by R. S. Lively
"That's adorable."
"Yeah. That was how they were. They were each other's world."
"What did they say about Cade?"
"Nothing, really. They introduced us to each other and told me he was the grandson of one of Gramps' friends. He said Cade might be hanging around some that summer, and they knew we'd be good friends."
"And he was right."
"Well, not exactly. Not at first, anyway. To be honest, I don't think we really knew what to think of each other. We were still so young, and I was so painfully awkward. We clashed a lot that first summer, but when it was over and we moved back to the city house, I realized I missed him. He was all I could think about, even though I didn't understand it. I was too embarrassed to talk to Grammie about it, though, so I just figured I would never see him again. When the next summer came, though, there he was. He spent even more time there that year."
"And I bet you started learning a lot more about woodworking," Esme teases.
"I did," I agree. "We started getting really close that summer. I found out his family wasn't exactly the best. He didn't go into a lot of detail, but I figured out the main reason he was here with us so much was so he could be away from them."
"This is not the bubbly-turned-tragic, led by Doris Day and Rock Hudson, effervescent love story I was hoping for."
"Well, Rock Hudson was gay, so your logic is innately flawed. But, I'm getting to the bubbly part. Just hold on."
"Rock Hudson was gay?"
"He was."
"Rock Hudson?"
"Yes."
"The tall one? Dark hair?"
"How many people named 'Rock' are you familiar with?"
"Just him, I guess. I'm just…. Wow. Good job, Toni."
"Who?"
"Toni. Toni Morrison. The little guy who was always in those movies with them."
"That would be Tony Randall, and I really don't think they were lovers."
"Well, that was a missed opportunity."
"Do you want the bubbly part of my story?"
"Yes."
I open my mouth, then close it again, unsure of where to start.
"Damn it, now I lost track of where I was in the story."
"You were exactly nowhere in the story. You were twelve."
"Right. So, by the end of that summer, we were inseparable."
"Until you were separated?"
"You know my struggle. Then that spring break…"
"Woo!"
I jump.
"What the hell was that?"
"Spring break," she says, as if that explains everything.
"Oh. Yes. Spring break. Woo. We, of course, went back to the country, but this time Cade was there. I got the impression Grammie and Gramps didn't really expect him to be there. Like he just showed up knowing we were going to be there, or maybe like he was intending on breaking in. I'm not sure. Anyway, he spent some time with Gramps, and then from then on, he stayed with us. If we were in the house, he was there, too. He slept there, spent every day there. It made it even harder to go back to school, but we spent more and more time together. He was the closest friend I had ever had, but there was so much more to it."
"Obviously."
"To me, maybe, but I didn't know if he felt the same way. He was older, and he had already dropped out of school at this point. I thought maybe he looked at me like a little sister, and that everything I was interpreting as him being interested in me was just the way close friends acted. Remember, I didn't really do the whole friendship thing. He was everything to me, and I was terrified if I said something, it would ruin everything we had. So, I just kept enjoying every moment I had with him. Then the winter I was fifteen, I got really sick."
"Oh, no."
"What, oh, no?"
"This is just like 'Casper'."
"Except I wasn't a twelve-year-old boy, I didn't get sick because I sled too much, and I didn't die and become an ethereal jokester."
"That's true."
"I had strep throat. It was awful, and all I wanted was Cade. Grammie brought me to the country house and I found out Cade was sick, too. We hadn't been anywhere near each other in a few weeks, so it seemed like this amazing connection with each other. I mean, in retrospect, it's gross, but it seemed like fate at the time. So, we spent the day curled up in blankets in front of the TV together watching movies. We drank hot chocolate and tried to make each other laugh. In the middle of one of the movies, he was cradling me in his lap, and he tucked his finger under my chin." I feel my voice catching in my throat as the memory from so many years ago plays out in my mind. “He tilted my face up to his, and he kissed me."
Esme gasps and then lets out a long sigh.
"That is bubbly!"
"I told you. What's funny is, things between us didn't really change much after that. We never said we were dating. Nothing ever became serious between us. Everything was pretty much the same as it had always been. We'd hold hands and cuddle like we always had, but occasionally steal a few kisses. I guess he recognized I wasn't ready for anything more than that. Then a few months later, he went to jail."
Esme gasps again, but this one didn't have any of the dreamy veil of the first.
"Jail?" she asks. "What did he do?"
"He drank with a couple of guys he was working with at the time and got in a fight with his father. It got really bad. He had just turned eighteen a few weeks before, so he was charged as an adult. They didn't give him a long sentence because his father was fighting, too, but when he got out, he called me and told me he wouldn't be coming back to the country that summer. He wouldn't tell me why. Looking back, I know that’s when everything changed."
"What do you mean?"
"We couldn't just be kids flirting and hiding from the world together anymore. For the next couple of years, we didn't see each other nearly as much as we used to, and we talked less and less over time. But he still meant the world to me, and whenever we were together, it was like we had never been apart."
I'm starting to tell Esme more about the end when I hear Grammie call for me. At least, I think it's her. It sounds like a cross between her calling my name and a cat yodeling for its mate at the same time.
"Is whatever that was OK?" Esme asks.
"That was Grammie. She needs something. I'll call you back when I get a chance."
"Wait, that's it? That's all you're going to tell me?"
"I'm sorry. I have to go make sure she's alright. That's the whole reason I'm here, remember?"
"Fine, but you owe me the rest."
"Absolutely. Talk to you soon. Bye."
Slipping the phone under the pillow on my bed like I always do, I head down the hallway toward Grammie.
"Is everything OK?" I ask as I step into the room.
"Is my laundry done?"
"Not yet," I say, trying to stop myself from grimacing. "I haven't switched it over to the dryer yet."
"Oh," she says, her eyes downcast. "Well, that's alright. I'll just stay in these sheets another night. They've been doing me fine for the last two weeks. They'll get me through another day."
"Grammie, I will go finish your laundry. But we really need to talk about that washer and dryer."
"What about them?"
"Have you ever replaced them?"
Grammie looks offended by the question.
"Of course, I've replaced them. You don't think they're original to the house, do you?"
"Well, you aren't original to the house. Doesn't mean you're new."
"I told you, you were going to get sassier when you moved to the city," she says.
I sigh.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I'll go down and switch the laundry from the washer to the dryer. Is there anything I can get for you while I'm down there?"
"No," she says with a heavy breath. "I'll just wait for supper."
I immediately remember I haven't planned anything for supper. It's my first day, and I'm already dropping the ball as caregiver. I hope this isn't foreshadowing wha
t the next three weeks are going to be like.
As I head back down the stairs, I can't help but think about my most recent conversation with Esme. Talking about my history with Cade isn't something I've ever done before. Even as I got older and expanded my friendships, started dating, and even got engaged to Ellis, I always felt like Cade was separate from the rest of my life. He always existed in a little bubble I didn't want anyone else to touch. Esme knew his name, and that he was someone very important from my childhood, but she never knew the whole story, and it feels strange and uncomfortable to go over all of it with her, especially now that I'm back in the house with him again.
The dryer is giving me delightful, screechy background music as I scrounge around the kitchen to find something to make as a snack for Grammie. Outside the storm is raging even louder, and I send a quick prayer to the Electricity Gods to not cast us into darkness. Carrying the snack up the stairs to Grammie, I notice I haven't seen Cade since slipping out of the shower. The bathroom door is standing open, the heavy, steamy air from our shower nearly vanished, and I notice the door to his bedroom is, too. I expect him to be in the room with my grandmother when I go in, but he isn't there, either. She notices my eyes flickering around the room as I approach the bed and offer her a bowl of sliced fruit that probably doesn't go together but was the healthiest option I could find in a pinch.
"What are you looking for?" she asks.
"Nothing," I say.
"Cade?" she asks.
I think I hear a faint hint of mischief in her voice when she says it, but when I look back at her, she is methodically sorting through the bowl to find grapes, popping them in her mouth when she does.
"Why would you ask that?" I ask.
"Because unless you are interested in my blanket collection, or a piece of my sizzling old lady wardrobe, I can't imagine you looking for anything else in my room. Unless you're trying to strategize a way to keep me locked up in here." She stops sorting and looks at me sharply. "You aren't trying to strategize a way to keep me locked up in here, are you?"
"No," I say. "Why would I need to do that, anyway? I thought you couldn't move around except to go to the bathroom."
"That's what the doctor said."
"So, do you know where Cade is?" I ask, trying my best to sound casual.
A smile touches her lips, then disappears.
"I don't," she says. "Why do you want to know?"
"Because I haven't seen him in a while and I am ready to lock up for the night, so if he's outside, he needs to get in."
I'm aware that it's still early in the evening, but she doesn't question it.
"It's nice to have the two of you home again," she says.
"I'm home," I say. "He's a visitor."
"Don't be that way, Fiona."
"Why did you bring us here at the same time?" I ask.
"I explained that to you."
"You know I wouldn't want to be here with him. I haven't been back to the house in years, and in less than an hour after coming home, I'm facing exactly what I didn't want to."
"I didn't think it was going to be that big of a problem. Like you said, it's been years. You two are adults now. I don't even know what happened between the two of you, but you went from inseparable to not even wanting to hear his name overnight, and it never made much sense to me. But I figured that after nearly a decade, you'd at least be able to put whatever happened behind you so the two of you could help me."
Guilt surges through me. Some people are skilled at eliciting the exact right amount of guilt from someone. Grammie is more than blessed with it.
"I'm sorry," I say. "You're right. We're both adults, and we can handle this."
"I should hope so."
Leaving the room, I head back to the kitchen to find something to make for dinner. I still don't know where Cade is, but as I start the microwave to thaw a roast I found in the freezer, scurrying out of the room on the off-chance it explodes in the decrepit appliance, I hear music coming from outside. The unrelenting rain muffles the sound, but it's enough to lure me to the living room and look out at the front porch. Cade sits there on the old glider, a glass in his hand as he looks out over the rainy front yard. His phone is on the table beside him, music spilling out of it. He brings the glass to his lips and takes a long, contented sip. Flashes of afternoons spent together on the glider race through my mind, and I find the strength to walk away from the window. I won’t allow myself to want to be out there with him. I can't pretend the years haven't passed, or that our time together is ever coming back.
6
Cade
The bourbon I had been dreaming about since leaving my house didn’t calm me down as much as I had hoped it would. I can’t sleep. I stare at the ceiling above me, painfully aware that Fiona is just down the hallway. The image of her curvy silhouette illuminated against the shower curtain is burned into my mind, and my body aches with desire. I want to reach out and touch her. But, I know she's not happy I'm here. The expression in her eyes when she opened the door and saw me standing there on the porch was enough to tell me she still hasn’t let go of everything that happened between us in the past. She doesn't seem to care about how much she hurt me, too.
But, this isn't the same woman I last saw ten years ago. She's irresistible. Fiona is an adult now – her body curvier, her voice mature. But she's also angry. Fiona’s even sharper now than when we were kids. I wonder how much of that is because of me, and how much is a result of what she has faced during the years we’ve been apart. There was a time when I felt like I knew almost Fiona better than she knew herself. Now, she's a completely different person. I look at Fiona and barely recognize her. It wasn't until she followed me into the shower, creating two segments of the space with the curtain, that I saw some of the unpredictable, stubborn girl I fell so hard for more than ten ago.
Closing my eyes and taking a deep breath in, I focus on slowing my breathing and try my best to fall asleep. I plan on waking up early and evaluating the house to determine what exactly I’ve gotten myself into, so I need as much rest as I can get.
I'm not sure how long I actually slept, but I wake up to my first alarm – a small miracle, given how tired I am. The rain has completely stopped now, and the sun is just beneath the horizon, spreading a bit of dark purple light up the sky. It is officially morning, and that means I can justify getting out of bed and starting the day. I knock on the partially closed bathroom door and wait several seconds before cautiously sliding it open and peek inside. When I confirm it’s empty, I step inside, locking the door behind me. Once finished with my morning routine, I pull on a pair of jeans, choosing not to bother with a shirt, and head down the stairs as quietly as I can, trying my best not to disturb Grammie or Fiona. I'm halfway down the stairs when one of the loose wooden boards emits a terrifyingly loud creak, breaking through the morning silence. I hadn't noticed the sound last night, but in the predawn darkness, it sounds like an over-the-top horror movie sound effect. I pause, waiting to hear one of the women stirring, but the house falls back into silence, and I continue down the steps, making a mental note to myself to fix that step as soon as possible.
I head directly into the kitchen. The old coffeemaker sits on the counter, taunting me, as the first wisps of sunrise light spill through the curtains on the window. Right. I take out my phone and order a new machine before I forget.
"One more morning," I mutter to the coffeemaker. "One more morning and you’ll meet your replacement."
Feeling like it might have been a mistake to mock the uncooperative coffeemaker before even turning it on, I start the process of brewing a pot. My head is tucked in the bottom of the refrigerator as I try to decide if I want to go through the effort of making an omelet with the two eggs and a chunk of cheese I discovered when I hear a knocking sound behind me. I pause, wondering what could possibly have happened to the coffee maker for it to make that sound. A few seconds later, I hear it again. Straightening, I turn to look at the coffee maker and se
e it bubbling away peacefully, behaving properly as it slowly fills the glass carafe with fresh coffee. I hear the sound again, and the fog of sleep still clinging to me finally lifts enough to turn my attention to the back door positioned behind the kitchen counter. The pink and white gingham curtain hanging over the large window in the middle of the door is sheer enough to reveal the shadowy silhouette of a person standing on the other side. I check the time. The man I hired shouldn't be here for several more hours, and the silhouette doesn't fit the appearance of a young construction worker.
Closing the refrigerator, I walk over to the door and peer through the curtain. A woman with a smile far too cheerful for this early in the morning waves at me through the glass. I don't recognize her, but her sleek dark ringlets, fitted gray suit, and silver hoop earrings don't seem to be the outfit of choice for a pre-dawn burglary. She definitely doesn’t match the stereotypical image of a violent home invader.
