Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
A shley
Nini glares hatefully at the glowing candles as we sing Happy Birthday to her.
It's a full house consisting of—aside from Nini and me—the kids, my parents, and my sister Annica.
About ten years ago, my parents sold the family home and got a condo just outside of town. The place has three bedrooms. A master suite for Mom and Dad, a bedroom for ornery old Nini, and the office/craft room with two desks and a closet filled with Mom’s neglected dreams of suddenly becoming crafty.
Since moving back, the kids sleep in the den. Martin keeps his stuff in Dad’s old treasure chest while Lucy lives out of her suitcase. I’m the lucky one staying in the multipurpose room which has a futon with a mattress soft as concrete and a classic set of encyclopedias in case I need a sleep aid.
Nini, bless her, who’s never been happy in life, finds joy in the simple things, like voicing her misery and blaming said misery on me, the kids, and my parents for letting me and the kids move in.
"Happy birthday, dear Nini…happy birthday to you."
Once the song is through, we lean forward in collective anticipation, waiting for her to blow out the candles.
Oddly enough, she doesn’t.
The flames topping all eight candles—representing her seventy-eighth year—sink lower in the awkward pause.
"Well," my daughter Lucy says as the tiny flames descend toward the lemon-of-all-flavors cake, "are you going to blow out your candles?"
Nini darts a cutting glare at Lucy; her lips pursed over her teeth.
"Come on," Martin says softly, "you want to make a wish, don't you?"
Nini turns the look in his direction. "You superstitious fool!"
“Nini," Mom and I blurt out in unison.
I shoot Martin an I’m sorry look, and find that his face is hidden in his hands as his shoulders bounce. Lucy mirrors the action beside him, audibly fighting laughter of her own. At least they have a sense of humor about it. If they were any younger, the pair would be traumatized by the horrors of living with Nini the Meanie .
"Are you going to blow out your candles, or should we just throw water on you instead?" Dad’s patience is wearing faster than the wax on the candles, most of which is puddled beneath the shrinking flames.
Nini lifts her chin proudly as a light flickers in her beady eyes—a light not related to the candles. An idea has popped into that narrow head of hers, and that’s usually not a good thing.
Slowly then, she angles her face toward mine, fixes her lively eyes on me, and grins with her nostrils.
Dread stirs low in my gut.
" You,” she demands, jabbing a bony finger in my direction. “ You blow the candles out.”
All eyes settle on me, causing the heat in my chest to climb up my neck. I glance at my parents, my sister, and my kids, feeling oddly exposed in the dreadful pause. Like any good bully, Nini has sniffed out the weakest of the bunch, the one she can order around, and she’s calling me out to prove it.
I stare at the cake, willing the small flames to snuff out in the pooled wax already. I spin the bracelet on my wrist as I contemplate. What’s the big deal? It’s not like she asked me to slit someone’s throat or anything. Still, I can’t ignore the fact that this is a power play on her end. A bizarre power play, granted. Possibly one of the most bizarre in human history.
I lock eyes with my sister Annica across the table. “Should I?” I mouth, shrugging.
She shakes her head adamantly.
"I’ll blow them out for you, Nini," Martin offers.
Lucy puts a hand on his shoulder. "No. Nini is supposed to do it. It's her birthday. Unless she's the superstitious one. I have a friend who thinks it’s bad luck to blow out her own candles. I bet that’s?—"
Nini waves a scrawny hand in the air. "Ah, hush, you." Then, to my amazement, the crotchety old woman huffs out every candle in one blow. The withered wicks smolder and smoke. "There!” She pins a glare at Lucy. "Happy?"
Lucy grins wide. "Yep."
Mom douses the discomfort by asking Martin to retrieve the dessert plates and silverware.
Annica approaches me from behind and leans close to my ear. "I can't believe you actually live here."
My nostrils flare as I shake my head. I can’t believe it either. “Hey,” I say, “remember when we tried to fool our teachers one day in school by wearing each other's clothes and going to one another's classes?" Not that we’re twins or anything, but we did look an awful lot alike, and it was worth a try.
Annica giggles ruefully. "Don't even think about it.” She lifts a hand as Mom cuts into the cake. “I'll take a piece to go, Mom, if you don't mind.”
"I hate you," I mumble under my breath. Mom dishes out the cake and distributes it throughout the table before placing Annica’s in a to-go box.
"Where’d you get those take-out boxes?” Annica asks.
“Lucy found them on TikTok,” Dad says rather cheerfully. It’d be fair to say his bad mood was absorbed by the compliment or the cake, but it’s actually Lucy who does that; the two have a special bond.
“It’s better than sending all my Tupperware home with you only to never see them again,” Mom adds.
"Oh, I was supposed to give those back?” Annica secures the to-go box and plants a kiss on Mom's cheek. "Thanks, Mom. Love you. And about the tattoo? I say go for it." She turns to me. “Walk me out, will you?"
"Gladly,” I say. I trail after my sister as she hugs Dad, Martin, and Lucy before forcing an awkward hug on Nini. "Happy horrible birthday, Nini, you big old meanie."
Nini swats her away. "What kind of a thing is that to say to an old woman? I hope you get wrinkles early. And is that a gray hair I see?”
Annica grins and turns to me.
“Ready?” I ask.
"If you mean, am I ready to head back to my quiet, luxurious apartment on the beach, why then yes, I’m ready."
I crack open the door. "Why are you so mean?"
We laugh as I follow her outside. Annica drives a convertible BMW Z8, which was named one of the sexiest cars of the year in a recent article.
A sliver of old-fashioned envy shudders through me. Annica is a successful wedding planner who’s become very good at enjoying the fruits of her labor. And though I have worked as hard as she has all these years, I'm stuck in this crowded condo driving the Camry we bought almost fifteen years ago because, as Ross says, we remain the sole owners, and the thing’s in mint condition.
"Hey," Annica says in my silence. "You could have everything I have. You know that, right?"
I look at her like the notion is ridiculous. Then, I make my eyes wider in case she's not reading my mind anymore. My expression says, no, actually, I can't.
"Ashley, you make good money. Plus, you guys sold a house you owned outright, and you have half of that profit sitting in the bank. You could call Liam Wheaton tonight, tell him what you’re working with, and he’d have a handful of places to look at by morning.”
The mere mention of calling Liam tonight makes my stomach twist and my face sweat. “I’m definitely not calling him tonight,” I say, sounding like the chicken I am.
Annica keeps her searching gaze on me. “Just because Ross wants you to hold off on buying the car you want or the house that you want… Let me rephrase that: Just because he wants you to keep living outside of town with a trio of old people instead of mingling with the hot singles in town doesn't mean you actually have to do that."
“That’s not why he’s doing it,” I say with an eye roll. “There’s not even a sliver of him that still wants me, and I feel the same way about him.” I think of the plan Ross came up with, which was to wait for at least one year. “Staying put is the best financial decision."
My face flushes with a new dose of heat because that last part wasn’t exactly honest. I mean, maybe it would be the smartest financial choice, but it’s not my choice. I’m just going along for the ride like I always have. I glance down at my foot as I tap the side of Annica’s tire.
"Then tell me this,” Annica says, a challenge in her tone. “Is it the best decision for your mental health? And the kids—think about them. They're not even sharing a bedroom . They're sharing a den. And they have to put up with Nini day in and day out, after getting ripped away from their school and their friends in Oregon, after their parents got divorced…”
“Geez, Annica,” I scold. “What happened to the pep talk?”
“I’m just saying…” She drags the word out like when we were kids. “They need to see that you can make decisions for yourself. What kind of example is it for Lucy if you just bow down to a man you're not even married to anymore?"
I narrow my eyes at her. "I'm a really good mom.”
“I never said you weren't," Annica says. "In fact, you're a terrific mom. But is this what you would tell Lucy to do in the same situation? Or even Martin, for that matter? Heck, actions speak a lot louder than words.”
I nod. "I know. So, you’re suggesting that I look for a place in town now and commute?”
“Not commute. Find a dentist you didn’t used to be married to and work for him.”
I give her a tsk. “I’ll think about it.” But the fact is, I have been thinking about it nearly every minute of every day since we moved here three months ago.
“Call Liam,” Annica urges. “Or better yet, come to one of the forty-something meet-ups, and you can talk to him in person.”
A clash of dread and delight shudder through me at the thought.
“I know you said you don’t want to go to any of those yet, but I don’t know what you’re waiting for. Someone to swoop in and snatch Liam up for herself?”
The delight is vapor now—a ghost in the wake of a new and rising fear.
“He’s a great guy,” Annica continues, “and there don’t seem to be a whole lot of them around.”
Ugh, I hate how right she is, but it’s true. My heart feels like it has feet of its own because, suddenly, it’s racing wildly out of control. “You haven’t told him I’m back, have you?”
“No.” Annica taps her key fob so that her car unlocks. “Oh, and one last thing: what I said about you attaining everything I have, that’s true. Sadly, it doesn't go both ways."
I look up, detecting the emotion behind her words as moisture wells in her eyes.
“Aww, sis…” I wrap my arms around her and pull her in for one of those heartfelt sister hugs, the squishes you feel clear to your soul.
“It’s just bothering me because they’re planning this weekend getaway where everyone’s supposed to bring their kids.”
I pull back a bit. “Who’s they?” I ask.
“The forty-something singles board, which I’m part of, mind you, so it’s not like I think it’s a bad idea. And it’s not only for parents either. If you don’t have kids, you’re encouraged to come because it’s likely your partner will have kids, and you can, you know, see if they’re terrible brats you want to avoid.” She chuckles and sniffs.
I can’t even imagine showing up to an hour-long event, let alone an entire weekend. The mere idea of having my kids there, too, nearly triggers a panic attack. I’d be constantly worried about what wild, snarky comment Lucy might spit out next. Or Martin, who hasn’t exactly channeled his quiet voice when it comes to observations in public.
“Sick neck tat on that guy,” Martin said about our waiter at a restaurant last night. Sick, meaning good, by the way. It was in earshot of the guy, but since it was a compliment, I kept my comments to myself and prayed inwardly that Martin would never get a cobra tattooed on his neck. Then Martin finished his thought, “Too bad it’s going to look ridiculous when he grows more chins.”
Thanks to Martin, I had to double tip. Not in nod to the impending chins, mind you, but so he could afford tattoo removal if the notion suddenly struck.
“Well, if it makes you feel any better,” I say, “that sounds like my literal definition of hell.”
Annica grins ruefully. “Says the woman cooped up in a condo with Nini the Grouch.”
I laugh. “Hey,” I say, remembering something I overheard. “Do you think Mom’s serious about getting a tattoo?”
Annica shrugs. “She could be. I hope she does it. We’ll finally have one of those cool moms.”
We share a laugh, and I give my sister one more hug, along with a word of encouragement. “You’ll meet your man. It’s all about timing. And it sounds like you should go to that family thing and weed out the guys with bad seeds.”
“Ha, maybe I will. And if I were you,” she says, backing up to fix her eyes on mine, “I’d give Ross my notice, tell him I’m buying whatever place I’d like, and tell him I’m selling the car too. If he likes the Camry so much, he can have it.”
With that, she climbs into her BMW, makes that engine purr like a kitten, and peels off. The tires give out an appreciative squeal. I watch her coast down the street, but I’m not really seeing her. Instead, I’m stuck with the image of my stronger self, doing all the things Annica suggested.
A dart of longing sinks deep into my chest, where it pulses, swells, and prods. Do it, Ashley. Just do it.
“Yeah, right,” I say wryly as I snap back into reality. Even my stronger self knows that’s not going to happen.