Anika takes the long way home up soul mountain: A lesbian romance (Rosemont Duology Book 2)

by Eliza Andrews

  I sit down at the table next to Gerry, stealing a glance at Mom. At least her eyes aren’t red-rimmed from crying this morning, so that’s good. I’ll take an angry Momma over depressed Momma any day of the week.

  “So. Today’s the big day, right?” I say, referring to the surgery.

  Dad walks over behind my mother, places his dal on the table and his hands on her shoulders. She reaches up automatically, squeezes his fingers. It’s a gesture I’ve seen repeated countless times over the decades, and it brings out another painful whisper of Jenny from somewhere deep within the recesses of my mind.

  I look down, focus on my eggs.

  Dad shakes his head as he massages Mom’s shoulders. “The surgeon called yesterday. We’ve been rescheduled for Monday afternoon.”

  I glance around the table, taking in the faces. Gerry’s gazing off into the distance, still stewing on something. Likewise, Mom’s also distracted, and Dad, as always, is distracted by Mom.

  I decide to confront whatever’s happening head-on. “Is that what you guys were fighting about? The surgery?”

  Gerry brings his attention back to the table, looking at me, then our parents. “No. I brought up the payroll situation.”

  Oh, Jesus. I might actually need coffee for this.

  “And we told your brother it’s none of his business,” Mom says, biting off each word.

  “We made payroll,” Dad says, and by the way he says it, I get the feeling it’s not the first time he’s said it this morning.

  “We made payroll, yeah, but not with enough money left over to buy groceries next week,” Gerry retorts.

  “We’re managing just fine!” Momma yells, one of her hands curling into a fist on top of the Observer. “We’ve managed Soul Mountain for twenty-five years, and we’ve out-lasted almost every other business in downtown Marcine. We don’t need you telling us how to run it.”

  “Buying groceries on a credit card every week isn’t sustainable,” Gerry says. “And from the looks of your credit card bill, you’ve been doing it for a while.”

  My mother tilts her head back, looking up at my father’s face above her. “Why does he have access to your accounts, Pathik?”

  He ignores her question, addresses Gerry instead. “The restaurant goes up and down. You know that. We won’t always be in trouble the way we are now.”

  Gerry wipes a hand down his face, trying to contain his temper. (Dutch, Gerry, and I all take after my mother in the temper department. PJ is as mellow as his namesake.)

  “How can you not be concerned about this?” Gerry presses. “Dinner’s been busier than I’ve ever seen it, we’re getting more customers than ever before — ”

  “Which is why we aren’t concerned, babu,” Dad says.

  “Don’t call me that, I’m not anybody’s little boy anymore,” Gerry snaps, rejecting the Nepalese term of endearment. “We’re barely scraping by. We’re one disaster away from shutting our doors.”

  Everyone reverts to tense silence.

  “It will work out,” Dad says after a few seconds. He sits down to eat his dal.

  I argue with myself for a moment, oscillating back and forth between wanting to weigh in and wanting to stay out of it. But frankly, I’ve never been fucking capable of keeping my fucking mouth shut, so the internal argument doesn’t last long.

  “What’s with the loan?” I ask my parents. “Gerry showed me the books. Seems like all the profit’s being eaten up with loan payments.”

  Momma purses her lips, and the look on her face says I’m about to get a sharp verbal slap that begins with a drawled-out, “Giiirlll…”

  But before she can speak, my father surprises me by being the one to answer. “As we told your brother. It’s not your concern.”

  Gerry draws in a breath to start a fresh tirade, but I reach my hand under the table, put my hand on his leg. He deflates, the air rushing out from between clenched teeth. It’s rare that I’m the one advocating for calm and diplomacy, but if my father’s the one putting his foot down, then the conversation definitely isn’t going to go anywhere. Mom’s normally the stubborn one. Dad stepping in indicates something major, something absolutely out-of-bounds. At least for now.

  I decide to change the subject. “So, uh, if the surgery isn’t happening tonight, do you guys think I could get the evening off? I kind of made plans.”

  This seems to surprise Gerry. “Plans?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “That’s this word that means you have an intention to do something other than hanging out at your parents’ restaurant for fifteen hours straight.”

  “It’s fine,” Dad says. “And thank you for taking on so much for us the last few days.”

  I shrug. “It’s what I’m here for, right?”

  Mom’s lips purse again and she raises an eyebrow like she questions my motives. Which isn’t very fucking cool, if you ask me, given that I broke my basketball contract and dropped my whole fucking life to come back and help. Not that I had much of a life to drop.

  But before I can give her a defensive What?, my dad runs with the topic change like the diplomat he is.

  “What have you got planned, Ani?” he asks conversationally. “Seeing old friends?”

  “Something like that. It’s Grace Adler’s bachelorette party tonight. Turns out she’s getting married this weekend.”

  My brother’s face clouds and he squints at me skeptically. “You hate Grace Adler.”

  “Hate’s a strong word, babu,” I say.

  “Don’t fucking call me — ”

  “Language!” my mother snaps.

  “Oh, come on. We’re not teenagers anymore, Mom,” Gerry says.

  She points at the ceiling. “Whose roof is that, Geronimo? Mine or yours?”

  He groans. “Yours. But — ”

  “‘But’ nothing,” Mama says, warming up to a lecture. “My roof, my rules. I’m tired of hearing my children use foul language at my kitchen table. You’d think we never taught you any better.”

  It’s a surrogate argument, of course. They’re power-struggling over language because my parents already shut Gerry down on the topic of the restaurant.

  And once again, it’s my father who intervenes. Always the peacemaker.

  “It’s nice that you’re supporting Grace,” he says, as if my mother and brother aren’t steaming at each other on either side of him. “And I’m sure you’ll run into lots of other people you grew up with at the party. It must be a very long time since you’ve seen them.” He smiles around a spoonful of dal. “It will be a nice reunion for you, bahini.”

  Gerry’s still skeptical. “You’d never go to a bachelorette party voluntarily, let alone Grace Adler’s. Is this about that girl? Amy?”

  I give Gerry the kind of death stare older sisters reserve specifically for their younger brothers.

  “Who’s Amy?” asks Mom.

  “Just someone I met on the plane. She’s in town for Grace’s wedding. Turns out they went to college together.”

  My mom raises her eyebrows, doesn’t say anything. My dad gets interested in his breakfast. As much as they didn’t like the idea of me being with Jenny, they’ve liked even less the parade of short-term relationships and one-night stands that have characterized my love life over the last decade. I don’t blame them for thinking a girl I met on the plane and who will only be in town for a little more than a week is yet one more example of my inability to settle down with someone.

  I think about defending myself, telling them whatever they’re thinking is wrong and that there’s something different about what’s growing between Amy and me, but the truth is they’re probably not wrong.

  What I say instead is, “So you don’t care if I take the night off, right?”

  My father nods and smiles. “Of course. I was planning to cover the dinner shift tonight anyway. Enjoy the party.”

  #

  After I finish breakfast and shower, I send a group text to my brothers and sister.

  Sibling mee
ting,

  my text announces.

  2pm CST. Skype. It’s important.

  What’s it about?

  Dutch asks.

  I’m busy at 2pm

  PJ replies.

  You’ll find out what it’s about.

  PJ, clear your schedule.

  This is really short notice

  he answers.

  Sorry. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t

  important.

  Is this about Mom?

  writes Dutch.

  Goddammit you two.

  I’m not explaining over

  text. That’s why we’re

  meeting. Just show up.

  I’ll see what I can do.

  PJ says.

  Fine

  Dutch says, then inquires:

  Gerry??

  My phone dings immediately with Gerry’s reply.

  I’ll be there. And Anika’s right, this

  is important

  he says.

  See u 2 online.

  Chapter 25: Siblings. Jesus.

  Back to the future: Five and a half years ago. Marcine, Ohio, at Dutch’s wedding.

  I’ve got the blonde pinned against one of the bandstand pillars, one of my hands halfway up her shirt, the other holding myself steady, braced against the railing. I’ve definitely met better kissers in the three years since Jenny and I broke up — this girl alternates between a full-mouthed, moaning sloppiness and this weird sort of pecking thing that I can’t really say turns me on, but I’m drunk and she’s drunk and her hair’s almost the same color as Jenny’s, and so I don’t mind the fact that —

  A hand grabs my elbow, yanks me away from the bandstand pillar. I spin unsteadily in the direction of the hand and am confronted with a wavering rendition of my three siblings. In my drunken haze, they look like a superhero movie poster, the three of them spread out and serious, staring at me with solemn eyes. The only thing they’re missing is fucking capes.

  Dutch stands point, one hip popped to the side, hands on the hips of her strapless white wedding gown. PJ is behind and to her right, looking profoundly uncomfortable; Gerry is behind and to her left. From the way he sways, from the slackened face and drooping eyelids, it’s clear he’s either very high or very trashed.

  “Anika?” the blonde says behind me. And then she must see my siblings, because I hear an, “Oh!,” and out of my peripheral vision, I see her slip away. I turn, open my mouth to call her name, but realize I can’t remember it.

  I spin towards my sister, almost losing my balance in the process. “What the fuck, Dutch?”

  “Don’t you ‘what the fuck’ me, Anika,” my sister says. “This is my wedding.”

  “No, it’s not. Your wedding was hours ago. This is the fucking recep…” I lose the word for a moment before I find it again. “The reception,” I finish with a slur.

  Arms still tight against her chest, she lifts a single finger and points at me. “We’re having a family intervention,” she declares.

  “A family…” My face twists into an ugly sneer, and I point at Gerry. “If you want to have a family intervention, have it for the fucking junkie.”

  Gerry points unsteadily at himself. “Hey, not cool. This isn’t junk. I’ve been clean for months. This is just… wedding punch and way too many champagne toasts.”

  “This isn’t an intervention about drinking, anyway,” PJ says. “Although you’ve been doing it a lot since you’ve been home.”

  I lean against the pillar the blonde girl (damned if I can remember her name) was occupying a moment earlier, mainly because Gerry’s swaying is making me feel seasick and I need something that will anchor me.

  “This is about you and that girl,” Dutch says, practically spitting the word “girl.”

  I point in the direction of the missing blonde. “Who? Her? What’s wrong with — ”

  “Not her,” PJ interrupts. He’s using his stop-playing-around-this-is-serious-business big man voice. “Jenny.”

  The name strikes like a poison dart in my chest. And as if he really did impale me in the heart, I stand there practically fucking bleeding, mouth gaping, not able to say shit.

  Gerry chuckles, because apparently the way my siblings have just blindsided me amuses him.

  “Jenny’s married now,” Dutch informs me.

  “I know that,” I say. “You think I don’t know that?”

  “And she has a son,” PJ adds.

  “I know that.”

  “It’s been over between you two for three years, Anika, almost four,” Dutch continues. Her face softens, and if I didn’t know my big sister inside and out, I would almost say her tone has become sympathetic. “You have to stop acting like this is just a temporary break.”

  “I know it’s over. And I’m not acting like it’s a temporary break. Hell, I was fucking acting like it was over five minutes ago, in case you didn’t notice, until you three musketeers came over here and so rudely interrupted.”

  Gerry laughs again. “And everyone says I’m the one living in denial.”

  “I saw you with her, earlier today,” PJ says, taking a step forward. “You had lunch together. And left the restaurant together.”

  “So what? You’ve got a problem with people who are friends with their exes? You’d better not be implying what I think you’re implying,” I say. “Jenny’s been my best friend since high school. And we’re still friends. We can still hang out.”

  “For her, maybe you’re just friends,” Dutch says. “For you, no. You cannot hang out with her anymore, because for you, it’s not about being ‘friends.’”

  “The fuck? So you’re Mom now? Telling me who I can and can’t hang out with? Telling me I can’t — ”

  Dutch cuts me off. “She’s moved on. You haven’t. That’s the difference. And we’re sick of watching you torture yourself over her.”

  PJ coughs gently against a closed fist, a sign he’s about to say something that might actually be — God fucking forbid — confrontational. “You forget I’m staying at Mom and Dad’s, too. I heard you last night after you got home from hanging out with her.”

  I feel a little faint, and it’s not just the wedding punch. “What do you mean, you heard me?”

  “I heard you crying, sis.”

  “The fuck you did.”

  Dutch squints at me. “Did you sleep with her? Since you’ve been back in Ohio — did you two…?”

  “That’s none of your fucking business.”

  “Oh my God. You did. Didn’t you?”

  I look away.

  “She’s married!” Dutch cries.

  “You said that already,” I mumble.

  PJ sighs, looks down at the ground. “I could hear you crying all the way from the kitchen when you got home last night.”

  I grip the bandstand railing. “So I was emotional. I’d had too much to drink…”

  Gerry lifts a finger, tries to shake it at me as he smirks. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you? That’s not an excuse.”

  “Shut up, Gerry,” Dutch snaps. Turning back to me, she says, “How many dates have you gone on in the last three years?”

  “I’m not doing this right now, assholes.” I turn to walk away, but my sister grabs my arm.

  “How many, Anika?” she demands.

  “I date! I fucking… I was just… There was a girl…” I wave hopelessly towards the place in the crowd where the nameless blonde disappeared to.

  “I’m not asking how many women you’ve screwed in the last three years,” Dutch says with a mighty eye roll. “I’m asking how many you’ve dated. How many people you’ve had a relationship with that lasted longer than a couple of nights.”

  “Okay, so I haven’t — ”

  “I know how many,” she says.

  “Oh, because you always know the fucking answer, right? So why d’you even ask?”

  “Zero,” she says, ignoring me. “And yet how often do you talk with that girl?”

  Dutch is starting to re
ally piss me off.

  “You never liked Jenny,” I say, my voice turning cold. “You’ve always treated her like she’s — ”

  “How often do you talk with her?” Dutch repeats, so fucking shrill I have the urge to cover my ears with my hands.

  “We Skype sometimes.”

  “And what does ‘sometimes’ mean?” PJ asks.

  I shrug and shake my head, looking past them in the direction of the basketball courts, the ones at the far end of the park. The ones I shot hoops in not long after I found Jenny crying, sitting with Grace Adler in my apartment.

  “Once or twice a week,” I mumble.

  “Dammit, Anika.” Dutch lets out a huff, pinches the bridge of her nose. “You’re right. I’ve never liked Jenny. Want to know why? Because she’s always used you and manipulated you and treated you like the consolation prize she could always come back to if nothing better came along. And she’s still doing it. And now we’re finding out you’re talking with her every week, and you slept with her after being home for less than a week, even though she’s married? This has got to stop.”

  PJ nods in agreement, takes another step towards me, but cautiously, like I’m an unstable animal who might charge him at any moment.

  “We think it’s time for you to cut Jenny loose, sis,” he says. “It’s killing us to see you like this. We thought you’d start to move on after you left and went to Europe, but it’s clear that hasn’t been happening.”

  “How do you know?” I ask bitterly. “When’s the last time you bothered to call me?”

  Gerry lifts a wobbly index finger again. “But I know. ’Cause you and me, we’ve been talking some. Right?”

  I turn my head towards my wasted baby brother. Aha. So here’s the real Judas. He’d called me out of the blue after his latest stint in rehab, telling me he’d always felt closer to me than to PJ and Dutch, and that he wanted to start repairing our relationship, making amends. And I, wanting to be a supportive older sibling, had fallen for it. We’d been talking every week for almost two months. And I’d cried on his virtual fucking video chat shoulder over the unhealing wound that was Jenny more than once.