by Lindy Zart
Scoffing, she says, “You know I don't knit. Maybe we could take an art class together? Or dancing! Dancing would be fun. What do you think?”
My noncommittal reply is, “Maybe.”
She means well, but my mom’s personality can be overbearing at times. She is exasperating and even melodramatic, but I have never regretted having her as my mother. She could be so less caring. She could be Tracie; Grayson’s mom. Maybe that isn't a fair comparison, especially with Tracie no longer drinking. She could be Tracie before she stopped drinking.
“Leave her alone, Georgia,” my dad says as he enters the kitchen, immediately heading for the coffee pot to refill his cup.
“I’m childless. I don’t like it. I need bonding.”
I take a bite of the salt-free buttered toast and sigh. “You are not childless just because your children no longer live with you. Plus I only live five minutes away. I think we all can handle that. Plus you still have Scott over here eating your food every day. He is like two kids in one, or one that never grows up. Embrace his immaturity.”
“But he’ll be married soon and then he won’t come over as often. I’m being silly, I know.” She turns to the sink with a derisive laugh and begins to wash dishes.
“First thing you’ve said since I walked in the house that makes sense,” my dad grumbles, snapping open the Sunday paper and perusing it from the kitchen table.
“You really need to find a hobby,” I tell her again. “If knitting isn't your forte, maybe you could take up crocheting?”
My mother gives me a look. “That's the same thing and you know it. Everyone needs to stop trying to get me to conform to the sewing world. It isn't going to happen. I still say we should take a dance class together.”
“And I still say maybe.”
A smile overtakes her features and she turns away, shrugging like she knows something I don't. “Lily, we’re grilling out tonight. Be here at five. Bring buns. It’s mandatory.” She starts to hum a tune I recognize as ‘God Gave Me You’ by Blake Shelton.
I salute her from behind, catching the flash of humor in my dad’s eyes before he turns his attention back to his comics. It makes me want to laugh whenever I see him doing his weekly routine. He is quiet, serious, reserved—and he reads the Sunday funnies, something he doesn’t want people to know. Apparently it would interfere with his manly grease monkey status in the world of mechanics.
I tousle his thin hair as I pass by to put my empty plate on the counter, saying to my mom, “Bethany’s home until tomorrow. Do you care if she and her boyfriend come too? We were supposed to hang out together tonight.”
“I would love to see Bethany! Of course she can come. Is her boyfriend a Kentuckian?”
“Yeah. I haven’t met him yet, but she seems really happy. He must be all right.”
“That’s wonderful. I'm glad.” She smiles at me, leaning over to quickly peck my cheek.
Grabbing a towel, I dry the dishes as my mom hands them to me, working side by side, singing along to the radio. ‘Cruise’ by Florida Georgia Line is on. She bumps her shoulder to mine, flashing her bright teeth at me.
When she has my attention, my mom shakes her hips, pulling me by my hands and dancing in a circle with me. I laugh as I tip my head back. I’ve always loved to dance. I feel free when the music encompasses me and I am able to move to it, to lose inhibition; to be allowed to enjoy the lyrical beauty of instruments and gifted voices.
I look back and my dad is smiling at us, shaking his head. When I think of my mom and dad and their acceptance of the way Scott and I are; the way they are and how we are as a family, I think of Grayson and how he’s never had this easygoing camaraderie with his parents. His dad wasn't around much and his mother might as well not have been.
My feet slow to a stop. He’s never known his parents’ love was unconditional, like I take for granted on a daily basis. I wonder why I am thinking of Grayson so much, and why I think anything to do with him is even a concern of mine, but I already know the answer. It is because he is in town; back from the past, to haunt me in person like he used to do by memory.
We had moments like this when we were together, but who makes sure he has fun now? Who watches over him in my absence? Who allows him to be carefree, to remember innocence and freedom? Who encourages him to be himself and to be proud of the person he is? Who understands him?
My gaze is pulled to the window above the sink. His motorcycle is still parked outside; as is the car. Maybe whoever that woman is does all of that. And if she does, I can’t fault her that, even though it hurts to know I can be shifted from an important person in Grayson's life to a memory of one.
My mom drops my hands, following my gaze. She says nothing, resuming her dish washing, but the sparkle in her eyes has dimmed; not because of me, but for me. We finish the dishes in silence.
I STOP AT MIA’S HOUSE on my walk home. I have her dress folded up in my purple and silver-swirled tote bag, washed and ready to return. I haven’t seen her since Friday night when we lost track of each other. She sent me a text yesterday alerting me that she was still alive, complete with a sarcastic thanks for getting a hold of her to find out. I rolled my eyes and replied that she ditched me first. Of course she didn’t respond to that.
Her mom’s house is tan and horizontally divided into two living spaces. The upstairs is Mia’s and Cathy Heard inhabits the downstairs. Dean and Cathy Kalinowski divorced when Mia was twelve and her mother took her maiden name back. I remember Mia’s sadness, her anger, and how she stayed at my house almost every weekend for months. I remember her declaration that it was her fault her parents weren’t going to be together anymore and I remember holding her as she cried.
Friendships aren’t just forged with words, but with actions. Mia pretends to be tough, but underneath her fake exterior, she is a vulnerable, intimidated girl. I know. I saw that girl. Nothing she can say or do will take away what I know to be true, which is why I can be so forgiving of her snarky manner. It’s not really her; it’s what she wants everyone to think is her.
The yard is full of gnome statues that Cathy collects and Mia complains about. I swerve to the left so I don’t trip over one that wasn’t here the last time I stopped by, its twinkling blue eyes and wide smile maniacal. I step through the door of the enclosed porch, the scent of apples enveloping me, and knock on the door to the left of the main one. There is no answer, but I know she is home because her car is here, and unlike me, she doesn’t walk—ever.
I open the door to the upstairs apartment, calling, “Mia? Are you home?” The stairwell is narrow and white; the steps steep as I begin the climb. “Hello?”
Mia appears at the top of the stairs, clutching the bannister between her white-knuckled hands. Her eyes are wide, her hair a red poof around her face, and she is garbed in a silky white robe. She looks guilty. Also, it is past noon and she is not clothed. Usually dressed immediately upon waking up; complete with hair and makeup done, this strikes me as odd. And she is an early riser. What is going on?
“Lily! What are you doing here?” The squeak in her voice affirms that she is not with a clear conscience.
I pause halfway up the stairs. “I have your dress.”
“Oh. Um…” Eyes shifting, she tries to smooth her hair down. “I’m really not feeling well. Like, I might be getting sick. You can just leave it on the stairs and I’ll get it later. So I don’t give you my germs.”
I would believe her, only she is acting nothing like herself, sick or not. I’ve seen her sick—it isn’t pretty. It isn’t this behavior either. I pound up the remainder of the stairs and halt before Mia. She backpedals a few feet, eyeing me warily.
“Are you in trouble?” I ask, scrutinizing her for any telling signs of distress.
“What? No. What are you talking about?” She laughs shakily.
“What’s going on? You’re acting funny.”
“It’s the sickness. You should really go.” Mia produces a weak cough.
I s
tare at her, watching her face redden, and she is looking over her shoulder for the third time in seconds. My eyes suspiciously study the empty living room. Nothing is out of place in the cream, butter yellow, and paprika-toned room. I see movement in the kitchen area and shove past her. She grabs for my arm and I pull her with me, ignoring her panicky cries for me to stop.
A partially clad male form with hawkish features and tanned skin grins at me; his brown eyes alight with humor. I don’t comment on the Bud Light boxers he is wearing. “Hiya, Lily.”
“Ben.” I turn to eye my friend. “I see you weren’t joking. I think it’s more of an epidemic you’re struggling with, though, not a sickness. There may not be a cure.”
“Funny,” she mutters, scowling. She is leaning against the door frame with her arms crossed.
“I take it I wasn’t supposed to know about this?” I look between the two of them.
Ben shrugs, lifting a half-gallon of orange juice to his lips and gulping. He sets the jug on the white table and wipes a hand over his mouth. “Mia didn’t want you to know. I couldn't care less.”
“No one is supposed to know about this,” Mia moans, covering her face with her hands.
“You know I won’t tell anyone,” I tell her softly, briefly touching her trembling shoulder.
Mia looks at me from between her fingers. I study her pinched expression, noting the slump to her shoulders, and the fear she is desperately trying to hide as her hands drop from her face. I don’t think she’s afraid of people finding out—I think she is afraid of people finding out it didn’t mean anything to Ben. As I watch she puts a glower on her face, straightening her posture. The actress is back in business.
“I don't know what the big deal is. Why does it matter if people know we're hooking up or not?” he demands.
Wrong thing to say, Ben, I think, wincing. He just made it sound so...unimportant, and I am pretty sure it means quite a bit to Mia.
Her next words confirm it. They are crass, but an undercurrent of discord is evident to me. I know her. She lashes out when she is hurt. “There’s nothing to tell. We had sex. No biggie. It isn't like it meant anything.” She casually shrugs one shoulder, but won’t look at Ben.
His jaw clenches. “We had sex for two days,” he states in a low voice, his gaze never leaving his ex-girlfriend. Maybe it meant more to him than he wants others to know as well.
“Yeah.” Their eyes lock, the air thick with the heat and tension between them. “No…biggie,” she enunciates slowly.
A bitter grin twists his lips. “You’re right. It’s not a big deal. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’ll be forgotten by the time I walk out the door. Like you said, it didn't mean anything.” He strides from the room, reappearing fully clothed short minutes later. My face pulls down in a frown at his Charlie’s Angels shirt. He pauses near me. “Your co-worker? The one interested in me? Tell her to look me up. I’ll be around for the next month or so.”%
“I don’t—” I begin, but Ben is already storming down the stairs, slamming the door behind him. I turn to Mia. “So…what’s new?”
Her lower lip quivers and tears fill her brown eyes. She keeps her head to the side, fiddling with the tie at her waist. “He is such a jerk.”
“You want to talk about it?”
She wordlessly shakes her head.
“Go take a shower. Get dressed. I’ll order a pizza and we can vegetate for a while, maybe watch some television.”
Mia swipes a hand across her face, taking a deep breath. “Sure. I could use some internal pollution. What’s on your shirt?”
I glance down at the brown stain making an uneven circle on the collarbone of my top. “I spilled coffee on my shirt.”
She snorts. “Figures. Can’t take you anywhere.”
I slap a hand on her shoulder and squeeze, ignoring her wince. “Glad you’re back.”
THE SOUND OF LAUGHTER AND boisterous voices pulls me through the house and out the back door to the deck. The scent of grilling meat and citronella candles flow over me as I slide the glass door open. I go still, staring at the crowd of people I was not expecting to see at my parents’ cookout. They are spread out among the patio furniture and around the fire pit where thick tendrils of red and orange reach toward the sky.
My eyes scan the faces, my mouth going dry as recognition settles in. Among others, the Lee men are here, minus the most significant one. I am going to kill my mother. I turn to leave; forgetting that Bethany and her boyfriend should be showing up any moment, and freeze. Grayson; the person I was hoping to avoid, is blocking the only other way out of the house, a drink in each hand. His glasses are on and his dirty blond hair is in disarray. The shirt he is wearing matches his eyes and a smile teases his lips.
“You look ready to escape.”
I strive for casual by laughing and ruin it when it comes out sounding choked. “Maybe.”
“Your mother didn’t tell you about the get-together?”
Glancing over my shoulder, I glare at my mom as she laughs at something Aidan is telling her. “She told me about it.” I turn back to Grayson. “She just didn’t inform me of the guest list.”
Something flickers in his eyes. “I see. You’re not comfortable with me being here?”
I cross my arms over my black tank top. “That’s not it.” It really is. And why is he so polite and mature-sounding? I hate it. I don't know this young man who replaced the boy I knew. I want my Grayson back. You don't get him back, a mean voice tells me.
“What is it then?” His head is tilted, the intensity of his gaze burning me up.
“Nothing. Um...did you still want to go out for coffee?” I blurt and instantly regret it. What the hell was that? That was a totally bad idea. And yet...I watch his face clear—just a hint—and I am glad I mentioned it. I keep thinking, Why can't we be friends? And then I think, You cannot be friends with someone you still love as more than a friend. And then I tell myself to shut up.
Another shadow falls from his face as I detect the faintness of a smile on his lips. “Yeah. I do. When are you free?”
“Grayson. Where’d you go?” a female voice calls.
The room shrinks about three sizes as the auburn-haired woman from the blue car turns the corner, a bright smile on her pretty face. I want to cry just looking at her. I could never compete with that. People say looks don’t matter, but that is the first thing they notice, isn’t it? Maybe looks aren’t what makes a person stay interested, but they are what initially draws an individual to another one. I know I am not beautiful. I’m okay with it. But I hate that things in life so often come down to looks. This woman…she has it made. I wonder if she knows the power she wields with her face and body alone.
Her hair is shiny and flows around her shoulders in soft waves. The eyes that land on me and travel to Grayson are the color of wine and framed by long, thick eyelashes. With a face the shape of a heart and high cheekbones, her nose short and thin, her lips small, but full, she looks like a model, someone who fits just right with Grayson. They are breathtaking side by side with his tawny good looks and her exotic beauty.
She turned in the black dress from this morning for a charcoal pencil skirt and a red blouse. The outfit may be over the top for a cook-out in small-town Fennimore, but it is certainly more of an eye opener than my plain black top and jean shorts. Her body is curvy where it should be, slim everywhere else. When I look at her shoes, it is official—I hate her. They are the color of smooth caramel, open-toed, and dangerously high. They are my kind of shoes.
She notices me eyeing her foot apparel. “Like them? I got them on sale. I’m Megan, by the way. Megan Stietz. You must be Lily.” Her smile is friendly, her teeth even and white.
I don’t hate her. I can’t with her being all nice and beaming at me like we’re friends. But I want to, I really do. Inhaling slowly, I fight to steady my racing pulse and quell the sick feeling in my stomach. I feel inadequate next to her and want to disappear. Instead I smile back and pretend l
ike my throat isn’t tight with pain and my palms aren’t sweaty.
She is the epitome of Grayson moving on.
“Hi. You’re right. I’m Lily. And I do like your shoes. I have a thing for shoes.” I try to widen my smile, but from the look Grayson is giving me, I think maybe it has a garish cast to it, so I stop.
“Grayson’s told me a lot about you. I’m glad I finally got to meet you.”
I swallow thickly, nodding. I can’t look at him. Why hasn’t he said anything since she showed up? Why would he talk about me to another woman? What has he told her about me? It doesn’t matter. I need to get away from them. Now—before I fall apart.
“You too. I, uh, I have to—”
“What’s up, sexy?” Warm lips smack against my cheek and I could fall to the floor in relief. Bethany puts an arm across my shoulder, uniting her strength to me and giving me my failing courage back. “Hi, Grayson. Haven’t seen you in a while. How’s it going? Nice tattoo.”
My eyes are drawn down to his hands still holding two cups, and to the knuckles clenched around them, white with tension. I take in his features. Why didn’t I notice it sooner? His whole body is taut, his lips formed into a straight line. He is not enjoying this at all. But then, neither am I. And that tattoo—I briefly close my eyes and take a breath—it is real. My name is tattooed on his knuckles. Why?
“Hello, Bethany,” he says in a low voice, his eyes shifting behind me. “Who are you?”
I glance over my shoulder and lock eyes with the man standing to my right. He is tall and lean with curly brown hair and silver wire-rimmed glasses; a white polo shirt and khaki pants making up his outfit. The nose that graces his face is long and his lips are more thin than full, and with his eyes an unnerving pale green, he is attractive in a bookish way.
He offers me a faint smile before looking toward Grayson and Megan. “I’m Patrick.” The voice that leaves the man’s mouth is lilted, flowing with a lyrical Southern accent.
