Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SEVEN VIRTUES, NORTH CAROLINA
Truly? Is there any competition when it comes to best dressed couple for the Met Gala?
Let’s stop the fighting and admit Danielle Madison and her husband, Brendan Blake, win every year by default. It truly is much more mature that way.
End of.
—Moore You Want
“Now tell me you’re calling me just to share how much you’ve missed me,” are the first words out of my mouth when our call connects.
“No, I just needed a friend,” is Ethan’s deadpan reply.
“Oh.” His response deflates my excitement like a balloon that’s sustained a direct hit by a machete.
When I don’t say anymore, Ethan’s voice softens, “Fallon, you know I wish I was able to be with you every day. I want nothing more than to wrap you up in my arms, hold your body next to mine, touch your skin. I want to determine if what happened at the hospital means more.”
“Is it just sex?”
“No. I want to experience life through you, with you. It’s no longer enough to wait for your words through texts. We’ve been doing this back and forth for years and now and…”
His voice trails off, so I pick up where he left off. “And now?”
“Now, I crave to be where you are. Hold you at the end of a long day. Hear about what you found at the museum that fascinated you the most today. By the way, what unusual fact did you unearth about the Biltmore House today?” His voice softens as he quizzes me about the place I want to land my dream job.
I blurt out, “There are sixty-five fireplaces.”
Dead silence.
“And forty-three bathrooms.”
Suddenly a chuckle begins on the other end of the line. “Well, I suppose after making love to a lady of quality in front of a roaring fire, at least Mr. Vanderbilt had quick access to dispose of his sheaths.”
I burst into laughter at his quick charm and bawdiness. “Cute, Kensington.”
“See, now you’re getting with the program. I am cute. I remember my mama telling me so,” he announces haughtily. Just as quickly, his laughter evaporates.
Suddenly, I just want to hear him talk about the nebulous Melissa Kensington. Gently, I pry, “What was she like?”
“Who?”
“Your mother.”
“You mean Austyn’s never mentioned her?”
That’s when I drop him into a vortex of emotions. “Ethan, how could she when even what Paige knows about her is hearsay?” Paige—Ethan’s younger sister and Austyn’s mother—has no memories of her mother. How could she when her whole life she’d been told her mother died because she was born? All she knew was that her mother was beautiful and worshiped, and losing her had reduced their father to a mess of quivering toxicity.
But Austyn’s father surprised his family when he went into intensive therapy to sort his functional immorality out. Now, there’s a cautious acceptance by most of the Kensington’s. Judging by his undisguised anguish, Ethan’s not over his duplicity.
The springs beneath his mattress squeak as his weight settles. Then, he tells me something I never expected to hear. “Mama loved flowers. She used to pick them and put them in a pitcher on our kitchen counter.”
Having been out to the Kensington farm to ride with Austyn many times, I dredge up the empty bed. In my mind I can see where bright Texas flowers would have been beautiful on the corner of the bustling kitchen—a welcome to neighbors and friends who came to the farm. “I don’t recall them ever being there.”
There’s a long pause before, “That’s because I forgot, witch.”
“What do you mean?”
There’s a long pause before he manages, “I forgot that. I forgot my mother took me out the morning she died to pick flowers in the field. What kind of son does that make me?”
My heart breaks for the toddler Ethan was. “One who was too traumatized to function.”
“Don’t make excuses for me, Fallon.”
“If something similar happened to a child—whether one of your own or someone else—wouldn’t you?” I counter quietly.
His silence is the only response I need. So I probe a bit deeper. “Have you remembered anything else about her?”
“Paige looks just like her. It hurts sometimes to look at my sister.” His confession, whispered, tells me it’s a deep, dark secret.
“Or you could look at your sister and see all the good your mother left with her,” I counter gently.
He sucks in a breath so sharply I can hear it from a thousand miles away. I’m functioning on instinct when it comes to Ethan, not much else. But tonight, he doesn’t need flirty banter, he needs a friend and I’m determined to be that person for him.
I’ll always be someone strong for him, no matter how much my heart may be crushed in the process.
Finally, he whispers, “Thank you.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Yes, you did,” he counters. “That special voodoo that belongs to only you is helping clear the cobwebs away from my old brain.”
A soft laugh escapes. “You said it, not me.”
He lets out a rough chuckle. Then, for the rest of the night, he regales me with stories about his mother as he remembers them. I hear the longing in his voice for something he can’t go back and change, but I know one thing from my own experience with coming to an understanding about my father’s death. With knowing Ethan just wants to be friends.
Pursuing dreams that can’t come true has a high price to pay. It’s better to focus on what’s attainable.
With that, I listen to my friend as he celebrates the more painful parts of him celebrating his sister’s birthday—and the day his mother died.