Chapter 32 Annalise
Annalise
“Yes, Mom. I know. Uh-huh.” I pace the living room in tight circles with my phone to my ear. Seabass sizzles in a saucepan, the scent of capers and a buttery white wine marinade wafting in from the adjacent kitchen.
“You know we just worry.”
My voice dips lower, despite the roar of the range hood and Alex’s angry cooking playlist drowning out all sound within a five-mile radius. “You don’t need to worry. I’ve known him forever. This isn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision.”
Somehow, her sigh overpowers the roar.
I groan. “I can hear your sigh of disapproval.”
“It’s not disapproval. It’s concern. You’re only twenty-one years old.”
“I’ll be twenty-two by the time of the wedding. Does that help?”
“I was thirty-two when I married your father, and I still question that decision.”
I roll my neck, then press two fingers to my forehead. “No, you don’t. You’re head over heels for Dad and always will be.”
“Is that our daughter?” Dad’s voice pitches in the background. “Get her on a video call.”
“Honey, can you call us—”
“On it.” I hang up and switch to video chat mode. Two blue-eyed familiar faces light up my screen, sending a deep-rooted tickle to my heart. “Hey.”
“Angel,” Dad coos, adjusting his cowboy hat.
He looks night-and-day different from the man I grew up with. Gone are the neutral-toned ties, ironed slacks, and freshly shined shoes. In their place, a man who’s worked hard through long hours and sacrifice to chase his ultimate dream of living off the land.
Unburdened and free.
To Dad, it’s just a cheap cowboy hat he bought at a roadside store. To me, it’s evidence. Proof that what you truly desire is always within reach if you put in the work.
“Hi, Daddy.” My defenses fizzle out at the sound of his voice. I miss my parents so much. “You look great.”
“Yeah? The gray is out in full force.” He scratches at his silver-tinged beard and makes a face. “I feel the threads of a midlife crisis unraveling with every new white hair.”
“I doubt you’ll ever enter the crisis stage as long as you have a working lawn mower,” I tease.
Mom nods emphatically, her sandy-gold mane bobbing at her shoulders. “That’s true. The obsession hasn’t waned.”
My father’s eyes glaze over as he slips away.
“Dad?”
“Sorry.” He blinks back to the screen. “Didn’t hear that over the sound of the lawn mower in my head.”
I snicker, resuming my unproductive pacing. “Anyway, I hope you guys can be happy for me. This is a big deal.”
“That’s why we’re being the voice of reason, Annalise,” Mom says. “It is a big deal, and you’ve hardly stepped out into the world and spread your wings.”
“I have a steady job and a condo. Bought, not rented.”
“A job at Alex’s restaurant, and a condo in Alex’s name,” Mom reminds me, her tone soft but honest.
My skin prickles like an omen. “We’re in this together.”
“I certainly hope that’s true.” She sends me a cautious smile. “Do you have a date planned?”
“Not yet. We’re thinking sometime next summer.”
“That’ll give me time to lose these extra pounds,” Dad muses, rubbing a hand over his plump belly. “Twelve, to be precise.”
Mom wrinkles her nose, an exact replica of mine. Small and buttonlike. “I’ve been baking more lately.”
“I miss your lemon tarts.” I can’t prevent the trace of sadness from inhabiting my tone. “Summers haven’t been the same without them.”
Her eyes gleam as she moves around the room, stepping in front of a window that drenches her in natural light.
Dad pops his head over her shoulder, draping a hulking arm across her chest. “We’ll come visit. Anytime. Just say the word.”
“You’re always so busy,” Mom adds with regret. “We don’t want to intrude.”
“You never intrude.”
To be honest, I’ve low-key dodged their attempts to come visit for nearly a year.
Soon.
Maybe next month.
I’ll let you know.
Alex always has something going on, plans popping up whenever they want to fly in.
Tag wasn’t wrong about that.
But the truth is, it isn’t just Alex. It’s me. I’m not embarrassed by the small condo or the job or the routine. What unsettles me is how still I’ve become inside it all. Like I’ve been circling the same wounds without ever moving past them.
No risk, no reach, no momentum.
Stuck.
But I’m engaged now.
That’s something.
I glance at the ring on my finger, a pear-shaped diamond on a white-gold band. Simple, tasteful. I’ve never been one for garish things.
Mom plops down on a chocolate-brown loveseat while Dad perches himself on the armrest. She studies me through the screen, curiosity flickering in her navy-swirled eyes. “Montague says you’ve put a band together. You have a show next month?”
“Oh…yep.” While I wasn’t keeping the band a secret, per se, I wasn’t quite ready to spill the beans. Not because it’s not important, but because I’m afraid I’ll jinx how important it could become. “It’s an outlet for me. It keeps me grounded.”
“Your brother is over the moon. Pun intended.”
A grin creeps in. “We all mesh well together. The lead singer—Chase—he’s unbelievably talented.
Gifted in that effortless way. Our harmonies are golden.
” Lightness infuses my steps as I amble around the room, fluffing pillows and tidying random surfaces.
“He builds guitars too. God, they’re revolutionary.
And you should hear him sing. Tag is good, and I can hold my own, but Chase is next-level.
All passion and soul, fused with power and control. The way he can…”
My words trail off.
Either my grin turns goofy or my eyes reflect something I don’t intend to give away, because Mom gives me a look—the look. “He’s important to you.”
I stop moving, clear my throat, and curl my toes into the floor. “Yeah,” I murmur. “We have a solid connection. He’s a good friend.”
Mom and Dad share a glance.
Dad’s about to pipe in when Alex peers around the corner with a dish towel draped over his shoulder.
“Dinner,” he says, eyeing the phone.
“Great. Thank you.” Sending him a smile, I turn back to my parents. “I need to go. I’ll fill you in on the wedding details soon.”
“We love you, angel,” Dad says with misty eyes.
Mom waves goodbye. “Talk soon.”
“Bye.” I click off the call.
Retreating to the eat-in kitchen, I survey the table decorated with colorful platters and serving bowls, all overflowing with vibrant greens, glistening fish, and flaky dinner rolls. My stomach grumbles, both with hunger pangs and a telltale pinch of dread.
I hardly remember how to cook.
In fact, I can’t recall the last time I made myself a meal beyond deli sandwiches and bowls of cereal.
As if reading my mind, Alex scans the spread of food with pride. “You’ve got it made, wifey.” He hauls his chair back and plunks down in the seat. “Homemade dinners for life. How many wives can put their feet up at the end of the day, while the husbands take to the kitchen?”
The feeling of dread thickens at the reminder.
It shouldn’t though, because he’s right.
I’m lucky. Blessed.
Taking a seat across from him, I nod with gratitude as my phone pings beside me on the ivory tablecloth.
I glance down at the text glowing on the screen.
Mom: It’s worth mentioning that you looked happier just now than I’ve seen you look in a very long time. xoxo
My hand trembles as I reach for a pair of tongs and fill my plate with summer salad, the diamond ring twinkling beneath a wagon wheel chandelier.
Anxiety rolls through me like a torrent-tipped wave.
Because I know exactly what she means.
And she’s not referring to the engagement.
***
[Bridge]
And if we never find the ending,
If the melodies run dry,
Will you still think of me,
Underneath a midnight sky?
No.
Definitely not. Way too sappy.
If we never find that secret chord,
And all the love runs dry,
Will silence fill the spaces,
Where music used to lie?
Still a nope.
Ugh—I love writing bridges.
Why is this so hard?
A pillar candle flickers from the balcony table, ashy trails of smoke dancing toward the sky.
The half-burnt cigarette dangles between my fingers, and I bring it to my lips, taking a lung-filling drag.
My gaze pans to the treetops, the glow of the waxing moon seeping through the branches and triggering a soft smile.
I click the end of my pen with my thumb.
Then I make three more attempts to write something decent before desperation takes over.
I text Chase.
Me: Help.
It’s not too late, only a quarter past ten. We took the night off from band practice because Zach’s daughter had a volleyball game and a subsequent afterparty.
I think we all needed it. A break.
My pulse hitches when his three little bubbles dance to life.
Chase: Let me guess, you’re either stuck on a bridge lyric or three seconds away from setting your notebook on fire.
My lips curve up.
The candle flame dances with temptation.
Me: Ha ha. And yes.
Chase: Show me what you’ve got so far.
I scrunch my nose, deciding the first two lines might work.
Send.
Me: “Maybe we were born to drift, lost in spaces we can’t name”
Me: That was attempt #8247 and I still can’t get the last two lines to stick.
Embers flush orange and crimson as I take another puff from the cigarette and wait.
Chase: Ok, well the song is about a love that was once strong starting to fade, leaving the person empty and clinging to memory. Lots of metaphors for light/fire burning out.
I suck my lip between my teeth and make a hissing sound.
Me: Correct.
I want to add that it’s not personal or based on experience, but let it go.
Not necessary.
My condition for adding Chase’s number back into my phone was that all texts would remain strictly business. Also, avoidance makes it kind of hard to communicate with your vocalist.
Chase: So you can bring that back in somehow. Goodbye = the lost spark.
Tapping the phone against my knee, I give my brain a moment to process.
Me: “Not every goodbye is hollow…?”
Me: One too many syllables, I think.
A swoosh.
Then another.
Chase: Hmm
Chase: How about: “Not every loss is final”
A lightbulb goes off.
I chew on the end of my pen and shoot back the finishing line.
Me: “Some just burn without the flame.”
A smile beams as I stare down at the screen.
Chase: You got it.
Me: We finally have a bridge.
Chase: Someone once told me that all the best songs have bridges. ??
My pulse thrashes in response. Recollection. Memories from eight months ago swim through my mind: Chase, a broken stranger, bleeding out on his couch, and my inherent need to offer a small solace for when he finally breached the other side of it.
Me: The strongest ones don’t burn.
I’m zeroed in on the screen, waiting for a follow-up, when a new text message from Kenna flashes, laced with her usual brand of debauchery.
Kenna: Nipple clamps. Yay or nay?
I snort, the introspective moment effectively broken.
Me: For you?
Kenna: No, for my vast succulent collection. Yes for me. I need you to talk me off the ledge or give me a shining endorsement.
Sorry, Kenna.
I’ve got nothing.
Me: Um…undecided? Never used them.
Kenna: I kind of love how vanilla you are. So cute. So pure.
Me: Shush it. I can be kinky when it counts. And are you getting your freak on by yourself or is there a new guy I don’t know about?
Kenna: ????
Me: Kenna! Name.
I switch over to Chase’s text thread, checking to see if he replied.
My last message shows Read.
No response.
Kenna: His name is Tyler. I haven’t slept with him yet. Just a blow job. But you know I hate giving blow jobs, so that tells you I’m serious.
I chuckle.
Me: I love giving blow jobs. Is that weird?
I give her a few minutes to respond, but nothing comes through.
Leaning back in the chair, I set my phone on my thigh and finish the cigarette in a few more puffs, watching as the billowing branches sweep across the moon like ink dragging over an antique page. The phone dings a reply as I’m crushing out the stub in a midnight-hued ashtray.
Chase: I don’t think it’s weird. But it’s a little weird you’re telling me that.
I blink at the corresponding name. Lurch forward in the chair.
Chase…?
Another blink.
Seventy-two more blinks.
And then all the blood drains from my face as I let out a horrified wheeze, my lungs shrinking to sapped little prunes.
Oh my God.
No. Delete. Undo.
Hands violently shaking, I shimmy my thumbs across the keypad, my cheeks the same shade as the red velvet cake I devoured after dinner.
Me: Shit. No. I’m sorry. I meant to send that to Kenna.
Me: Oh god. Please remove your eyes immediately.
His bubbles move.
Disappear.
Move again.
Disappear.
I’m moments away from launching myself over the balcony railing when his text appears.
Chase: …
What?
No. He can’t reply with that. I need photographic evidence that his eyes have been removed from his face or I’m jumping.
I will. I’m going to.
Leaping from my seat, I start frantically pacing the minimal surface area, my fingers carving through my hair so hard my scalp burns. I don’t know what to say. He needs to reply with something else. Anything but nothing.
Me: I’m unraveling. It’s not pretty. Please say something.
Several seconds pass.
Chase: Sorry. Processing.
I blanch.
Me: What does that mean??
Chase: It means I’m a guy. And my imagination doesn’t suck.
Me: Oh my god. Please don’t say suck. ????
A beat.
Chase: Good night, Annie.
I’m not sure how to respond. So I don’t. The damage is done.
Eye contact tomorrow will be harrowing at best.
My cheeks burn with the heat of a dozen forest fires in the dead of July as I click off the screen and shove my phone into my pocket, swallowing hard.
Then I blow out the candle.
Sweet dreams, Chase.