Chapter 11 #3
Barry has never been one for doom and gloom.
Forever the optimist, he never met a challenge he didn’t think he could overcome.
He could always swim faster, flip turn tighter, dive deeper.
Failure was never an option. It’s in his DNA.
What does Cece expect? He’s an athlete at heart.
It’s not over until it’s over—like he always used to say.
He won’t admit the business is doomed until he files for bankruptcy, and even then, he’ll have all sorts of harebrained ideas about how everything will be okay.
Another saying he always used to say: Everything will be okay in the end, and if it’s not okay, it’s not the end.
He especially liked that one when Cece was running wind sprints.
When Cece was younger, she was awed by his tenacity, his refusal to say quit.
Now…now it feels closer to delusion, but all she can do is smile and kiss him good night before he shuffles upstairs.
“Aren’t you worried about Dad? The business?” she asks her mother when she can hear creaking floorboards overhead.
Kim finishes typing something and locks her phone. “Huh?”
“Dad. The business is in trouble, and he doesn’t seem good.”
“The business has been in trouble for almost two decades,” Kim says, eyeing a dish her father didn’t put in the dishwasher. “He was the one who said the internet was a stupid idea. Look who’s stupid now. Every year, his client list gets smaller and smaller.”
“Is everything okay? I mean in terms of money.”
“Shouldn’t you be worried about your own situation? Any updates on the new job? I need to call Tina and see if she’s heard anything.”
Cece desperately hopes she’s gone, with at least New York between them, before Kim finds out about the sabotaged interview. “You know what I mean.”
“Sure,” Kim says, standing up and pushing in her stool, “I know what you mean. I know we’d be royally screwed if I weren’t bringing in money, working like I’m some entry-level associate.”
Cece is about to apologize—for what, she doesn’t know—but her mother is already giving her a hug and a kiss on the head and saying something about needing to catch her nighttime wind-down yoga class on the Peloton.
There are fresh sheets on her bed, and if Cece wants to go for a run in the morning, she’ll be up at six.
It’s a strange sensation, Cece thinks, lying in one’s childhood bedroom.
As the eldest, she’d had first choice. Naturally, she’d picked the one on the third floor, farthest away from Wynonna and prying parental eyes.
Other than a few minimal changes—a new comforter and rug—the room is the same from Cece’s high school days.
The corkboard adorned with friendship bracelets and faded photos remains propped on the dresser.
Miraculously, the Backstreet Boys poster taped to the wall above the headboard hasn’t fallen.
The desk, where she’d spent countless hours typing up lab reports, memorizing flash cards, and solving parabolic equations with her graphing calculator, sits in the far corner of the room, her old computer hulking and obsolete.
At the time, high school, with its grueling social landscape and endless assembly line of work, had seemed like the closest thing to torture.
And yet, looking about her, Cece finds herself missing the rudimentary sense of purpose she possessed back then—be respectful, study hard, go to a good college.
When had things gotten complicated? Or was she simply refusing to grow up?
From the second floor, shuffling feet, the rattle and gurgle of the hallway toilet.
Cece swipes open her phone and texts Wynonna.
She remembers her sister’s call, Kim’s complaints about Barry, and wants to fill her in on what she’s seeing now: her dad’s slippage into malaise, her mother’s indifference and newfound youthfulness.
Cece can smell the stench of defeat in everything, from the paper plates at dinner to the fine coating of dust on the mantel.
The text to her sister goes unanswered. Other than that one time, has Wynonna noticed anything off about their parents?
Then again, can Cece even trust what she’s seeing?
She’s the older sister who leaves, then comes back on a whim, flitting in and out of family life.
Her observations are suspect, not to be trusted, painted through with distance and absenteeism.
Jonathan’s a terrible texter, but Cece still considers messaging him until she realizes it’s nearly eleven.
He sticks to a strict sleep schedule: in bed by nine, awake by five.
When they’d first met, she’d found the habit endearing, illustrative of his determination and strong work ethic.
Then, when things had gone south, she’d found it boring.
Now, lying in her childhood bed, wondering what’s up with Barry and Kim, she doesn’t know what to think.
The sad truth is, Jonathan probably understands Cece’s parents better than she does.
Still no response from Wynonna. Usually, Cece can rely on the kids causing chaos with her sleep schedule. The morning—out on the water with Santiago—feels like years ago. She can hardly remember that feeling, standing on the deck of the boat, the world in perpetual motion beneath her feet.
The whole situation feels ridiculous, basking in the memories of high school, worrying about her parents like they aren’t grown adults, like she can actually fix their problems. Cece can only laugh at the absurdity, opening up the camera on her phone and snapping a photo of the Backstreet Boys poster and sending it to Morgan.
NYSNC or Backstreet Boys? You know where I stand.
If there is intention behind her message, Cece is only vaguely aware of it, like the dull ache that permeates her surgically repaired shoulder whenever it’s about to rain.
Can I say neither?
Blasphemy.
I was more of a Foo Fighters, Smashing Pumpkins fan.
That tracks.
I’m choosing to take that as a compliment. Does Lorraine know you’re redecorating?
Cece wonders where Morgan is: sitting at the kitchen island with a glass of whiskey, or in bed, head propped up against the headboard, one of his many books splayed on his chest?
Don’t get carried away, Cece thinks to herself.
Just imagine him on the toilet. That’s where most men are when they’re texting anyone.
At my parents’. My old bedroom to be more specific. Had to drop Bernard off.
He’ll be missed. Lacy took a real liking to him.
It was nice meeting her.
Three dots. Then nothing. Should she explain why she got spooked and put distance between them?
Sorry, Morgan, I was snooping through your medicine cabinet and mistook your daughter’s makeup for another woman’s, and even though I’m a perfectly well-adjusted and mature adult, I decided to cut you loose instead of having a conversation about it.
And yes, I realize that we weren’t even serious and I had no right to be angry, but I was, which was confusing, and now it’s even more confusing because I’ve started seeing my ex-fiancé, but I’d still very much like to be friends, just not friends who act on the obvious sexual tension between them because…
because, well, I don’t think I’ve been acting like a serious person lately, and Jonathan is a serious person.
And just look at my mother. She didn’t marry a serious person, and look where that’s gotten her…
No, of course she can’t say any of that.
What can she say? What can she even admit to herself?
Morgan replies: I should have told you about her. I was gonna, but I wasn’t sure how, and then you sort of disappeared on me.
Cece doesn’t know how to do this. How do you end something that never had a beginning?
What did her swimming coach used to say in high school?
Honesty was the best policy. Then again, that coach was a total bitch.
Then again, maybe partial honesty can count for something.
You don’t owe me an explanation. And it wasn’t anything you said or did.
Ever since I got fired, I’ve just been sort of confused, and us sleeping together, while absolutely wonderful, wasn’t exactly helping.
There’s no response. Not even three dots.
Cece locks her phone screen and presses it against her chest. How fitting that she’d be having this conversation in here, surrounded by the now cringeworthy evidence of her impressionable teenage years.
At least she was making up for lost time.
There’d been no room for romantic flirtations in high school.
While most of the girls her age reveled in the world of crushes, innuendo and subterfuge, Cece had only wanted clarity, something factual and true.
A cheerful ding. Morgan. An anticipatory swell fills Cece. Are you “it’s me, not you-ing” me? That’s my move. Nobody steals my move!
Cece’s never been more thankful for Morgan’s levity and seemingly endless ability to not take anything too seriously.
There’s more: But seriously. It’s no big deal. It’s not like I’ve got my shit together…can’t really expect the same from other people.