I have no idea why, but at the first echo of my footsteps Gretchen would bolt to her bedroom door and slam it in a panic, like she thought I was lurking nearby just to catch a glimpse of her flat chest and scrawny legs. They were not interesting and neither was Gretchen herself.
I always thought of Danny’s kid sister as an underdeveloped little weirdo who might collapse into a coma if her report card contained a single B. However, I did feel pretty shitty the day she broke down. Gretchen was not a rotten person and it wasn’t her fault she was too fragile to deal with life. Some people just aren’t built to withstand punishment.
At this point I’ve spent so much time standing around at the front door like a half frozen creep that eventually someone else comes along and wants to go inside.
“Excuse us,” chimes a tinkling voice and a set of really old women peer up at me from beneath red wool hats that have been pushed all the way down over their ears. I can’t tell which of them spoke.
“Sorry.” I step to the side and a mittened hand reaches out to press the doorbell.
“We worked with Julianne,” says the woman who didn’t ring the doorbell. Her face creases into a mask of distress. “What a horrible shock. I can’t stop thinking about Caitlin and Mara.”
Neither one of those names mean a thing to me. “Yeah, me either.”
An arctic lake breeze blasts across my back and it has teeth. A flutter of color to the left forces me to notice a pair of pink tricycles I’d overlooked before. They’ve been carefully propped against the porch railing and the plastic streamers dangling from the handlebars are being played with by the wind.
The sight of those sad little tricycles is a crushing jolt. I know without being told that they must belong to Jules’s daughters. They are the most depressing objects I have ever laid eyes on.
With a squeal of old hinges, the front door cracks open. I follow the two women inside because I don’t see what’s to be gained from remaining on the front porch until I’m a block of ice.
The house is packed and all I see are the backs of heads. There’s a low buzz of mournful conversation. The stuffy air that comes from the crush of too many bodies is an abrupt change from the frigid outdoors.
Just as I thought, some of the faces that turn my way are recognizable but none of them are worth talking to. I must not look particularly friendly myself because no one utters a word of greeting.
The living room is so crammed that I’m forced to inch my way along the wall. The place is both familiar and unfamiliar. The walls have been painted a light yellow instead of a dreary brown. The black leather living room set has been replaced with a brown suede sectional. And everywhere I look there are pictures. Pictures of two pink-swaddled babies, two gap-toothed toddlers, and finally two beaming preschoolers who leave me feeling dizzy because they resemble their mother so strongly.
I’m not watching where I’m going and my elbow knocks an object off an end table.
It’s a good thing an area rug is underneath because the object is another framed photo. I have to crouch down to retrieve it. Then I get clobbered with a profound sense of loss when I turn it over to see the smiling face of Jules Aaronson. She’s balancing one tiny daughter on each knee while a summer version of Lake Stuart sparkles in the background. She was a pretty girl who grew up into a beautiful woman. I can remember having a crush on her before I understood what a crush was.
Jules deserved much better than a life cut brutally short on an icy road.
With supreme care, I set the picture back where it belongs on a scarred end table that’s always been in this spot and must be an Aaronson family antique.
I’ve now edged past the thickest clot of mourners and can see through the rectangular interior wall cutout into the dining room.
I can also see Gretchen Aaronson.
She presides over a long table that has been completely covered with drinks and fruit bowls and organized cheese trays that people like to take pictures of. Her bright red hair is a shade found in desert sunsets and spills softly past her shoulders, contrasting with the black fabric of a dress that molds to curves she didn’t have back when I knew her. To say that time has been good to Danny’s little sister is the understatement of the motherfucking year.
I’d prefer my cock to avoid twitching to life right now but he’s not listening. He likes what I’m seeing and he’s reminding me it’s been a while since he had any fun.
Gretchen steps back and tilts her head, surveying the scene. Redheads usually aren’t on my radar much, but great tits are and she’s sure as shit grown a set of those. Her shapely legs end in a pair of black high heels and the tensely pinched face I remember has replaced with delicate loveliness.
My hunger for her is instant and inescapable.
I don’t tend to go out of my way for women because they come to me easily enough, but if we were different people in different circumstances I might barge in there and find a reason to demand her attention.
A fading blonde wearing a tight red dress appears at Gretchen’s side and says something that changes Gretchen’s soft mouth into an angry line. I can’t hear Gretchen’s reply but it must be sharply worded because the woman stiffens before propping her hands on her bony hips. There are other people in the room and in between bites of cheese and crackers they watch the disturbance. There’s still no sign of Danny.
Red Dress turns around to glare at the table and sulkily chew on a crimson lower lip. I can’t believe I didn’t know her right away, but her hair is much shorter now and she’s lost a lot of weight. She’s Sharon Aaronson, or at least she used to be. I remember hearing that she’d remarried following the divorce so she’s probably called something else now. She doesn’t look like a woman heartbroken over the loss of her oldest daughter. She looks like she’s pissed that there’s no open bar around.
Sharon pivots and stalks out of the room. Gretchen watches her go, then sighs and shuts her eyes. She steps back to lean against the paneled wall and the grief stamped on her face tears me up almost as much as those pink tricycles did.
I should really win Mr. Asshole of the Year for checking out her tits a moment ago.
I’m not prepared for the sound of my name to suddenly float over the sadly bowed heads populating the living room. “Trent! Trent Cassini.”
It’s a woman’s voice, which means it’s not Danny’s. It’s not Gretchen’s either because she’s still standing against the dining room wall with her eyes miserably shut.
There’s no one else I’d be interested in talking to right now so I pretend not to hear and move in the opposite direction, past the sectional sofa which currently hosts two hookups from high school days gone by and a prematurely balding former member of the varsity baseball team.
So far my time in the Aaronson house is like receiving a visit from the ghost of Christmas past, except everything I see is a carnival version of what used to be.
The layout of the house remains as familiar to me as if I were only here yesterday and I pause beside the main staircase, wondering if I ought to go hunt for Danny upstairs. But no one else is going upstairs and it seems like this choice would attract a lot of attention. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s attention.
Besides, I have no guarantee that Danny is around. I just assumed he would be. Gretchen would know where to find her brother but that’s an awkward encounter I’m not ready to have, especially because a moment ago I was up to my dick in thoughts about how good she’d look naked. Yet standing around out here in the open only increases the chances that I’ll get collared by some ex-girlfriend for an annoying conversation.