Where We Belong

by Shann McPherson

  I look down at the design I’ve sketched, and I shake my head, scrunching the paper into a ball and tossing it in the direction of the trash can. With a heavy sigh, I look around me, at the place I’ve called home my entire life. Momma’s bakery was always my safe space, the one place I could come and feel as if everything in life was good, no matter how far from good things truly were. But now, it suddenly feels like my prison, the one place that’s kept me trapped here, the reason I’m not the woman marrying Nash.

  I need to get the hell out of here before I completely lose it and drown my sorrows in what’s left of today’s cream cakes in the display cabinet. My already rounded hips are relying on what little self-control I have. I need to go home, have a long, hot bath, and lose myself in a cringeworthy Netflix series and the box of Girl Scout cookies I keep stashed away for times of crisis, like this. But, just as I finish locking up the store and turn to my car parked out front, my eyes zero in on the flashing neon ‘End Zone’ sign across the road, and I’m like a moth to a flame; I don’t even remember so much as crossing the street and, yet, here I am pushing my way through the saloon doors like I own the damn place.

  The End Zone is the only bar that exists in the tiny town of Graceville. It’s the kind of place with sports memorabilia hanging on the walls, a couple of pool tables taking up most of the space in the back, flat-screen televisions displaying every kind of sport you can imagine, and an old restored jukebox playing classic hits. Everyone knows everyone, at The End Zone, and everyone knows everyone else’s business. It’s comforting, though. It’s like the family home I unfortunately no longer have, the same family home most people wish they had.

  As I walk in, my eyes narrow. The place is dimly lit and eerily quiet, which is no real surprise since it’s only four o’clock in the afternoon. Aside from a couple of die-hard regulars, Bob and Leroy, sitting in the booth by the front windows, sharing a pitcher of beer, I’m the only other person. I wave to the two men as I make a beeline directly for the bar, taking a seat on one of the stools. I search for service but, after a few minutes of waiting, I give up waiting and reach over the counter, grabbing a bottle of whiskey before plucking a glass from the overhead rack.

  “What the hell are you doing, Murph?”

  I roll my eyes, ignoring the familiar voice coming from somewhere behind me while I continue to pour myself the shot that I need so bad. The warmth of a body sidles up beside me, taking a seat on the very next stool, and I can feel his eyes watching me, but I ignore that overwhelmingly imploring gaze as I throw back the whiskey without even wincing at the afterburn as it trails down the back of my throat, because that’s how pent up I am.

  “Huh,” he muses from beside me and I cast a sideways glance to see him nod once. “So, I guess this means you saw Nash then, huh?”

  I turn with a quirked brow, meeting his dark emerald eyes and I sigh. Harley Shaw is and always has been the proverbial pain in my butt. It’s nothing sinister. I don’t hate the guy. He just he knows me too damn well. I’ve known Harley for as long as I’ve known Nash. The two of them were the very best of friends before I came along and stole Nash for myself. Of course, Harley was always hanging around like a bad smell. He was the third wheel we just couldn’t seem to escape. We grew up together and, for the last few years, with everyone off at college and grad school, or working in the city and starting their adult lives, Harley’s really the only person I’ve had. He’s like the older brother I never had. The confidant I never knew I needed. He knows me better than anyone, maybe even better than I know me. And because of that, right now, I know he knows the pain I’m going through, and that only frustrates me more.

  Even though I don’t answer him, I catch him nodding in understanding from my peripheral vision. But, instead of further chastising me for reaching over the counter of his bar and pouring my own drink, he grabs the bottle from me and pours another, pouring one for himself, too, and that’s exactly what I need right now. Someone.

  “He’s 25 years old.” I balk, downing my second shot. “I mean, who even gets married at 25?”

  Harley says nothing, choosing instead to listen. And I thank God that he does. I don’t need someone trying to correct me, or argue. I want to vent—I need to let it all out—and the only person I have right now who will listen is Harley, and he does, so I continue. “Does he even know this woman?” I laugh once under my breath, shaking my head as I stare straight ahead at the shelves of liquor bottles lined up behind the bar. “Who the hell marries someone after knowing them for just a few months?”

  I throw a hand in the air in exasperation, curious as to why Harley isn’t nearly as incredulous as I am. This whole thing is ridiculous. Why am I the only one who thinks so? And, at that thought, I swivel on my stool, gawping at him, watching as he casually sips his whiskey with little to no emotion, his eyes trained on the television overhead playing some English soccer game.

  “Did you know about this?”

  Slowly, his eyes flit to the side, and he carefully places his glass onto the counter as he turns to face me, albeit reluctantly. “Well, yeah.” He sighs, adding a casual shrug. “But, I mean, I am his best friend.”

  “So am I!” I yell, slightly offended. “At least, I thought I was.”

  “Yeah, but—” Harley stops to gauge me, hesitating momentarily. “I’ve never slept with the guy, Murph …”

  I sigh heavily, my shoulders falling as I stare down into my empty glass. He’s right.

  “I don’t know,” Harley continues. “He seems happy. Granted, I haven’t met the woman but from what he’s told me, she’s good for him. Maybe …” He trails off, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth and glancing away. I can tell he’s battling with his words, his clenched jaw working overtime.

  “Maybe what?”

  He finally meets my eyes again, and there’s a sadness within his gaze, a resignation of sorts as he sighs. “Maybe it’s time you let him go.” Before any more can be said, he stands from his stool and moves behind the counter to serve a customer who’s just walked in from the street. He offers me a sad smile as he pours beer into a frosted glass, but it’s a smile I can’t return. Because, once again, he’s right.

  You know how they say if you love something you should let it go, and if it comes back to you then it’s yours, and if not, well then it was never meant to be? Well, I call bullshit on that. If you love something then hold on to it for dear life, because once it’s gone, it’s gone for good. And suddenly you’re left sad and alone in a bar on Main Street, wondering where it all went wrong, crying into your second glass of whiskey at four o’clock in the afternoon.

  While Harley busies himself with restocking the cold room behind the bar, I find myself thinking back to the day I met Nash Harris, back to when a 9-year-old girl first met the love of her life.

  I’d never had a lot of friends growing up. For most of my life it had just been me and Momma. My father left before I was even old enough to remember him, but that was fine with me. I didn’t need anyone else. I’d always preferred my own company. I had a wild imagination and a love of books, so whenever Momma was busy with the bakery, I’d sit on the curb outside the store with my head buried in a book, makings friends in the characters I read about.

  When I was 9, I started getting bullied by a kid at school named Billy Connor. He always tried to steal my lunch. It became second nature. I’d know I wasn’t going to be able to eat whatever Momma packed for me, so I’d stock up with an extra breakfast muffin in the morning, and hide it in my book bag for the afternoon when I was usually starving.

  One day, I’d been clutching my NSYNC lunch bag as if it were my lifeline, walking through the school halls with my head down, desperate to make it outside safely without being intercepted by Billy and his band of bullies. But, of course, with no such luck, I was accosted in the corridor, slammed up against a locker with such force I dropped my lunch to the floor as I clutched the back of my throbbing head. But I’d expected it. I’d been waiting fo
r it. I knew it was going to happen. What I hadn’t been prepared for, however, was Harley Shaw coming to my defense.

  Harley had always been popular. Even in the bottom ranks of elementary school, he was the most popular guy in all our class. I think it had something to do with being so good at sports. Apparently, when you’re 9 years old, being athletic is the equivalent of being a rock star, and Harley Shaw was like the Justin Timberlake of Graceville Elementary. And he saved me that day, in more ways than one. He made Billy Connor pay for stealing my lunch by dragging him into the girls’ bathroom and flushing his head down the toilet until he begged for both mercy and my forgiveness, and he made sure he and his mean friends never even looked twice in my direction ever again. And they never did. Never again was my lunch stolen.

  Still to this day I don’t know why Harley went out of his way for the dorkiest girl in class he’d never once spoken more than five words to, but he did, and I will be eternally grateful. Not just for saving me from Billy and his friends, but if he hadn’t stepped in that day I might never have felt that tug in my heart, that dip in my belly at the sheer sight of the piercing blue eyes of his very best friend when he’d swept in to ask if I was okay while Harley was busy making Billy pay. When he’d taken hold of my hand and led me to the school nurse’s office to get the bump on my head checked out, I knew, even at 9 years old, that I had fallen head over heels in love with a boy named Nash Harris.

  “What the hell are you smiling at?”

  I startle from my thoughts, looking up from my glass of whiskey to see Harley sitting beside me again, this time lifting a bottle of beer to his lips. I can feel my cheeks blush of their own accord, giving me away completely, and I try to hide my smile behind my glass as I look straight ahead at nothing in particular. “I was just thinking of that first day,” I admit. “Back in fourth grade when you flushed Billy Connor’s head down the toilet.”

  Harley chuckles to himself at the memory.

  “That was the day we all became friends.” I look at him, seeing him nod as he stares down at his beer with a faraway smile of his own, and I know he knows it too. It wasn’t just the day we became friends; Nash, Harley and me, we became family that day. It was the day my whole life changed.

  Chapter 3

  I stand in front of the mirror that hangs on the back of my closet door, staring at my reflection with serious contempt. You know when you’re hoping for a particular look, and you really think you’re going to pull it off, but then you see yourself and wish you’d thought things through better? Well, that’s me right now. I’d driven forty miles, all the way to Chelmer, to the Westfield because it has a Macy’s, and I spent a couple hundred bucks on my outfit for tonight. I wanted something sleek and sexy, sophisticated and elegant. Something not at all like my usual self. But contact lenses always make my eyes burn like hell, and I simply cannot get away with wearing a bodycon dress with hips like mine.

  The first thing to go is the contacts. Straight in the trash. I’ve worn glasses since I was five years old and, unfortunately, they aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. I tug off the constricting dress that feels like it’s suffocating me, and I toss it to the floor before rifling through my closet.

  Finally, I’m dressed in a navy dress that sits mid-thigh and flares out from the waist, concealing my hips, thighs and butt. I team it with my shiny red Mary Janes to add a splash of color, and I wear my tortoiseshell glasses. Painting my lips a cherry red to match my heels, I leave my auburn hair natural, falling around my shoulders.

  I look at myself in the mirror for a long time, taking in every little detail of my outfit. Unlike the look I’d been hoping for, it definitely isn’t sleek, sexy, sophisticated or elegant, but then, neither am I. And I can’t pretend to be someone I’m truly not. I’d never pull it off and it would only end in embarrassment. And tonight’s the night I’m meeting the woman who is marrying the love of my life. The beautiful, wonderful, perfect Annabelle Victoria Hutchins, at least that’s the impression I get from the social media profiles I’ve spent the best part of the last twenty-four hours stalking. She’s literally perfect, and beautiful, and everything in between. I can’t possibly risk embarrassing myself. Not tonight. Not in front of her.

  I’ve had almost an entire day to come to terms with the fact that Nash is no longer mine, nor will he ever be mine again. And it hurts more than I could have ever been prepared for it to hurt. Last night was spent crying into a half-empty bottle of wine while listening to my Spotify playlist of saddest songs. I cried so many tears. And even now, with no more tears to cry, it still sits like a painful lump at the back of my throat.

  I’m not sure how I’m going to be able do it: go there tonight to celebrate with them, spend the rest of the week making their wedding cake, and watching on Saturday as they become husband and wife while acting as if everything is fine when deep down it’s anything but okay, like a rusted blade slicing through my gut. But, when the doubt begins to get the better of me, I remind myself that first and foremost, Nash is my friend, and I owe it to him to be the happy and supportive Murph that I’ve always been. But it still kills me like crazy.

  As I sit at my dressing table fastening a small gold hoop into each of my earlobes, I think back to the night I first realized I’d fallen in love with Nash Harris. I was only 14, but even at an age when marriage should have been the last thing on my mind, that was the night I thought maybe I would one day be the woman lucky enough to become his wife.

  I woke with a start. My eyes flew open as I searched the darkness surrounding me. My heart raced without me knowing why. But when something hit my window, I breathed a sigh of relief realizing it was the tapping of the glass that had woken me from my dreams. Throwing my covers off, I crawled down to the foot of my bed, and pulled the curtains aside. I looked down to the front yard, gasping at the silhouette standing by the elm tree. His hood was pulled low over his head, covering most of his face, but I could tell it was him, and I knew immediately something was wrong. He hadn’t come here in the middle of the night since the last time.

  Suddenly my heart felt as if it had climbed to the back of my throat. Jumping out of bed, I shoved my feet into my slippers, tiptoeing past my momma’s bedroom, hurrying as fast as I could downstairs. I stopped at the front door, holding my breath a moment before lifting the latch and pulling it open. The cool night breeze blew in from outside, shocking me, and I shivered.

  “Nash?” I whispered through the silence, searching the front yard for him.

  A shadowy figure appeared from behind the thick trunk of the elm tree, and I watched with a furrowed brow as he limped unsteadily through the darkness. When he came into the light of the moon, I couldn’t help but gasp at the sight of him. With a split lip and a black eye, he was hunched forward, clutching his side, his face distorted in pain with every step he took. He stopped on the porch in front of me, and I could feel my eyes prick with the threat of tears. But I knew it was my job to remain strong. He needed me. So, without saying a word, I ushered him inside, quietly closing the front door behind us before taking his hand in mine and carefully helping him upstairs.

  Nash sat on the edge of the tub, his head bowed and his shoulders small and cowering. He’d taken off his sweatshirt, and when I’d first caught sight of the painful red welts lashed across his back and the purple bruises covering his ribs, I wasn’t sure if I should have woken my momma. I was terrified. I couldn’t be sure he didn’t need to go the hospital. But Nash pleaded with me not to say anything to anyone, so I didn’t say a word. I tended to him as best I could, as quietly as I could so as not to wake Momma. As I padded the open welts across his back with antiseptic ointment, I could feel a wayward tear trail over the curve of my cheek. I quickly wiped it away with the sleeve of my pajama shirt. I couldn’t let him see me cry.

  “What did he do to you?” I whispered under my breath, unsure he’d even heard me.

  “Belt.” Nash’s hushed voice was full of an uncharacteristic fragility that just about
broke my heart. I closed my eyes a moment, an involuntary shudder coursing through me.

  “I hate him,” he hissed between gritted teeth, flinching away from every one of my tender touches.

  So do I, I thought silently to myself. “I’m so sorry, Nash.”

  Nothing more was said between the two of us. I did all I could to ease his suffering, and he sat silently. He was so strong through the worst pain imaginable, and all the while my heart continued breaking for him. He didn’t deserve this. Nobody did. I wished I could help save him from his horrible daddy.

  Nash and I lay together in my bed, side by side, staring up at the shadows cast from outside as they danced across the ceiling to an imaginary tune. I reached under the covers, finding Nash’s hand by his side, and without a word, I took it in mine, lacing my fingers through his, holding him tight.

  “I’ll always be here for you, Nash.” My voice was a whisper, but the silence seemed to make my promise echo through the air around us.

  Holding my hand so tight as if he couldn’t possibly bear to let me go, Nash rolled onto his side. He looked at me for a long moment, his mischievous eyes sparkling through the muted light of the moon seeping in through open curtains.

  “One day some lucky guy is gonna come into your life and steal you away from me,” he whispered back, pulling my hand closer and enveloping it in both of his, holding it tight.

  Never once breaking our hold, I rolled onto my side, facing him, our noses a mere hair’s breadth from one another. For a long moment we simply lay there, staring into each other’s eyes, our silence speaking volumes.

  “Nobody is ever going to take me away from you,” I said in a hushed tone.

  My eyes moved down to his lips. His perfectly pouted lips, glistening in the darkness. I was only 14 years old. I’d never been kissed.

  Suddenly something unexpected came over me, something I knew he felt too. I’d never experienced it before, but out of nowhere my belly twisted low in my gut, and my heart stammered, thumping heavily in my chest. It was an unfamiliar feeling I didn’t necessarily dislike. Every day I had dreamed of my very first kiss, of Nash’s lips on mine. But it was just a dream. It was all a dream that would never come true, because this was real life, and happily ever afters were just in books.