Chapter Five
ZANE
An email from the HR department to Zane, Thursday, September 12, 8:09 a.m.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Vacation Request Amended
Zane,
Your vacation request was originally for one week, but your father has had it extended to two weeks “just in case.” I’m not sure what he means, but per his request, I’ve amended your time off accordingly.
He also mentioned you should take an actual vacation—not just stay home.
Please direct any questions regarding this change to him.
Enjoy your time off.
– Carol
Carol Berlinger
Director of Human Resources
Foothills Stoneworks
“WELL, LOOK WHO DECIDED TO grace us with his presence,” Amelia says as I walk into the kitchen of our childhood home. Although it’s not the same kitchen, since it’s been updated. Gone are the dents in the cabinets Amelia and I left, as well as the crack in the tile flooring (also courtesy of me and Amelia). However, the height milestones Sharpied on the wall next to the pantry remain, including Macey’s.
“Zane,” our mom says, looking happy to see me. “I thought you weren’t coming.”
For the last who-knows-how-long, probably since Amelia and I both moved back after college, we’ve been having dinner once a month as a family. Sometimes her boyfriend, Garrett, joins us, and quite often Macey comes with, but today Amelia’s by herself. I’m guessing Macey isn’t here because she’s getting ready for her Pride and Prejudice trip, and who knows where that loser Garrett is, but I’m glad he’s not here.
“Changed my mind,” I say as I walk over to where my mom is stirring mashed potatoes on the stainless-steel, top-of-the-line cooktop and give her a side hug. She leans her head in toward me, and the lavender smell of the shampoo she’s used since I can remember fills me with nostalgia.
I don’t want to tell them that I couldn’t sit in my room for one more minute, overthinking everything. It’s my second day of vacation and I’m no closer to knowing what I want. Not that I expected to figure it out that fast, but I thought maybe I’d have some breakthroughs. Of course, I watched the Cowboys lose last night and have been bed rotting most of today, looking at TikTok, which hasn’t been helping and only proves there are a lot of stupid people out there.
“You look like crap,” Amelia says from her perch at the end of the oversized island, phone in hand.
“Thank you,” I say flatly, and then point to the bird’s nest she has her dark hair pulled up into. “You’re not looking so great yourself.”
She scowls at me, reaching up to adjust her hair, which does nothing.
“Where’s your dumb boyfriend?” I ask my sister.
“He had a work thing,” she says. “And he’s not dumb.”
“Sure.”
“You’re the dumb one.” Amelia glances over to make sure our mom isn’t looking before flipping me off.
“I saw that,” our mom says, still working on her mashed potatoes with her back to us. I still don’t know how she does it, but Beth Porter doesn’t miss a thing.
Some things never change—like Amelia and I bickering, and Mom catching us in the act. But some things do. These days, Amelia and I aren’t just siblings; we’re roommates, sharing a condo neither of us planned to stay in this long.
The rent is cheap, at least. Cheap, as in free. Foothills did all the stonework on the exterior and interior of the upscale complex we currently live in, and part of the deal my dad negotiated was a great rate on a top-level unit. I think my parents wanted it as a temporary place for either of their children to stay when the need came up, rather than us moving back home. I don’t think they intended for both of us to live there for the past two years.
“Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation?” Amelia asks as I grab a glass from the cupboard nearest the fridge—where the cups have always been.
I turn toward my mom, who’s sporting a very sheepish grin. Pretty sure my dad told her about my situation, and told her not to tell anyone, but she had to tell Amelia, because my mom is terrible at keeping secrets. Based on Amelia’s question, though, I don’t think she has the full story, which I’m grateful for.
“Yeah,” is all I say.
“Why?” she asks.
I know Amelia, and she’ll pester me until she gets it out of me. But not this time.
“Why what?” I ask, just to be annoying.
“Why are you taking time off? I thought you had a project coming up that you couldn’t miss.”
I lift my shoulder and then let it drop. “Turns out I can.”
“Why?”
I glance over at my mom, who’s busy getting something from the fridge. She gives me a soft, knowing smile, and I give her one back, grateful she isn’t saying the reason for my break out loud. It’s not that I think Amelia would rub it in or use it against me. She’s never wanted any part of running Foothills; she’s always wanted to do her own thing. It’s just that I don’t want to rehash the whole thing right now.
“I’m overworked and needed some time to decompress, that’s all.”
“Okay,” she says, with a casual flick of her shoulders.
I eye her. No more questions? That seemed too easy.
“Set the table, you two,” my mom says, and Amelia and I get to work doing as she asks.
Just as my mom sets down the last plate of food on the table, our dad walks in from the garage, keys and phone in hand. He gives my mom a quick kiss on her cheek.
“Smells great in here,” he says.
My heart hurts a little, knowing he just came from the office, the same place I should be coming from. He’s been so great about everything, and I don’t know—maybe if he got mad or something, it would make me feel better about the whole thing. I’d feel held accountable in a way I deserve, rather than the supportive and patient way my dad has handled it.
I sent him a text the evening after I left work to tell him I was going to figure this out and how grateful I was for his example, and that I wouldn’t let him down. He sent me back only a thumbs-up emoji, which is ... typical.
“Hey, Zane,” he says, patting me on the back before settling into his usual chair at the round, handcrafted oak table, its surface now smooth from being refinished to erase the fork marks and other gashes Amelia and I left behind over the years.
We dig into the food, which is pot roast (a staple for my mom), mashed potatoes, rolls, and roasted asparagus. Sometimes this once-a-month dinner is the only time I get a home-cooked meal. I tend to eat out a lot, or go for easy, microwavable meals that have hardly any nutritional value. I bet this was my mom’s plan all along, to make sure we eat something hearty at least once in a while.
We make small talk as we eat, my dad thankfully not regaling us with tales from work like he usually does. Although, I also find this frustrating since he’s probably holding back for my sake.
“So, Zane,” Amelia says during a lull in the mostly superficial conversation. “What are your plans for this break you’re taking?”
Right. So she wasn’t going to let it go that easily after all. How foolish of me.
“Oh yes,” my mom says, wiping her mouth with a white cloth napkin. “What are your plans, Zane?”
I look to my dad, whose eyebrows are raised, awaiting my answer. Thankfully, I have one.
“I’m going to Costa Rica, actually,” I tell them.
TikTok may have made me lose my faith in humanity, but I went down a rabbit hole watching videos of people visiting Costa Rica, and it looked amazing. So on a whim—or really at four in the morning when I woke up in a cold sweat—I booked a flight and a place to stay for the first couple of nights.
Will Costa Rica have the answers I’m looking for? Somehow, I doubt it. But it’s worth a shot, I guess. Maybe getting out of my own head—and out of El Dorado Hills—will give me some clarity. It’s not just that I need a break—I need to know if I’m even capable of stepping into the role my dad’s been holding for me. And if I’m not? Well ... I don’t know what I’ll do then.
In truth, I don’t want to go anywhere—I’d rather stay here and make sure things get fixed with Summit and that mess of a contract. But now, with the look of pride on my dad’s face after telling him I’ve booked a trip, I’m grateful I did, even if it amounts to nothing.
“Who are you going with?” Amelia asks.
“Myself,” I say. “I’m going to hike, see some stuff.” Figure out my life. No big deal.
“Oh, I don’t love that,” my mom says, that place between her brows creasing. “Couldn’t you go with someone?”
“Not this last-minute,” I say. “I’m also thirty years old.” I think my mom forgets this sometimes.
I’m kind of with her on this one, though. I don’t love the idea either. For one, I’m traveling by myself, something I’ve never done, and going somewhere I’ve never been. But truthfully, I’m mostly worried that my own thoughts will get on my nerves, that I’ll get sick of myself and have no one to keep me from a spiral of overthinking. It’s highly likely, since I’m already annoying myself, lying around, doing just that, since leaving the office Wednesday evening. I haven’t been this lazy in years and I hate it.
“I love it,” my dad says, giving my shoulder a quick squeeze. “I’ve always wanted to go to Costa Rica.”
I knew he would. It’s not Miami with friends, but it is a vacation. And who knows, maybe on Tamarindo beach, where I’ll be spending the first couple of days, I’ll have some grand, life- changing epiphany. Or it’s also possible I’ll just end up with a sunburn.
“Well, maybe you should go with him,” my mom says, obviously still not happy that I’ll be by myself.
“He’ll be fine,” my dad says.
I’m grateful he doesn’t add the obvious: He can’t go anywhere because someone has to stay here and clean up the mess I made.
“You know what would be an even better idea?” Amelia says, holding up her index finger. “You could go with Macey to Pride and Prejudice Park.”
I let out a breath. Not this again. When Amelia gets an idea in her head, it’s hard to turn her away from it. “That’s ... not the kind of break I’m looking for,” I tell her.
She waves my words away with her hands. “It’s like stepping into another life. It’s the perfect escape, which is what you said you needed. Plus, you could totally pull off a cravat.”
I pull my chin in. “There are costumes?”
“Of course,” she says. “It’s like cosplay.”
I swipe a hand down my face, imaging how stiff and itchy those garments must be. “That’s gonna be a no from me.”
I’ll go hang out on a beach by myself any day before doing something like that. In fact, this conversation is making me think this solo trip to Costa Rica doesn’t sound so bad after all.
“Zaaaaaaaane,” she says, drawing out my name like she used to when we were younger, when she’d try so hard to get me to teach her how to rollerblade or play outside with her. She called me “Dane” for a long time because it was so difficult for her to say Z s. I had a hard time saying no to her back then. I don’t have that same problem now, though.
“Not happening.”
“You have no idea how much she’s been looking forward to this, Zane,” Amelia says, her voice sharper now. “If I could go, I would. But I can’t, and it kills me to think of her going alone when you could help.”
I let out a slow breath, her words hitting harder than I’d like to admit. I don’t want to seem like some heartless jerk. But what Amelia doesn’t get—what no one really gets—is that this trip isn’t an escape as much as a chance for me to figure out if I’m even cut out for this life at Foothills. I think my dad is expecting me to come to the same realization he did when he took his break, and everything will continue on like it did before. But what if I can’t do it? What if I’m not enough?
Costa Rica isn’t just some vacation, it’s my Hail Mary—a chance to get out of my own head, to figure out if I can actually be the person my dad thinks I am. And if I can’t, I need to know before I let him down any more than I already have.
“Why is Macey going alone?” my mom asks, confusion on her face. “Didn’t she have someone lined up to go as Mr. Darcy?”
“She did,” Amelia says, her shoulders doing a sort of slouching thing. “But he had to back out last minute. Now she’s going by herself.”
“Oh, I don’t love that,” my mom says, repeating what she just said about my solo trip to Costa Rica. She’s always treated Macey like one of her children.
“She’ll be just fine,” my dad says, never one to worry. My mom seems to be the one with that gene. And I guess Amelia must have inherited it. But not for me—for Macey.
“Of course she’ll be fine,” Amelia says. “It’s just that I want this to go well for her. She’s had such a crappy year.”
My mom shakes her head. “I can’t believe her mom is back in rehab, and for so long too.”
“That’s what happens when you’re a repeat offender,” my dad says.
“Exactly. And Macey broke up with her cheating boyfriend, and was kicked out of her apartment,” Amelia says, punctuating each point with a tap of her finger. “And now things at work aren’t going well.”
“Oh no, what’s going on at work?” my mom asks, concerned. “Is she going to lose her job or something?”
“I’ll hire her,” says my dad.
Amelia shakes her head. “No, she still has her job. She’s just not doing what she wants to be doing there, and there was this horse thing—actually, it’s a long story. She just needs a win right now.”
I scrunch my brow, not sure how me going with her would be the win Amelia is hoping for. “Didn’t she win this trip? Isn’t that a win?” I ask.
Amelia looks to my mom and then my dad, her lips twisting to the side. A telltale sign that she’s up to something. Or hiding something.
“What am I missing?” I ask, looking at the three of them.
“You can’t tell her,” she says, “but Mom and Dad paid for it, and I made it look like she won.”
“I don’t understand. Why couldn’t you just give it to her as a gift from us?” I ask, not following.
“That’s what I said,” my dad replies.
Amelia shakes her head. “Because she wouldn’t have accepted it. She feels indebted to our family already.”
“That’s ridiculous,” my mom says. “She owes us nothing. We love Macey like one of our own.”
“I know this, and so does she. But Macey doesn’t like having to rely on others.”
“She’s literally living with us right now,” I say, still confused.
“A fact that she was apologizing for daily until I asked her to stop.”
I pause, thinking about that. Macey apologizes for everything these days—bumping into someone in the kitchen, asking for the mailbox key, even just quietly asking Amelia about coffee filters, like she’s afraid of taking up space.
It’s strange, because when I look at her, I still see the same Macey I’ve always known—big, expressive eyes and a face that’s easy to read, with the way her cheeks heat up like they do. But there’s something missing now, something muted, like she’s hiding parts of herself that used to shine. And maybe that’s the part I feel guilty about, even if I don’t quite know why.
She barely glanced at me last week when she asked if she could use the kitchen to make something to eat. She had her red hair pulled back in that messy, effortless way she always does, but her expression was like she was bracing for me to say no.
I’m not sure if I did something wrong or if it’s the lingering awkwardness from that letter she wrote me all those years ago. Back then, it completely caught me off guard. I didn’t know how to respond—so I didn’t. Which was immature, I know. I was young, too focused on college, and clueless. I could have handled it better. I should have.
It’s been a long time, but I can’t help wondering if she’s still embarrassed by it. Maybe that’s why it feels like there’s this unspoken weight between us—something neither of us knows how to lift.
“Well, I can’t help you this time, Amelia,” I say, definitively.
“You could, though,” Amelia says, a slight begging quality to her tone. “She’s been counting down to this trip for months. It’s the only thing that’s brought her any joy lately, and now she seems less excited about it because she has to go alone.”
“I really don’t love that she’s going by herself,” my mom says again. Maybe I need to remind her that, like me, Macey is an adult.
Amelia lets out a long-suffering sigh. The one she uses when she’s lost hope. “Well, if you change your mind, there’ll be an open seat next to her on the flight. That she’ll be on. All alone.”
She’s really leaning into the guilt now. I won’t deny that picturing Macey all by herself rankles, but it’s not enough for me to change my mind, even if it causes some pain between Amelia and me. We’ve gotten through worse things. I’ve got my own mess to sort out, and I highly doubt cosplaying Mr. Darcy will give me the clarity I’m looking for. If that makes me selfish, so be it.
Right now, I need to figure myself out—even if it means letting someone else down.