Chapter 43 Stevie
Stevie
“Stevie!”
I show up on my parent’s doorstep at seven p.m. on the night before Thanksgiving with a plate of store-bought cookies, an overnight bag, and a bleeding, ruptured heart. I swear I feel the goopy pieces slogging down my chest and plunking into my stomach, inciting a wave of nausea to slam into me.
With everything that’s happened over the past week, I hadn’t even realized that Thanksgiving was tomorrow. The house smells like pumpkin-spice cake and savory casseroles as Joplin plows through the front door and tackles me with a hug.
“Hey,” I greet her, ambushed by her arms as I force a smile to lift. “Sorry I’m late.”
“We’ve been trying to call you all day. Almost thought you weren’t going to show.”
It’s always been tradition to spend the Wednesday before Thanksgiving together, baking pies and prepping side dishes, even after Joplin and I moved out.
We’d dress up in turkey onesies and have a sleepover in our old bedrooms, eager for the holiday bustle to begin when the sun rose on Thanksgiving morning.
But everything feels different this year. A fractured fairy tale.
Joplin studies me through the flickering porch light. “I left the apartment this morning, and you were still sleeping. I was going to wake you but figured you needed the rest.”
I pop my shoulders with a shrug. “I’m okay. It’s just been a process…reacclimating.”
When Misty picked me up from the airport last week, I was a mess.
A broken, run-down mess. I could hardly speak through the snot-bubbling tears as I explained everything.
A hug from my best friend was a small comfort, but the moment she dropped me off at the farmhouse and I took one look at the despicable actions of an anonymous stranger, I fell apart all over again.
The following five days were a whirlwind, repainting the siding, fixing up the landscape, replacing windows, and long nights filled with red wine and heart-to-hearts.
Then I spent the rest of the week holed up inside my apartment, wallowing and bereaved.
“I’m so glad you made it,” Joplin says. A fusion of sadness and relief fills her eyes before she snags me by the wrist. “Come on. You need real food. Mom made her famous pecan pie.”
My sister pulls me inside the house while my duffel bag drags behind me, catching on the front stoop.
The living room is exactly how I always remembered it: cozy, warm, decorated with a raggedy beige couch, my grandmother’s old rocking chair draped with a red-and-orange checkered shawl, and a beat-up coffee table centered on the ugly rust rug.
It’s perfect.
But I freeze when I notice something else situated in the corner of the room where a fake Ficus tree used to be just a few days ago.
An upright piano.
“Jop,” I gasp, taking in the familiar instrument. “Mom and Dad moved the piano from my room?”
“Oh.” She shrugs. “Yeah, I’ve been coming over a lot, and I’m teaching myself how to play. They figured it would get more use in the main living area.”
I don’t have time to process the change before my parents stroll in from the back door off the kitchen. Mom is wearing a blush gown, an apron tied around her waist that says “My Rolls Are Homemade.”
She does a double take when she spots me standing in the middle of the house like a misplaced sock. “Oh, Stevie. We thought you weren’t coming.”
Dad turns, peering into the room. His eyes warm like melted fudge. “Sweetheart.”
My gaze gleams with tears. “Hi,” I murmur. “I wanted to get here earlier, but I just…”
I don’t need to finish the sentence.
Mom and Dad race toward me, both of them picking me up for respective hugs, and I squeeze them back with all the strength my withered body will allow.
“Let me take those,” Mom says, removing the cookie platter from my hands, her own tears shimmering back at me. “Are you feeling better?”
My smile wilts through a nod. “Yeah. I’ll be okay.”
Heartbreak just takes some time to heal.
“We were getting Emmy secured inside her pen for the night,” Dad adds. “You know how she gets this time of year.”
Mom presses a hand to my shoulder. “We’re so glad you came by. Unfortunately, we do have to run out tonight, just for a little while. The neighbor invited us over for dessert.”
“Fran,” Dad grumbles. “Crotchety old lady wants to make amends. She was still bitter over the fact that I couldn’t fix her leaking faucet with a roll of duct tape and the Lord’s Prayer. I assure you we won’t be long.”
My face falls. “Oh. No problem.” I glance at Joplin. “Are you going too?”
“Regrettably. We need at least four people to play bridge.” She sticks a finger down her throat and makes audible gagging noises. “Don’t worry. We’re not expecting you to tag along.”
“Um…right. I’ll probably just go to bed so I can be up early and make up for the time lost today. Hopefully you didn’t start the mashed potatoes yet.”
“Nope,” Joplin says. “We love leaving the real manual labor for you.”
Dad glances at the time on his faded gold watch. “We still have a few minutes. Let’s get my lovely daughter—”
“Second favorite daughter,” Joplin interjects.
“—a slice of pecan pie.”
My sister wraps an arm around my shoulders, smelling like floral blossoms in early spring. Home and familiarity waft all around me as I take a seat at the table while Mom cuts a piece of homemade pie.
Disappointment niggles, knowing they’ll be going out tonight. A quiet evening alone sounds dreadful when my mind is spinning and my heart is in turmoil.
Alas, it still has to be better than that Thanksgiving two years ago when Emmy escaped her pen in a thunderstorm and my entire family chased our dairy cow down a rainy dirt road like poorly scripted characters in a live-action cartoon.
Mom’s flour-dusted apron swung behind her like a superhero cape while Dad raced from the house in his bathrobe and Chewbacca slippers, teetering the line of precardiac arrest, his complexion matching the color of Mom’s blueberry pie.
Emmy had never been more pleased with herself.
The neighbors were also thrilled, perched outside in lawn chairs, wearing ponchos, because they thought there was a parade.
A slice of pecan pie is slid in front of me on a paper plate featuring an animated turkey. “Thank you.”
Joplin takes a seat beside me, stealing the first bite with a plastic fork. “So I’m getting a cat on Monday.”
My eyebrows lift. “A cat? I thought you hated cats because they’re untrained roommates with fur.”
“Turns out Captain Purrington McSnugglepants is the perfect roommate. He’s my friend Lana’s cat.
She’s moving in with her boyfriend who’s allergic,” she says.
“I already know he’s going to ignore me and won’t complain about the constant messes.
He’s also terrifying, so the weird neighbors might leave us alone.
Kind of like a built-in security system with whiskers and a permanent scowl.
” She swallows a bite. “Cap for short, by the way. Hope you don’t mind. ”
Mom cuts in. “He’s actually very sweet, but he doesn’t like Joplin. Hissed at her the whole time we were visiting Lana.”
“It’s a push-and-pull relationship dynamic. Lots of tension and mewing banter. He’s training me for my ideal lover.”
“Like Rudy?” I can’t help myself.
My sister’s eyes round to mortified saucers. “I texted him once . One time, Stevie.” She slumps back in the seat, folding her arms. “I liked his socks, okay?”
“Everyone knows that all epic love stories start with llama socks.”
“He’s too old for me.”
“What, like ten years? It’s doable.”
She hesitates, gaze brightening. “You think?”
Dad leans back against the cluttered counter, strewn with cooking utensils, glassware, and crumbs. “I don’t know,” he says, rubbing his salt-and-pepper goatee. “I’m not sure how I feel about another daughter moving out to California.”
A hollow silence infects the kitchen.
I dip my eyes, catching the way my mother elbows my father in the ribs in my periphery.
“I just mean…I missed you, honey,” Dad fumbles, clearing his throat. “And I’m so glad you’re back.”
My jaw tightens as I smear caramel across the plate, camouflaging the turkey’s happy face. “It’s okay. I never really liked the heat anyway. I would’ve missed the change of seasons, the farm life…you guys.” I swallow back a lump. “Los Angeles didn’t feel like home.”
Except…it did.
He did.
And I don’t know if I’ll ever get that feeling back.
I pick at my pie and try not to think about Lex. He’s texted me twice since I’ve been back in Illinois, and I wasn’t expecting the communication. He asked me how I was and said happy Thanksgiving. It was something. It wasn’t enough, but it was…something.
I’m still on his mind.
My thoughts begin to spiral when I think about what he might be doing right now.
Is he at a club?
Drowning his sorrows, drinking me away?
Already searching for a rebound?
My stomach curdles like petrified cement, and the few bites of pie try crawling their way back up my throat. “Um…I think I’m going to go lie down. Since you guys are heading out anyway.”
Mom’s brows bend with concern. “Are you sure? We still have some time—”
“I’m sure. Have fun with Fran.” Pulling off my chair, I share a soft glance with my sister. “Maybe we can play some songs together tomorrow on the piano since you’ve been practicing.”
Joplin nods with sympathy-glazed eyes. “Sure thing, sis.”
Mom stops me as I exit the kitchen. “Text us if you need anything. We’re just next door.”
A sad smile flickers.
I leave them in the kitchen and haul myself up the stairs, my duffel bag bouncing atop each step, and it doesn’t take long for the emotional dam to crumble.
Moments later, I’m bawling on my childhood bed.
Sobbing. Mourning.
Practically dry heaving.
I hear the front door click shut, the only sound that breaks through the deafening heartache. Burying my face in my old pillow, I clutch my limp teddy bear to my chest, wishing the stuffed toy had the power to glue my broken pieces back together.