by K B Cinder
“I doubt it.” Ever was probably sitting pretty somewhere watching the frenzy from afar. If they were smart, they were.
“Did Ethan have a good time, at least? Or, are you both brats?” he teased.
“He hated it, too.” I wasn’t about to tell my father how much fun we’d had later in the evening.
“Kids these days,” he chuckled with a smile before flicking his head towards the kitchen. “Go say hi to your mother before she serves both our heads for dinner.”
I didn’t want to face the dragon, but I obeyed, going back into the floral-wallpapered foyer to walk down the long hall toward the back of the house, the same elaborate runner that had been there longer than me leading the way. Most things in the house were that way, as the Doyle Manor had been in the family for generations. One day it’d be my elder sister Bridget’s, the oldest child inheriting it, as per tradition. Fitting. At least she was a Doyle by birth.
As soon as my feet touched the brick floor of the kitchen, Mom whirled from her post at the farmhouse sink, halfway through a cigarette in front of an open window. She chucked the still-lit butt down the drain, desperately trying to hide the evidence. For some reason, she didn’t think people could smell the smoke on her, the telltale hints of tobacco lingering regardless of how much perfume she showered in.
“Hi, Mom.”
Her flawless face twisted in disgust as she swept a hand dramatically at me. “Oh Keely, when will you stop with those?”
“My dress?” I knew instantly what she was referring to, the patchwork piece a mix of pinks and blues. It wasn’t as formal as the tailored sheath she wore, but it was cute. To me at least. And it had pockets.
“Yes! Where did you get that rag?” Her blue eyes blazed, her feathered bangs almost shielding the left one entirely. “It looks like Nana’s curtains for crying out loud!”
I smiled at the comparison, as Nana’s curtains still hung in the dining room. They couldn’t have been that awful. The pattern was only a problem because I wore it. “A vintage shop with Lil.”
“Oh good god, it was preowned too?” she squawked, darting to grab a bag of salad mix from the fridge, the premade pack tucked between mountains of meal replacement shakes. “You could get crabs from that, Keely Eileen!”
“Crabs from what?” Bridget asked, my older sister coming into the kitchen with my nephew Nolan on her hip.
“Crabs? Where?” Her eldest son Aidan followed close behind, the middle son, Conor, at his heels with an action figure clutched to his chest.
The boys launched toward me, locking their little arms around each of my legs. I ruffled their mops of blond hair, the shaggy ‘dos earning the ire of my mother much like my fashion. “Mom’s just hating on my clothes, as usual.”
“Why? Your dress is super cute!” Bridget set Nolan down, the three-year-old rushing to join the hug party. Her own wrap dress hugged her belly bump, her fourth child’s due date right around the corner. “I wish I could rock that!”
Mom huffed as she shoved the bag of salad at me with a bottle of ranch dressing. “Dinner is served, Princess.”
Meanwhile, a bubbling tray of mystery goop sat on the kitchen island, steam billowing from the blackened bits. At least I didn’t have to eat that.
“Thanks, Mom.” I knew she was itching to start something, but I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. I was still riding the high from my night with Ethan, and I wouldn’t let her soil it.
She gritted her teeth so hard I was surprised they didn’t crack. “Everyone normal will be having goulash. Plates are in the dining room.”
I set about helping Bridget prepare plates for the boys, her husband Simon tucked away in the parlor with Dad discussing sports, their rowdy laughter fluttering down the hall as they discussed their beloved Pats.
By the time everyone was seated around the mahogany monstrosity of a dining table, Mom wasn’t bothering to hide her anger, loudly setting down her wine glass with each sip and banging her silverware about. Everyone ignored her, used to the routine, as I was usually the target of her rage. Sometimes she’d slip back into a maternal mood and treat me like a human, but lately, it had been all storm clouds. Especially when it came to my studies.
Aidan and Conor chattered about the upcoming school year, Aidan ready for first grade and Conor nervous to start kindergarten. Nolan would occasionally join in with toy talk, and for the most part, the three of them entertained each other.
Simon and Dad discussed business as Mom and Bridget dished on local gossip, leaving me as the odd duck out with the kids as usual. It wasn’t that I minded my nephews, but at twenty-two, it got old being relegated to the kids’ section.
It was expected, seeing that Bridget fulfilled my parents’ every wish, marrying Simon at nineteen, the son of a fellow shining Braintree family, and subsequently popping out an army of kids. She was a housewife like Mom, though she raised her boys without a nanny like we’d had.
She loved her kids, but I knew she wasn’t happy, the same hollowness of our mother in her eyes. She and Simon were in as transactional of a relationship as they came, her serving as the young wife from the perfect pedigree while he was the older, slightly balding husband who paid the bills and looked great on paper. The joy was gone from her voice, the spirited older sister I’d known now a shell of her former self.
I didn’t want that kind of love, a painted picture for the world to see that was as flat as the canvas it rested on. I longed for adventure, the freedom to be rather than exist. I wanted a life far from the scrutiny of the gossip mill.
“So Keely, you went to the Lorelei auction last night?” Simon prodded, breaking away from numbers talk with Dad to acknowledge my presence for a change. “How was it?”
I stabbed at hunks of iceberg lettuce, a food run on the way home a must. It was impossible to feel satisfied from leaves and gloopy dressing. “Nothing special.”
He gaped at me, his fork packed with noodles and mystery meat. So far, he and I were the only ones devouring our food. “Oh wow! The news made it sound wild!”
Of course they did. “It was flashy, but I wouldn’t say wild.”
“You look beautiful in that picture in the paper,” Mom noted, picking like a bird at her meal. “Your boyfriend is handsome, too.” While her words were kind, her tone was not, each word cutting.
“Thanks, but he’s not my boyfriend. Ethan is just a friend.” I met her eyes, refusing to engage in the back and forth in front of the kids.
“He didn’t look like a friend, Keely. Spill it.” Bridget jumped headfirst into the hornet’s nest, either too tired or too oblivious to notice the tension in the air. She leaned forward expectantly as if I was about to serve the juiciest dish of gossip in the Boston metro area.
“He’s one of my best friends; that’s it.” Our eyes locked across the table as I pleaded silently with her to give it a rest. The sooner we stopped the boyfriend talk the better.
Mom’s lips stretched in a thin line of irritation. “Lying isn’t a nice color on you, Keely.”
“Good thing I’m not lying,” I shot back, coolly popping a mouthful of lettuce in my mouth so I didn’t have to continue the pointless bickering.
“I’ve met him before, right?” Bridget asked, brushing a tumble of blonde waves over her shoulder. Sitting there, she was a replica of Mom, everything polished from her makeup to her nails, the French tips clean-cut and perfect. “At the state fair last year?”
She ran into us with the kids while I was puking my guts up, a ride on the whirling torture chamber known as the Spinner churning my pizza dinner like butter until I couldn’t take it anymore. Ethan had been holding my hair while doing his best not to join my puke party.
“Excuse me, your sister met your boyfriend before your parents?” Mom’s cheeks were almost as red as her lips as she glared across the table. “A year ago?”
“Again, not my boyfriend,” I said with a huff, taking a quick sip of weak iced tea to wash down an extra pungent pop of ranch dr
essing. “And yes, she met my friend while I was at the fair with a group of friends.”
Lil and Jorge were also there, though they both headed for the hills when the vomit started flying. It was a good thing, too, especially since Lil was in one of her famous skimpy getups and Jorge was plastered on mojitos. Mom would’ve flipped if Bridget mentioned it.
“You went to the premier society event of the year with a man, and you two are on the front page of every paper from here to Cape Cod. I’ve had friends ask me who your partner is. After all I’ve done for you, you at least owe me the truth, Keely.”
At that, I set my fork down and pushed my seat out, giving each of my nephews a quick rub on the head before stepping away from the table. I ignored the calls my way as I headed to the foyer, grabbing my bag from the catch-all table before exiting the front door.
“Keely!” Dad called, bursting through behind me. “You can’t just walk out of family dinner!”
I paused at the base of the stairs, staring up at the one person who was always in my corner, tears blurring the sharp edges of his face. “I’ve had enough for one day, Dad.” I’d had enough for a lifetime, but taking her guff in spurts somehow made it more palatable. Piled on top of the whirlwind inside surrounding Ethan, it was too much.
He stepped down, reaching to take my hands in his. “She loves you, Keely. She’s just..she’s difficult, honey. You know that. She’s having a really hard time with you growing up.”
“Then why am I always reminded of how much she’s done for me? Like picking me out of a catalog was a favor I’ll forever be in her debt for?”
His head snapped back in horror at my words. “Keely!”
“It’s true! She bought me like a pair of shoes to fit in with the in crowd!” Tears came raining down along with the truth, the reality that she adopted a little girl like a puppy when it was all the rage. I was her dress-up doll for a while, memories of lacy dresses and beauty pageants all I had regarding my earliest years as a Doyle.
He squeezed my hands, his face stricken as he looked down at me. “That’s not true. We’re your parents. We didn’t pick you. You came to us like the blessing that you are.”
I shook my hands from his. How could he sympathize with her? Why was he always defending her at her worst? “Sure it is. Little brown girls were so in back then. She just had to have one.”
He reached for me, but I dodged the impending hug, done with him cleaning up her messes. His arms crossed on his chest instead, grief pooling in his eyes. “Honey, we love you. You’re our daughter.”
Eighteen years of grief were pouring out of me over a silly argument, and in a way it felt ridiculous, but it’d been a long time coming. There were only so many shots I could take before I finally broke.
“You love me. I’m your daughter. You’ve always treated me like your own, but I’ve never been anything more than a prop to her. She can’t even look at me without being disgusted that I’m not her perfect little doll.”
“Enough!” he roared, the first time he’d ever raised his voice at me with such rage. His whole demeanor changed from sadness to anger, face flushing red.
“You’re right; I’ve had enough.” I fled to the sidewalk. He could take her side all he wanted, but I didn’t need to stick around for it.
Keely
Ethan didn’t call, but my parents did.
Both of them. Dozens of times.
The chiming started almost as soon as I left and continued straight into the next day at work. I let the calls go to voicemail and ignored the influx of texts, allowing them to soak in the mess of their making. Maybe if they had time to think and talk, they’d learn something. I doubted it, but it was worth a shot.
The work day went by slowly with no tabloid-toting madmen in sight. In fact, I’d only had two visitors all day, the basement office so quiet it was creepy. It gave me plenty of time to read and knock out homework but did little to keep my mind off of the six-foot-five elephant in the room.
Not only had he not called; he hadn’t texted. It was radio silence on his end, a response not even trickling in from the text I’d sent after he left my apartment.
I hadn’t told Jorge or Lil about any of it, unsure what it all was, so I couldn’t confide in either of them, leaving me to suffer in silence through my shift.
Once quitting time hit, I was out the door, climbing the stairs like a madwoman to escape the nothingness. The sidewalks were swimming with similar cases, business-casual clad bodies in a mad rush toward the T. I headed to the coffeeshop instead, needing a little pick-me-up before braving the crowds at the station to head home and finish yet another writing assignment.
There wasn’t much of a line, and as I waited for my drink, I pulled out my cell, disappointed to see nothing from Ethan but a whole lot of family nonsense. My heart sank, so I slipped it back in my handbag, hoping out of sight out of mind would kick in sooner rather than later.
“Cinnamon dolce latte for Keely!” The barista slid the fuel to my paper-writing madness across the counter, the cardboard cup right at home in my hand.
Just as promptly as I lifted it, it was knocked away, an elbow cruelly whacking it to the ground. The lid popped off as it sprayed across the floor. I could’ve screamed in frustration, but I didn’t, too shocked to move but thankful that no one had been scalded by the molten-hot drink.
“I’m so sorry!” a voice called.
“It’s okay.” It wasn’t, but I couldn’t get upset over an accident. I wasn’t exactly graceful myself despite years of ballet and pageantry.
“I’m a total klutz. Are you okay?”
I flicked my eyes to the apologizer, surprised to see it was the magazine-toting maniac from the office dressed in a crisp, fitted suit. Good God, I hoped he didn’t work near me. “I’m fine.”
“Keely!” he breathed, recognizing me at the same moment. “Oh, I’m so sorry, honey. I owe you a replacement. What did you have?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I insisted, reaching down to fetch the cup that once held my fallen latte love. A worker was already headed over with a mop to lap up its innards, the brown liquid cast at least six feet to my left. I stepped to the side to toss the cup in the garbage, the tabloid-toter in hot pursuit.
“No, no, I owe you!”
I sized him up, hesitant about letting a stranger pay for my drink. At four bucks, the things weren’t cheap. “Okay,” I relented, deciding there was no harm in letting him replace what he destroyed. “A large, cinnamon dolce latte.”
He repeated it to the barista who was hovering nearby, before turning back to me with a devilish smile. “It’s nice seeing you again, Keely.”
I nodded, totally blanking on his name. Awkward. We’d met once, and he remembered my name. I couldn’t remember the names of people I’d met at least half a dozen times.
“My name’s Rick,” he reminded, spotting my conundrum a mile away. “Hard to forget your name. Sorry. It’s so beautiful.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, groaning internally. He was looking at me like a friggin cupcake he wanted to lick all the icing off of. And unfortunately for him, only one man was going to be licking any icing off me. If he ever got back to me, that was.
“I love Irish names. My grandmother was from Cork. I was supposed to be a Ronan, but my parents went with Richard at the last second.”
“That’s a nice name.” I didn’t have much more to add, my own name history just as fudged. I’d been born Skye, but that died along with my old life when I was adopted. It wasn’t a hard name to leave behind since the only snippets I could remember of that life consisted of concrete walls and chainlink fences, the children’s home I’d been in more like a prison than a house.
“It’s nice seeing you again. Thank you so much for the help the other day, by the way. I found what I was looking for on the passport site.”
“That’s awesome! You’re welcome.” At least he wouldn’t be back in my office raving like a lunatic again.
He smiled, t
he brilliant white chompers as bright as I remembered. “You’ll probably be seeing more of me. I have a big assignment coming up.”
“Oh yeah? Are you a reporter?” I crossed my arms, uncomfortable with how close he was standing to me, but with the lake of latte, I was trapped.
His nose crinkled in disgust. “Oh yuck, no! I’m a writer.”
“That’s so cool! Do you write books or…?” Meeting an author was always awesome, especially in the wild, so to speak, rather than at a signing.
“I’m working on my first novel, but I write for the Boston Bold.”
“Oh wow, congrats!” So he was a kinda-sorta reporter. The Boston Bold was an up-and-coming magazine making quite a splash with exposés. My parents were probably glad they weren’t around when they were in the limelight.
“It can get pretty boring,” he said with a shrug. “I spend my days writing and nights researching.”
I chuckled, thinking back to the stack of textbooks waiting for me at home. “Sounds familiar.”
His green eyes widened at my response, his blinding smile returning in a flash. “You’re a writer, too?”
Psh, I wished. “No, I’m a college student, but I do write way too many papers,” I joked.
He stepped closer to me, the soiled mop swiping too close to his expensive leather shoes for even my liking. “Undergrad? Grad?”
“Grad school. Somehow more schooling seemed like a good idea.” I only had a year and a half if I kept steamrolling courses, but it was still brutal paired with work.
He nodded with a laugh. “I know the feeling. I finished my master’s last year.”
“No way! Awesome! Local or…?” I didn’t want to pry, but it felt nice having someone to talk to about school. Dad listened but didn’t engage, and Mom would rather have a hysterectomy than hear about it.
“I did an accelerated online program. It’s a lot of work, but nothing is better than getting that piece of paper in the end. I have it framed in my office.”
