Chapter 19
“Coffee.” Molly drags herself into the kitchen, armed for Black Friday in deep purple leggings, a gray tunic, and running shoes.
Turning, I nod to the carafe. “Fully leaded with all the fixings. Where are the kids?”
“Passed out on the couch.” She squints, studying my face. “It’s six o’clock in the morning. Are you wearing makeup?”
Heat creeps up my neck as I wipe my hands on a dish towel. “You guys didn’t have to get here this early. I told you I’d take care of the pre-shopping breakfast.”
Molly turns her back to me to pour the caffeine into a blue stoneware mug. “Yes, but we have to talk. Where’s pretty boy?”
We have to talk.
In the history of humankind, those four words have never meant anything good. Especially from Molly.
Instead, I focus my thoughts on Harlan. I attempt to sound casual about him but am thwarted by my giddy smile. “He went for a run and will be back in a little while.”
Glancing at the cookbook on the counter, I make a mental note of the items needed.
She taps a packet of stevia. “Then start talking. Mom and Dad will also be here soon, and you have some ground to cover. Beginning with how you broke your Famous People Probation.”
Knocking out two tasks at one time, I peruse the cabinets for various ingredients while diving into the story of how I met the handsome Hercules. After tales of the now legendary dance, the drama at the zoo, and our long conversations, I detail the last six weeks.
As I wait for Molly’s reaction, I gnaw on my bottom lip.
“You rejected Stanley?” her incredulous voice booms.
Of course out of all those details, she homes in on Stanley.
“Hush.” As I open the refrigerator door to grab homemade dough, I glance into the living room. Thank goodness Taylor and Hannah are still conked out on the couch.
My sister shakes her head. “No one is more committed to you than Stanley.”
Her disapproval sears frustration through me. “But it’s not real.”
“You think Harlan is real?” She hitches her thumb. “This guy is Chad Tarkington. What does Claire have to say about this?”
My shoulders slump. I haven’t told Claire because she’s had a busy fall in the classroom, which made it easier to avoid, and for six weeks I didn’t know if there was anything to tell.
I was confused, embarrassed, and hurt, all of which are things I usually tell my best friend.
I’m going to have to call her as soon as I can.
No, not a call. This conversation requires us to be in person and eating chocolate.
I deal with the matter at hand. “Chad Tarkington is Chad Tarkington because I never saw him again after camp. Harlan is here. In my house. You watched him yesterday. He hung out with our family, fit in naturally, and enjoyed himself. Do you think this is real?”
She stares for a beat and exhales with a regretful smile. “Yeah. I do.”
“But?” Throwing flour on the counter, I prepare to roll out the dough.
She places her cup down. “Meredith, you aren’t normal.”
The words knock the breath out of me.
“I’m not just being a big sister here.” Her voice lowers. “If he breaks your heart, it might break you.”
My gasp cannot mask the bruise of her blow. “But that’s going to be the case with anyone. I either risk now or risk later. Do you want me to be alone the rest of my life?” I dump the dough, causing a halo of flour to poof into the air.
“It’s not that simple, Meredith, and you know it. What if something happens and you come undone? Do you want me to remind you what the last four Christmases were like?”
I pummel the dough flat with a little more force than necessary. “Harlan and I haven’t even talked about Christmas yet.”
“You will. You will because yesterday was real. He likes you.” She draws her coffee up to take a sip. “And don’t pretend grief at Thanksgiving and grief at Christmas are the same. They aren’t.”
In terms of loss, Christmas is Thanksgiving on steroids. It’s more everything. More flashbacks. More things to miss. Gifts. Children having fun. Santa Claus. Cards with family photos. Shiny, screaming, decorative reminders of what was taken from me.
Picking up a stick of butter, I unwrap it, then drop it in a bowl. I shove the dish in the microwave, slam the door shut, and pound the timer. “What is your endgame, Molly?”
She scoffs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I stare at the butter going round and round, angry bubbles forming. “How long will you protect me from holidays? For the next five years? Ten years?”
“You are so ungrateful—”
“No.” I turn on my heel to face her. “I’m eternally grateful. You cannot imagine. But, Molly, I’m worried that my life has engulfed yours.” A growling exhale of frustration escapes. “Let me ask you something. When you aren’t trying to take care of me, what do you think about?”
“What kind of a question is that? What’s going on with you?
” She paces two steps and whirls back my direction.
“First you took this odd trip to tour properties in Colorado. Then Francine Clyde told me you never returned her call about helping with the church database system. You worked way less hours at the food pantry this season. Next thing I know, you’ve broken a good man’s heart but invited a flaky actor slash YouTube star into your home. ”
She did not just say that. “Molly—”
“No. This is bizarre behavior, Meredith. But somehow you’re turning this onto me and criticizing me for trying to help. I can’t believe you.” Tears spill down her flushed cheeks, and she covers her face with her hands.
Our family is like a musical nursery mobile.
Hanging above the crib of life, small, perfectly balanced animals circle securely to the calming, repetitive lullaby.
The homeostasis is alluring as long as no one shifts.
It’s a system that hides and protects me well.
But if someone removes their piece, the system destabilizes.
“Molly.” Seething, I wait for her gaze to find mine.
“It’s not about you. You have served me sacrificially.
I’m saying maybe it’s time for both of us to let go a little and see who we are now.
Without my life being about the accident all the time.
And without your life being about holding me together at every turn. ”
“It’s that easy for you, is it?” She grabs a napkin and pats tears from her cheek.
“No.” The microwave dings, and I open the door.
“No, it’s not that easy for me. I’m terrified sometimes.
” I walk the melted-butter bowl to the counter with the dough and stare at the ingredients.
“But I also hold to a sliver of hope that if I lean in a bit . . . risk . . . maybe life has something else for me.” My voice cracks through the last words, and I look back to my sister.
“Do you mean Harlan?” Her face blanches. “You think he’s going to swoop in and save you?”
“This isn’t about Harlan.” I pound my fist on the granite, and my voice rises in anger.
“Who is not, by the way, a flaky actor slash YouTube star. It’s bigger than him.
It’s everything. How long will I hide in my home?
What do I have to offer now? What role do I play in this world?
” As the words spew out of my mouth, I point to the window.
“There are answers for me somewhere out there. And whether or not Harlan is part of those answers doesn’t matter.
” My voice carries through the house, and I don’t care who it wakes.
“I want to live. I want to participate in my own life. Do you hear what I am saying? I want to live. Again.”
Molly gapes, and for a few seconds she doesn’t respond. Before I know what she’s doing, she scurries over and wraps me in a suffocating embrace.
“I thought I’d lost you.” She whispers her teary confession into my ear. “Steve and the kids were gone, and then . . . I thought I lost you too.”
A sob sticks in my throat. Maybe the mobile won’t collapse if I leave. Maybe the figures will find a new equilibrium, but they won’t fall apart.
While she clings to me, I hear the front door open.
“Hey, guys.” Harlan’s voice floats through the house, causing my insides to flutter.
Molly releases me, nods, and wipes her face. We both inch toward the door to peek into the living room. A post-run, sweaty Harlan leans over the back of the couch, rustling Taylor’s hair and giving a groggy Hannah a high five.
My sister sighs. “He is pretty.”
Harlan glances up and grins. “Morning, ladies.”
I purse my lips as I watch him saunter toward us. Molly slips past him on her way out the door.
“Hey.” He squeezes my hand as he passes me.
“Hey.” I never want to wash my hand again. “How was your run?”
Harlan opens the cabinet and reaches for a glass. “Good.” He fills the cup with tap water, turns, and gives a chin lift to the baking concoction. “What’s going on here?”
“Homemade cinnamon rolls. The Pioneer Woman swears people will love me more after they eat these.” I point to the batter-splattered picture of Ree Drummond in my cookbook.
Harlan’s eyes flash with a hunger that makes my stomach jump. Oh my. The sweat causes his clothes to stick to his well-defined body. Oh my again. Not breaking eye contact with me, he gulps down his drink.
Fidgeting with the hem of my T-shirt, I find a loose thread to wrap around my finger. Unable to withstand the scrutiny, I break down laughing. “What? What are you thinking?”
“I kind of want to kiss you.”
What I would like to say is something to the effect of “Don’t ever walk into my kitchen looking like this again or you won’t have any choice but to kiss me.”
He places his cup by the sink. “Only I think I’ll wait until I don’t smell like this. I need a shower.”
Oh, please. Please kiss me when you smell like this.
A smile breaks over his face as if he heard me.
Was that out loud?
My face is on fire, and I cover my mouth with my hand to stifle a laugh.
“Harlan, Meredith’s out of orange juice.” Molly’s entrance causes me to almost jump out of my skin. “Do you want to come with me to the grocery store?”
Wait. What’s she doing?
For all the progress I thought we made with our earlier talk, the stench of her old antics is strong. Over the years, she’s scared away more than one male prospect with her grilling. I’ve seen this movie, and it doesn’t end well.
I elbow my sister. “I’m not out of orange juice. What are you doing, Molly?”
She ignores me, eyebrows raised to Harlan.
“Sure.” He strolls across the room and stops in front of me to lean in. “I’ll shower when I get back.” Then he winks and lowers his voice. “I got this.”
Without looking at me, Molly follows him, and I’m left alone with so many swirling thoughts, I don’t know which one to process first.
Someone upset the mobile, and who knows where the pieces might land.