16. Sixteen
Dean’s apology feels half-hearted, but I accept it anyway. He vents about long hours, the discomforts of sharing an RV with three other guys, and the stress of being a grunt on set—it’s unusual to hear him complain. But, of course, everything between us is unusual these days, like my botched answer was an iceberg, knocking our ship off course, and we’re struggling to set it right again.
Or at least, I am.
I do all the hopeful fiancée things—I listen, validate his troubles, and offer encouragement. But he doesn’t return the favor when I finally tell him about Sara. Rather, he huffs and says, “Don’t you get enough of other people’s kids at school?”
“If you can’t be supportive, then maybe you shouldn’t call. Whenever we talk, you make me feel horrible, and I don’t deserve it.”
“Well, that’s how I’ve felt all summer,” he retorts before ending the call.
“You and me both,” I breathe out.
I knew I shouldn’t have answered. But Jack was insistent. I consider marching over there, asking him what went wrong. I even step out to my front porch, armed with an innate desire to fix something.
But when I see the busty brunette at his door, I stop. His Amazonian princess is another version of perfect, reminding me of my place and proving exactly what I tried to explain—I’m not his type. Envy ripples through me when his hand hooks into her cleavage to pull her inside—my toes curl for her.
I retreat, feeling hurt all the way around without completely understanding why.
Days pass. Dean goes silent.
I don’t hear from Jack, either.
That conversation should’ve drawn us closer. Mom and Mira nearly exploded from shock when I told them I opened up about Trent. Now regret grows with his silence. There’s one obvious conclusion—he got what he needed.
Home upkeep keeps me busy. Maintaining the grass monopolizes several grueling hours a week with the rough push mower in life-draining heat and humidity. The overrun beds, front yard and back, grow more unruly, and I don’t have the energy or know-how to tackle them. So, they become visible to-dos, mocking me.
More problems arise—neglected gutters cause drainage issues, the smoke alarm in my bedroom needs replacing, and one of the skylights in the living room leaks in heavy rain. Cleaning the gutters and replacing the alarm I do myself—a comical but effective enterprise that brings Vernon over to supervise. He has a keen sense of home repairs, like a Jedi noticing disruptions in the force, but I don’t mind his help. But I fear the roof leak and ignore it for the same reason I ignore Jack’s tree—money.
Meanwhile, I stick to a routine for my sake and Sara’s. Routines are comforting, and I want to give her stability if nothing else. I’m up early and running by six. My morning coffee is usually combined with FaceTiming Mom or project work. When Sara emerges, I suggest things we can do together. Shopping. Library. The aquarium. Putt-putt. The beach.
She responds with sharp derision. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
She snubs the healthy breakfasts I fix, but after my shower, I find it eaten. And her gone—a sticky note slapped on her door indicating her single-worded plans.
Park.
Home.
Friends.
Or once: Anywhere but here. On that day, she amended her note via text. Park.
She makes minimal effort, though. She’s home by nine every night. The dinner I save for her is always gone from the fridge the next day. When I’m not around, she washes her dishes, does her laundry, and, I suspect, plays with Edgar, for his toys are often spread out, and he leaves some outside her bedroom door like peace offerings.
This every-woman-for-herself living arrangement isn’t unfamiliar. Living with Mom built my quiet independence, so I understand and respect it in Sara. I tell myself—this isn’t so bad. She’s safe, clean, and fed.
But the cozy comfort of the little house is hindered by the tension—I can’t relax. I feel like I should constantly make an effort, as if something magical will turn her to my side, like buying the right color of Mountain Dew or making her favorite dinner by accident.
I know that’s not true. Like with Dean, I can’t make someone care about me or do what I expect. So, I imagine we both feel like her father, each serving our sentence and desperate for escape.
Sara falls in with the rest of my summer fails, making me second-guess everything—very unlike me. Acquiescing to Dean has only made everything worse. Buying the little house has demolished my bank account. My tried-and-true lesson plans face unwanted extinction. My budding friendship with Jack seems rocky, given the terse way he left the other night and his silence since then. I can’t seem to get anything right—a feeling I hate.
Saturday evening, Sara comes into the kitchen while I’m feeding Edgar. I force an upbeat smile. “Hey, how about a movie tonight? Your choice.”
Hovering over the open fridge, Sara scoffs. “We’re not going to be friends. Will you give it up already?”
“Sure … in three months. Until then, can’t we try to get along and have some fun?”
She slams the fridge shut. “You want me to have fun? My dad’s in jail. His cousins want to rob the house while we’re gone. We’ll probably end up losing the place because Dad’s not working and won’t be able to pay the bills. I’ll reserve my fun for when this nightmare is over, and I don’t have to look at your ugly, fucked-up face every day.”
I recoil with a sharp exhale, like I’ve been gut-punched. She looks pleased.
Turning toward the living room, she hesitates at the threshold. “Mr. Maddix feels sorry for you. That’s why he asked you to marry him. That’s what everyone at school says, and you freaking humiliated him. Why do you think he’s stayed away all summer? He can’t stand looking at you, either.”
Her door slams a moment later.
Any other day, I might take a deep breath and shake off her horribleness like I’m made of stainless steel. I’ve heard worse. I’ve felt worse.
But today, her verbal assault shakes an already unsteady foundation, and my strong barriers crumble.
I duck out of the sliding glass doors by the kitchen and curve around the house, where she can’t see me. Between the hedges and screened-in porch, I break into a pathetic sob with choking gasps and fat, hot tears, drowning out the soft thuds of music coming from next door. Her viciousness shoves me into a mental replay of my ‘ugly, fucked-up face’s’ greatest hits—from walking the halls of my high school for the first time after it happened to Renita’s drunken display. I want to scream like I’m doing in my head.
She’s a kid lashing out—I get it. Common sense tells me not to take this personally, but I can’t help it. It is personal.
I slide my phone from my pocket and call Mira.
“What happens to Sara if I don’t want this anymore?” I say, unable to hide my weepy voice.
“What’s wrong?”
“Just tell me. What happens?”
Mira sighs heavily. “There’s a group home downtown that has a spot for her. She’ll share a room with a dozen other girls, some there for behavioral and criminal issues, and she’ll go to New Castle.”
“Right, with its welcoming metal detectors and frequent gang issues…” The words come out shaky and irritated. “There’s no other option?”
“No. But she’ll survive… and she’ll regret losing her spot with you. Tell me what’s happened.”
“She’s just… mean, Mira.”
“What’d she say?”
With a deep breath, I blurt out, “Oh, the usual… about my ugly fucked-up face and how everyone at school thinks Dean feels sorry for me. And my face has kept him away all summer.”
“I’ll come right now, pack her ass up, and take her downtown.”
“No, Mira. I can’t do that to her.”
“Well, how about I come over and talk to her? We’ll set more ground rules.”
“No, I don’t want that either. I’m not… tattling. I’m not backing out. I’m venting.”
“What then? Tell me what you need.”
“I need… a good cry, some alcohol, and about fifteen minutes away from her so I can figure out what I’m going to say when I go back inside.”
“Well, how about you and Sara come to our house for dinner tomorrow night? She’ll loosen up around other kids.”
“Mira, how the hell would I get her in the car? She doesn’t want anything to do with me.”
“Then, we’ll bring the party to you. Dinner, too. And alcohol. Tomorrow night at six.”
“Okay. That might help.”
Mira offers other encouragement, but her words run together with my tears. Still, I assure her I’m fine, promise to text later, and get off the phone.
I lean against the porch siding, taking deep breaths. But when the tears don’t stop, I bury my face in my hands and just let them come like a necessary detox of all my bad feelings.
“Rowan.” Jack appears at the hedge corner.
I blurt an expletive and consider running away to spare myself another indignity. I hate that he sees me like this. I can’t even look at him, but I keep my head low and my puffy, wet eyes fixed on the dirt under my bare feet.
He moves next to me, so close I smell pine and coffee. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to listen, but my study window was open, and… well, a woman bawling her ass off is hard to ignore.”
My uneasy laugh creates a weird mash-up with my crying that doesn’t quite work. “Then, I’m sorry. It’s a new workout I’m trying—bawling my ass off.”
“It’s working for you.”
An awkward beat passes before he moves in front of me. Unable to look at him, I fixate on his bare feet, closing in around mine. His hands rise slowly between us before gently reaching my chin. His fingertips slide along my cheekbones, lifting my face until our eyes meet.
He’s touching me? Not just me, but my face? And I’m letting him? These events don’t make sense like a crazy dream without a storyline.
Still, I can’t look away when his boyish smile and thoughtful eyes land on mine. He takes me in, studying me, my lines, my marks, everything, never once revealing anything but admiration. His hands are warm, tender, and surprising, cupping my cheeks like they’re simply two sides of me, one no different than the other.
I can’t remember the last time someone touched me like this, and certainly not in kindness or affection. More tears surface over his sweet acceptance and how beautiful it makes me feel.
He thumbs my tears away, and his smile grows like he knows what I’m feeling.
“Rowan… This is the beautiful face of a woman who can handle anything.”
I laugh out loud. First, because he’s right—this is the face of a woman who can handle anything. Second, because his sweet joke and enchanting acceptance have me thinking—just for a second—that he might kiss me, an idea so preposterous that it’s funny.
He hesitates before letting go and reaching for my hand. “Come with me.”
My hand drops into his like he’s put me in a trance. He leads me around the hedge, up his deck, and into a cozy wicker chaise.
“Stay here.”
He returns with liquor in a crystal tumbler and a box of tissues. He sets both on the small glass table and crouches beside me. “Stay here as long as you need. Cry as much as you want. Do whatever makes it better.”
My face pinches, and more stupid tears drip from my puffy eyes. “Really? I thought you were upset with me.”
“Never. Myself, yes, but it doesn’t matter…. Um, help yourself to more whiskey if you need it.”
“Thank you, Jack.”
“Anytime. I mean that.” He stands, heading toward his sliding glass door. “Oh, and Rowan…”
He catches my gaze, holding it in his. “When you’re ready, go back in there and tell that asshole you’re not putting up with her shit. You’re a good person doing a good thing. You deserve… better.”
He leaves me. More tears plummet from my eyes like crying is a new invention, and the novelty hasn’t yet worn off. It’s a double relief—getting alone time to pull myself together here and Jack not pressuring me to talk about it. His words resonate, too, mimicking what I said to Dean—I deserve better. I put those words on repeat as I soak up the dying sun, sip whiskey, and spend twenty minutes gathering myself.
The tender way he touched me, his fingers on my face, replay in my thoughts, and it’s a memory I hope I never lose.
When my eyes are dry and my glass empties, I leave the luxurious chaise, not bothering with cleanup or needless thank yous. Jack isn’t waiting for that.
I march home, bypassing Edgar’s meows to pound on Sara’s door. It flings open, and she stares at me daringly as if this is her house and I’m the invader.
“If you ever talk to me that way again, I’ll make one phone call. Within the hour, you’ll be moved into a group home with a bunch of pissed-off girls, like you, only angrier and more violent, and you’ll be their new target. Let me tell you, it sucks being someone’s target. I hate that these things have happened to you, Sara. I wish I could wave a wand and make your world better. But I can’t. The best I can offer is this.” I wave my hands around my cozy little house. “And if that’s not good enough, then go, try your hand with the group home and the inner-city school. Or stay. And have a decent life for three months. Either way, you will never talk to me like that again. Understood?”
The stone-cold expression under her lavender hair fades into one of worry. “Fine. Sorry. I shouldn’t have said shit about your face or Mr. Maddix.”
“Never again,” I reiterate, sternly.
“Okay,” she says, just as sternly. “Can I watch TV?”
Edgar saunters between us, rubbing himself against my legs and hers like he’s forging a friendship.
“Um, sure.” I leave her to it, retreating down the hall to my room, where I splash my face with cold water and take cleansing breaths. My relief mixes with my surprise—standing up for myself came easier than I expected and instantly made things better.
When I return to the living room, Sara’s watching a ghastly horror movie. Edgar settles onto the couch beside her, and I do the same, taking the other end.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s Mira asking for an update. I type out a quick—Better now. Call me tomorrow.
Then… P.S. Jack Graham isn’t the spoiled playboy I thought he was. He’s actually a little amazing. I’m… befuddled.
Mira: Befuddled = a distant cousin to desperate. We should talk more about this.
Me: The only thing I’m desperate for is a wine night. Maybe tomorrow night you can help me with that?
Mira: Absolutely, as long as you elaborate on your befuddlement. What’s happening with your neighbor?
Me: If I knew that, I wouldn’t be befuddled.
Mira: Fair enough. See you at 6.
The next night, Mira, Jane, and the kids bring wine and pizza, successfully luring Sara out of her room. Though she still keeps her distance from me, she plays with the kids and pleasantly socializes long enough to give me hope.
And strangely, thinking about Jack gives me hope, too.