Chapter 4
4
He’s more irritable than usual today, but he’s sure it has nothing to do with her absence.
An angrily beeping alarm wakes me from a fitful sleep. Rolling over with a groan, I slap around blindly in its direction until the merciless noise stops, groaning again when I open my eyes and darkness greets me.
Market day , I remind myself when I start to question why the hell I’m up before the sun. Your favorite .
I slept like crap. Tossed and turned for hours, unable to stop my mind from spinning in endless circles, all because of that freaking phone call. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get my dad’s slurred voice out of my head—couldn’t get Hunter’s face out of there either, looking at me like he could see right through me. More than once in the night, the mere memory of the intensity of that look made me shiver. At some point in the wee hours of the morning, I decided I much prefer the blank passiveness he usually regards me with.
Pushing any and all men from my mind, I force myself out of bed, swapping pajamas for a sundress and deciding the mussed braid I slept in is perfectly fine if it means I have time to make coffee. To-go mug in hand, feet shoved into sandals, and a tote bag slung over my shoulder, I’m out the door and on the road in fifteen minutes, only a couple of hours away from my personal utopia.
By the time I arrive, the sun peeks over the horizon, casting golden light over the various tents dotted around the huge parking lot I pull into. That familiar, relieved feeling hits me at the colorful sight, the lingering remnants of a fitful sleep haunted by grumpy cowboys and crappy dads evaporating. Parking in my usual spot, I book it towards the growing early morning crowd.
“ Carolina !”
A thickly accented voice sings my name the second I reach the stalls. Working on auto-pilot, I turn to where I know a grinning man will be waving enthusiastically, and I grin right back, even wider when he shouts loud enough for the whole market to hear, “We missed you last week, bella .”
“Aldo,” I greet my friend as he tugs me into his arms, laughing when he kisses both my cheeks dramatically, not even the tiniest bit surprised when sneaky fingers steal my to-go mug. As he cracks the lid and peers inside, that aquiline nose turns up, but he takes a sip anyway—no matter how ‘bastardized’ my Italian friend claims my ‘sorry excuse’ for coffee to be, the sickly sweet hazelnut creamer never actually deters him. “What've you got for me?”
Dark eyes twinkle with excitement. As loudly and passionately as he did the first time we met, the supplier of my preferred drug shows off what he set aside for me—an honor I’ve earned after three years of being Aldo Bianchi’s friend.
It started as him being the best flower supplier in the market; the first stop on my weekly jaunts. Then, it progressed to fervent but playful judgment over my choice of beverages—my dislike of espresso remains a point of contention between us. Before I knew it, things snowballed. Once, when my dad changed the locks and forgot to tell me, it was Aldo’s couch I slept on—though, I never did tell him the reason. A few months after that, I helped him propose to his partner and I was a bridesmaid in his wedding. Just last year, they adopted a little girl who now calls me zia . The Bianchi family might be the only people I’m one hundred percent sure love me, and I love them just as dearly—and not just because Aldo saves me the best of the blooms.
“Your favorite.” Aldo proudly brandishes one bunch in particular, and my favorites, they certainly are. Bright orange daisies; weeds, some might say, but to me, the phrase ‘sunshine to the ground’ has always felt more apt. “To fix your mood, hm?”
Not for the first time, I curse my face for being such an open book. “I’m not in a mood.”
Aldo denies my denial with a dismissive wave of his flower-holding hand. “What did your father do?”
I snatch the pretty flowers before he accidentally smacks someone with them. Holding them to my nose, I inhale the fresh, sweet scent to counteract the bile that gathers at the back of my throat at the mention of my dad. “Nothing.”
He huffs, knowing I’m lying, though how much I’m lying, he’s oblivious to. As far as he’s concerned, my fights with my dad are the same kind any other twenty-two-year old has with their parent. Which is why he moves on so quickly. “The handsome ranch man, then.”
Frowning, I absently pluck the petals from the droopy runt of the floral litter just to give my hands something to do, only feeling a little bad about it. “I never said he was handsome.”
“The mean ones always are.”
Not true , I start to protest, but I catch myself when I realize a boy who dumped me is my only real example of that.
With one last sniff, I tuck the daisies into my bag, careful not to crush the delicate petals. Everything else, Aldo keeps hidden away from the other flower scavengers while I do a leisurely lap of the stalls, taking my sweet time relishing in the hustle and bustle. My name gets called so often my ears ring, my neck cramps from twisting in every direction, but I don’t mind. I love that I’m liked here; I love that no one from Haven Ridge comes here so no one knows me as anyone other than the girl who buys more flowers than she can carry. And true to that, by the time I make it back to where I started, I’m laden down with colorful, fragrant bunches, both bought and gifted by people who missed me last week.
Blinking silly, unshed tears away—something about people noticing my absence really shatters my admittedly feeble defenses—I enlist Aldo to help lug my haul back to my truck. When everything is safely stowed in the backseat, he dusts off his hands before planting them on his hips, hitting me with an expectant look. “Dinner this weekend, yes?”
“I can't. Lux had her baby so I'm on temporary ranch hand duty.” And at her request, surprisingly—you would’ve thought she called to let me know I won the lottery, not that she needed help shoveling horse crap.
Aldo, grown man that he is, pouts. “Chiara misses you.”
“I'll come see her next week,” I promise, smiling at the mention of his ten-year-old. She's the cutest thing, a ball of hyper, wild energy that so greatly differs from the shy, timid girl they brought home almost a year and a half ago.
In the blink of an eye, the pout disappears and something sly and slightly terrifying curls the corner of my friend’s mouth instead. “My cousin will be visiting next week.”
I’m no genius, but it doesn’t take one to know where this is going.
“Very handsome,” Aldo continues, and I swallow a groan. “Smart. A good boy. His mother raised him well.”
My eyes narrow. “Good to know.”
So do his. “He's single.”
A scoffed laugh escapes me as I climb behind the wheel. “Bye, Aldo.”
“Think about it, Lina!” He stoops, forearms propped against my open window as his eyes twinkle like a freaking cartoon character’s. “We could be family.”
Scratching my chin, I pretend to think. “You know what, on second thought, I'm really busy next week.”
Undeterred, Aldo flicks my scrunched nose. “He’s here for the whole summer.”
Ignoring his sung words—and the pit of dread they ignite in my belly—I start the engine, only barely waiting for him to step back before speeding into the distance, far, far away from him and his attempted matchmaking.
In the back of my mind, I make a note to Google if there’s something scientific behind graveyards always feeling a couple of degrees cooler than the rest of the world.
Being early summer in Northern California, there shouldn’t be goosebumps pebbling my bare arms, no reason behind the oddly chilly wind nipping at my skin. Maybe it's just in my head. It probably is. I never liked graveyards. Not that anyone likes graveyards, but I've always harbored a special abhorrence, and it has everything to do with the abundance of dead flowers truly hurting my soul.
That’s why I make sure the flowers I leave on my mom’s grave never sit around long enough to even wilt.
“Hi, Mom.” Brushing my fingertips against the cold granite of her gravestone, I bend down to replace the lilies I left earlier this week with the daisies from this morning. “Gerberas. Pretty, right?”
I don’t usually visit twice a week, but I like coming here when I have a bad day. It’s ironic, I know, that a place that gives me the heebie-jeebies has a weird knack for making me feel better. I guess I just like talking to someone who can’t tire of the sound of my voice. Who wouldn’t, even if she could actually hear it. Who loved me and didn’t leave on purpose.
Sometimes, though, it only makes me more sad because it reminds me that she doesn’t exist anymore. That she hasn’t for a while. That my mother can’t hear my voice, and I can’t quite remember the sound of hers.
I shake that somber feeling off. She wouldn't want me to be all sad and weepy. She was a decidedly not-sad-and-weepy person, from what I can remember. Every memory I have of her, she's smiling. Laughing. Encouraging everyone around her to smile and laugh too, and they did because she was just that infectious. I picture her doing just that as I relay the happenings of my life, picturing a blonde woman with the same brown eyes as me in place of a slab of granite.
“I moved out,” I quietly admit when I run out of good things to say—not that there were much of those to begin with. “I know you would've wanted us to stay together but I couldn't anymore. I think you'd understand, if you were here.”
Except if she was here, she wouldn’t have to understand. Everything would be fine.
“I'm sorry I let him get so bad. I tried—” I cut myself off. I'm not sure what I tried to do. To get him to stop drinking? To not be so aggravating of a presence, he had to drink to be around me?
“Anyway.” I swipe underneath my eyes, frustrated when the pads of my thumbs come away wet. Getting to my feet, I pat the gravestone once more. “I'll see you next week. Love you, Mom.”
I don’t head for the parking lot right away. I have one more stop to make, and I weave through the sea of headstones until I find the one I’m looking for. A simple slab of marble, only inscribed with a name and two dates. No loving mother or devoted wife —probably because neither apply to her. Nothing more than ‘ Ayana Higa ,’ the date she was born, and the date she died.
Fishing out the five daisies I saved from the main bunch and secured together with twine, I crouch and set the small bouquet on the otherwise barren grave as if I have any right to be here. “You have a grandson,” I say quietly, trying to imagine the woman I've only ever seen in photos. Photo , actually. Singular. The one that used to sit on the kitchen windowsill before a photo from Jackson’s graduation replaced it. “A beautiful grandson from a beautiful daughter that you very much don't deserve.”
“Caroline?”
Scrambling upright so fast I almost fall on my ass, I spin around, my brow furrowing when I find the last person I expected—or one of them, at least. “Lottie?”
Charlotte Jackson scowls something fierce, her ire a perfect match to the flaming red hair fashioned in two deceptively sweet braided pigtails. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Pretending I’m not intimidated to the point of fear by a nineteen-year-old, I gesture vaguely in the direction of my mom’s grave. “Visiting.”
Lottie huffs. Light brown eyes flick to the gravestone that definitely does not belong to my deceased mother. When they return to me, they darken with enough blatant hatred to make a girl nauseous. “Did you do that?”
I nod timidly.
“Jesus Christ, Caroline.” Shouldering me aside, she stomps on the flowers, and I get the distinct feeling she wishes I was being crushed beneath the sole of her intimidatingly thick platform boot. “You just can’t leave us alone, can you?”
“I—”
“You’re pathetic,” she interrupts, nothing but malice in her tone. “And creepy. Get your own fucking family and stay away from mine.”
Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them away. “I'm sorry, Lottie. I didn't mean any harm.”
“Yeah, whatever.” She slashes a hand through the air, like she wishes I was a bug she could swat. “Just go away.”
I want to ask why she’s here. I thought none of them came here. I know for a fact the burial was the first and only time Lux and Jackson have ever been anywhere near their mother’s grave.
If it was any other sibling, I would ask. But this is Lottie, and I do actually value my life. So, without another word, I sheepishly scurry off to the parking lot, my mind already working overtime to forget her vicious words.
Get your own family and stay away from mine.