“Thanks, Daddy,” I whisper, briefly resting my cheek against his chest the way I did when I was a girl. I may be many things but I will always be a daddy’s girl at heart. While I don’t enjoy the idea of this trip, I do very much enjoy smelling my father’s aftershave with his arms around me again.
“Raaaaae!” Ellie squeals on her way down the steps before tackle-hugging me. “Ohmygod! It feels like I haven’t seen you in aaaaaages!” I squeeze her tightly against me and mentally shove away the emotion clogging my throat.
“Can’t breathe, Ellie,” I joke, pretending to gasp. I hand out hugs to Doug, my future brother-in-law, Uncle Carl and Aunt Joy, as well as my cousin Raven, who introduces me to her fiancé, Will. I smile and nod and put my campaign manager skills to work.
Like midtown Palmetto Grove, my childhood home hasn’t changed much at all aside from a few pieces of furniture I don’t recognize, a slew of new picture frames, many of me, Ellie and Teddy and some including Sylas. While we weren’t a wealthy family, we were lucky to have a nice middle class upbringing. The smell of this house, the familiarity of its contents brings back an onslaught of memories I force away.
Two hours into chatting and eating more genuine southern soul food than we should, the doorbell rings. My mom and dad exchange a look and my hackles stand at attention. I lean back in my seat and train my attention on the both of them.
Fuuuck, my entire mental inner circle gasps in unison. Blind Rage throws her chair against the wall. Regret is smirking with an “I told you so,” expression. Negativity is slumped back in her seat staring at the ceiling. Practicality looks confused. Everyone else ducks out. Self-Preservation straightens her cuffs. Predictable. I’ve got this, she whispers.
“Expecting more guests?” I ask curt as ever as I dab a crumpled paper napkin to my lips.
“Oh, you know our house. There is always someone comin’ or goin’.” Mom waves her hand in no specific direction playing at nonchalance. The woman may have a true fascination with politics but she lacks the capacity to participate with any measure of success given the level of skillful deception that is a prerequisite.
“Mhmmm,” I hum with narrowed eyes still locked on my mother who is now shuffling plates and utensils around the table looking suddenly harried. My dad slips away from the kitchen and returns a moment later with none other than…
“Raegan Potter, as I live and breathe,” Audrey Broussard hums my name like she’s praising me.
“Audrey,” I smile, rising to my feet from the barstool I was perched on. I hug her slight frame to me and feel a surge of sadness creep in at how much older she looks though it truly has only been three years since I last laid eyes on her. For me, Audrey’s appearance is frozen in time a decade ago, back when I was in love and constantly bounding in and out of her house, her screen door clapping against the frame with an echo a thousand times a weekend it seemed like. Ten years and a cancer diagnosis, followed by a fight for life, shows on her. Her body was host to a fierce battle, and it has left her thin and visibly aged, a sight that sends a pang of sadness and guilt through my gut at high velocity. I think those same ten years show on me too, though for different reasons and in different ways.
Like the hunk of ice that you call a heart, Self-Loathing muses.
“You didn’t think you’d be able to come to town and avoid seeing me, did you?”
I had hoped, Self-Preservation says.
“Of course not. I was counting on it,” I lie to her face. Sure, I love Audrey like my own mom but she isn’t my mom in the capacity that I had expected her to be, and for that exact reason I didn’t want to see much of her if at all possible. Her dark eyes glitter in the light like her son’s and it’s more than I can handle, especially when coupled with the sadness I feel seeing her aged so.
“Good! Now how are you doing out in DC? We see you on the news all the time these days.” I ignore her use of the word we and focus on diplomacy.
Oh, ya know, still licking the wounds your bastard son left me with a decade ago, I think.
“I’m great! I love my work and getting to experience the seasons in DC is amazing.”
“I’m so proud of you Rae.” Her eyes twinkle like his as she says she’s proud of me and it makes my entire being hurt. All of me. In and out, tip to toe. Even, all my weird inner selves recoil. It simply hurts.
Twenty minutes of predictable, polite conversation ensues before it finally shifts away from me—thank fuck for small blessings—and I seize my opportunity for escape. I slip upstairs to my bedroom. Suddenly, a night spent with Chick and a pitcher of beer at the Palmetto Grove Bowling Center sounds like heaven. I scroll through the contacts on my cell phone only to realize I don’t have his number. I would love to know whom else I might encounter tonight before I commit to going. I quickly open Facebook Messenger and fire away asking Chick for his cell number. Less than two minutes later my cellphone buzzes as a text comes through.
Get your fancy ass in your go-cart and come on over to bowl! This is Chick by the way.
Me: Hey! How do you have this number? It’s a national secret, you know.
I chuckle to myself.
Chick: Your momma gave it to me and your # ain’t no secret around here. She’d give it to anyone.
“But of course,” I mutter rolling my eyes.
Me: On my way. Anyone I may see that I don’t want to?
Chick: Nope. See you soon.
I slide off my twin bed and flip my suitcase open in search of something bowling friendly to wear. I come up with a pair of black skinny jeans and a cream chiffon and silk blouse that feels like a dream against my skin. I slip on my discarded Jimmy Choos and frown looking down at them. This won’t work.
“I wonder,” I say flipping on the light in my closet. It smells dusty and stuffy in my small childhood closet. I’m a little surprised to see mom hasn’t gotten rid of all this old junk. SAT study guides, cheerleading pom-poms, softball trophies, academic ribbons and yearbooks… and one old broken iPod Classic. I remember breaking it. Spider web cracks destroyed the screen, and I hated myself as soon as I had lashed out and shattered it. I flip the thing over and hold my breath seeing the thick black line drawn with a sharpie marker by Sy all those years ago—the same ink he had to regularly reapply as it wore away in our pockets and backpacks and the center console of my mustang and his jeep. On one side of the damned thing is my name drawn precisely and adorned with one heart and one flower and one squiggly doodle. On the other side of the line is his name drawn in bold, thick, capital letters and underlined with care.
S Y L A S
Ten years old…
“My momma said since I’m older I have to walk you home and make sure you get in the house since your momma is at teacher conferences and your daddy is working over time.”
“Sy you’re not even that much older than me,” I whine as though it makes perfect sense.
“But I’m a boy,” he says back.
“So?” I stop walking and fold my arms over my chest.
“Just walk, Rae. It’s hot,” he complains. I grumble under my breath and resume walking beside him. I keep my eyes down on the road, kicking rocks and pebbles I come across and doing my best to ignore him like Teddy told me to. My big brother is smart so I do as he tells me.