fairly confident I could take him.
“Having a business doesn’t mean you can’t see your family,” Lane went on. “I seem to manage just fine.”
That was a bit of an understatement. She was a successful CPA with a loving husband and two high-achieving kids, Brittany and Brianna. She had a house in the burbs and made award-winning brownies every year for the church bake sale. Then she put on a perky smile and pearl earrings big and perfect enough to make an oyster say dayum, and helped sell them all. She had been den mother for her youngest daughter’s troop, for crying out loud. Sometimes I eyed the back of her neck beneath her sleek, chic bob of shining dark hair, looking for nuts and bolts. Just to make sure she wasn’t a freaking android who had stuck the real Lane in a pod and launched her into the next galaxy.
“Avery!”
I jolted, realizing she’d been talking and I’d been daydreaming. “I’m listening, I’m listening.” And I’d burned my last pancake. I stuck the hot pan in the sink and flipped the water on.
“Honestly, when’s the last time you came back home?”
“Thanksgiving,” I said smugly. “And that was only…” I ticked off the months on my fingers and faltered. Was it August already? I stared unseeingly at the steam rising from the submerged pan. Almost a year, then. Considering Coral Bay was only ten hours away, that was pretty pathetic. Apathetic, really.
Lane was uncharacteristically silent and I floundered for a moment, trying to think of something to say in my own defense. In the end, I said the only thing that I really could say. Should say. I sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” she said. “It’s not like I’ve been so much better. Just be there.”
That was a harder request than it seemed on its surface. I loved my family, but sometimes it was too hard to be there without our mother. It was like someone had stuffed all of the happiness and light and warmth from my childhood home in a mason jar, screwed the lid on tight, and set it adrift in the ocean.
Five years and sixteen days. No, that sounded two short. Two million, six hundred fifty-one thousand, forty minutes. It was the same amount of time, but sometimes I measured it in minutes because that was how it felt…like I was still marking each minute and floundering in the water, waves crashing over my head, searching for that jar. I still couldn’t get over walking in that door and knowing she wasn’t there. Not at the store, buying anything in bulk she could get her mitts on. Not on a trip with her students or at a teacher’s conference. Not in the yard, knee-deep in mulch, fussing over her roses.
Gone.
I bit my lip, wishing I hadn’t burned that last pancake. This was really shaping up to be a three-oh-I-shouldn’t-have pancake morning. “I’ll try.”
There was a sharp honk on her end and she muttered, “You’d think band practice could end on time at least once in a blue moon. These kids are practicing like they’re Aerosmith.”
Grateful for the change in subject, I asked, “Do the twins still play the flute?”
Lane snorted. “I wish. No, apparently, playing the flute is too girly now. Bree has taken up the duduk.”
“Should I even ask?”
“Something strange and expensive. It satisfies her urge to play lonely songs of an unfilled life that make you want to slit your own throat. She’s also quite goth now. Did I mention that?”
“Uh, no, you didn’t.”
“Well, she is. And Brit quit band all together.”
My eyebrows shot up. “But she was so talented. I paid a fortune for those flutes!”
“Oh yes, AJ, because that’s what middle school girls are obsessed with. Practicing and honing their craft.”
I stuffed a piece of pancake in my mouth, chewing slowly. I’d practiced and honed my craft so I could get an ounce of recognition in a family of high achievers. What did I know about normal? Art had dominated the creative arts and Lane had covered the rest. By the time I’d begun playing clarinet, Art was already first-chair in marching band. He’d gone on to be one of the drum majors in his college band.
That time I’d spent the entire summer preparing for volleyball try-outs, Lane had been nice enough to practice with me. We spent the entire summer practicing and running drills in the hot sun. When I finally tried out, she’d decided to try out as well. She’d been a fucking superstar, and I hadn’t even made the team. The same went for cooking, soccer, and one strange summer of powder puff football. I’d spent my entire life trying to carve out a niche where I could be the best.
As the youngest, I’d wanted a chance to stand out and get my parents’ approval all to myself. They’d been serious about achievements, and I’d been serious about getting them. If they’d admired the space shuttle, I probably would have been in the garage the next day, trying to score some rocket fuel and old shuttle parts off eBay. So quitting the flute just because? That was completely out of my wheelhouse.
Another honk sounded on her end. “If they haven’t signed a record deal with someone, I’m going to be pissed.” Honk!
I laughed. “Thank you, Laney, for lifting my spirits. I really needed this.”
She was silent for a moment. “I heard about Adam. I wasn’t… I just didn’t know how to bring it up.” Her voice got sharper. “I already told Dad what I’m going to do if I lay eyes on him.”
It wasn’t enough that Adam just be my fiancé—his parents were next-door neighbors with my father. Our fathers had fished together. Gone to Dolphins games together. Planned cookouts together. All things that had made it even easier for Adam to blend in with my family. He and my brother Art had gotten to be the best friends, and I hadn’t demanded that Art give him up. Even if it had meant the world when he’d offered.
It didn’t help that my dad had loved Adam. After a son who abhorred sports and loved cooking, my old school father had almost died and gone to heaven to find another sports enthusiast. A college baseball star with a pitching arm so fast it almost seemed bionic? The adoration on my father’s face had been comical. I’d almost expected to see Facebook engagement pictures of the two of them instead.
“It’s fine if I see him,” I said, stuffing more pancake in my mouth. “His parents live right next door. And you know he visits them all the time.”
Lane huffed. “If he even so much as sets a foot on our deck, I’m gonna—”
“It’s fine. We’re not Romeo and Juliet for chrissakes. We’re just two people who didn’t work out.” I blew out a breath. “Luckily, he figured it out before I did.”
“How do you know he wasn’t a cheating bastard?” Lane was obviously that kid who tried to poke at animals in the zoo. “Nicole was his teaching assistant. All those late nights…”
And don’t think I hadn’t thought about it. “It’s the past.”
“You really think he broke up with you before they—”
“Lane.” My teeth clicked as my jaw got tight. Was it really too much to ask that everyone not talk about my lack of a love life for a little while? “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You never do.” Her voice cracked a little. “I just love you, Avery. That’s all.”
My throat felt tight all of a sudden, and it was a minute before I could respond. “I love you, too.”
And then, like all brothers and sisters since the dawn of time, she ruined it. In fact, I was fairly certain when Cro-Magnum man dragged home a woolly mammoth, his brother stared at it for a minute and said, “I killed one twice that size yesterday.” And so was the birth of a legion of moment killers.
“Aunt Rebecca has a friend she’d like you to meet.” Lane cleared her throat. “His name is Ryan. She said he might stop by the house at some point.”
Silence. And she deserved it.
“Don’t try to ignore me,” she said. “He’s sweet. He’s an egghead, too, just like you. Some sort of engineer, I think.”
Judging from my current karma status, I must have killed someone in my past life. I hoped it was worth it. “Lane,” I began, striving for calm, “I don’t—”
“He’s handsome and single and really eager to meet you,” she continued, cheery and delusional as any good eHarmony commercial. “You guys might really hit it off.”
“Not interested.”
“And if he doesn’t work out, there’s this guy I work with that might be a good match for you. Darren. He’s in our finance department.”
No, I must have been more than a casual murderer. I must have been a goddamned serial killer. The kind that hid body parts in the freezer and consumed them at leisure. I sighed. “Lane, I don’t want to go on a blind date right now.”
“Why not?” she demanded.
Because even though I didn’t work for the psychic friends network, I was pretty sure I was having a vision. A ghastly, dreadful vision. I gave my mental 8-ball another vehement shake, but the visions remained.
