2. Chapter 2
Chapter two
Rowan
When we pulled into the driveway, Chris shot off the porch steps, shouting to our mother as his long legs ate up the distance to the hearse. Mom burst through the front door moments later in a flour-dusted apron, wooden spoon in hand.
Poppy rolled her eyes as Chris yanked open my door. “Ann,” he said, contorting his lanky frame into the hearse to hug me. Chris had struggled with my name as a little boy and shortened it. The nickname stuck, but whenever I heard it, I remembered the toddler with the lisp who followed me everywhere and climbed into my lap whenever I sat down. He’d grown at least three inches since I saw him at Easter. He squeezed me so hard I winced.
“Fuck, you’re probably still bruised.” He pulled away and gripped the back of his neck.
“Don’t say fuck,” Mom said, pushing him aside. “Let her get out of the damn hearse. I don’t like seeing any of my children in this thing, but especially Rowan.”
“Told you she’s Mom’s favorite,” Poppy shouted to Chris from the driver’s seat.
Mom waved her words away and reached in to unbuckle my seatbelt like I was two. She grabbed my hands and guided me from the hearse before squeezing me tighter than Chris had.
“I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hold you. It’s been torture staying away.”
She smelled of fresh bread, roses, and home. My eyes burned. I took a deep breath and forced the tears down. “It’s what I wanted.”
Mom stepped out of the hug, but held onto my arms, scanning me from the top of my head to my feet, pausing long enough on my hands for me to send Poppy a silent thank you.
Mom’s blue eyes filled with rage, and she pressed her lips so tight they went white at the edges. I’d love to be inside her head to hear everything I should have said to Brad before I left.
“You need to eat,” she snapped, directing some of that venom at me. “Let’s go.”
I wanted to keep up with her, but my back had other ideas. I took a painful step, trying my best not to groan.
Chris looked at Poppy and she nodded, either confirming what a mess I was or that she’d fulfilled operation dog poop.
Mom brushed at her eyes, turned, and stomped back to the hearse. “You can’t leave your Cymbidium in this heat. Where is it?”
Poppy opened the back and yanked out enough boxes to climb inside to the middle of the pile where we’d stowed the orchid. “Here it is,” she said, handing the plant to Mom, who examined the blossoms like a doctor giving a thorough physical. She tsked and headed toward the house, focused on healing something she could.
“I’ll unload everything,” Chris said, bending to grab a box. “Where do you want it?”
I looked at what remained of my DC life scattered across the driveway and spilling from the hearse, and my mind went blank. I wasn’t even sure where I’d be sleeping. Brad and I always got a hotel room when we visited together. On the few occasions I came alone, Poppy and I shared our childhood bedroom, which didn’t seem like a viable solution long term.
“Just put everything in the living room,” Poppy said, weaving her arm through mine. “We’ll figure it out later.”
“I didn’t think this through,” I said as I gripped the porch railing with my free hand and pulled myself up the steps. “I don’t know how long I’m staying, but you shouldn’t have to share your room with me.”
“Our room,” Poppy said. “Besides, I usually sleep on the futon in the studio.”
“You do not sleep in the shed. Mom wouldn’t let you.”
Poppy rolled her eyes. “For the last time, Rowan, I’m twenty-three. A full-grown human. I only live here because I’d rather work less at the café and have more time to sculpt. Mom understands and does her best to let me be the adult I am. Besides, she’s so worried about you, I could do a satanic ritual in the backyard, naked, and she wouldn’t notice.”
“She wouldn’t,” Chris added, hurrying past us with a precarious stack of boxes. “Pop?”
The two of them had a shorthand way of speaking I’d never understand, and, of course, my sister insisted he give her a nickname as well. Poppy released me to hold open the heavy wooden door and Chris sailed through. I followed him inside.
“Don’t you dare lift anything, Rowan,” Mom shouted from the kitchen. “Take a seat in the dining room.”
“If you tell her I let you help load the hearse, I’ll draw on your face with a Sharpie while you sleep,” Poppy hissed in my ear.
“You let her carry stuff?” Chris shouted.
“Shut up,” Poppy and I said in unison.
“What was that?” Mom asked, peering out of the dining room archway with a platter of biscuits.
“Chris was making fun of Rowan’s throw pillows,” Poppy said. “I agree, no one needs that much paisley, but he shouldn’t kick a bitch while she’s down.”
“Hush, the both of you. Grab all the plants and leave the rest until after we eat. Rowan, honey, come sit.”
I pointed to the small powder room, and Mom nodded and hurried out of sight. I hobbled to the bathroom and locked myself inside. I loved my family but only five minutes in, and I needed a breather. They weren’t usually so aggressive with their affection or concern. I caught sight of my face and cringed. Eyes so swollen I could barely see the green, cheeks gaunt and paler than usual, and a nose red enough to audition for Rudolph. I washed my hands and splashed water on my face, then ran my damp fingers through my hair before taking the hair tie from my wrist and twisting my long locks into a bun. I still looked a hot mess, but slightly less deranged. When I opened the door, Poppy and Chris were leaning against the wall, waiting.
“Seriously, I’m fine. This is why I didn’t let you come to DC earlier. Y’all hover.”
“I don’t,” Poppy said, pushing past me into the bathroom. “I just drank as much soda as you did and need to tinkle. Though, if I were being overbearing, I’d say I didn’t hear the toilet flush, which means you’re either gross or severely dehydrated.” She glanced at the toilet and back at me. “Dehydrated it is.”
“I was just waiting to wash my hands,” Chris said, “But might as well help my favorite sister to the table instead of listening for toilet flushes like a perv.” Poppy gave him a one-finger salute and slammed the door. He grabbed my elbow and guided me to the dining room like I was made of glass. An armchair that belonged in the living room sat at the head of the table like a throne. Without warning, he lifted me off my feet and placed me on the cushioned seat.
“What?” he said, blushing. “I’m weight training for tryouts. I could carry you upstairs later. It looked like the porch steps gave you trouble.”
“I’m fine,” I said gently. “Did you put this chair here or Mom?”
“I did after Poppy texted that you were walking like an eighty-year-old. These wood chairs hurt my butt, so I figured they’d be torture for you.”
“Thanks, Chris,” I said, squeezing his hand. He squeezed it back so weakly I almost laughed. “Whoa,” I said, taking in all the dishes on the table.
It wasn’t so much a cohesive meal as a buffet of savory and sweet options with only one thing in common: I loved them all. A steaming bowl of chipped beef gravy beside a platter of thinly sliced country ham. Fried chicken with waffles. Fresh strawberries smothered in mountains of whipped cream. Hush puppies, fries, and mozzarella sticks. Flatbread pizza with homemade crust. And no less than three types of pie.
“Is Mom expecting company?”
“Nah,” Chris said, popping a fry in his mouth.
I felt a stab of guilt. Mom and I both liked to let off steam in the kitchen. Something about kneading dough and measuring ingredients precisely always lowered my blood pressure, while she enjoyed anything that ended with feeding people. She’d clearly been working through some strong feelings, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know I’d caused them.
“Oh good,” Mom said, hurrying in with a covered dish. “You’re settled. I made collard greens for something healthy.” She plopped the dish on the table and scurried out as Poppy entered the dining room.
She looked at the table and snorted before pulling out the chair beside me.
“Don’t worry, Pop, I made a garden salad,” Chris said, disappearing into the kitchen.
“Since when does Chris eat salad?” I asked, taking the cloth napkin from my plate and placing it on my lap.
Poppy grabbed a water pitcher and filled my glass to the brim with a glare. She watched me gulp half the glass, then refilled it before filling her own.
“He’s trying out for the varsity football team in August,” Mom said, breezing back into the room with a gravy boat and an overflowing bowl of mashed potatoes. Chris followed with a large green salad and a small pitcher.
“I made the dressing myself,” he said proudly.
After Dad died and Mom started working insane hours to make ends meet, I took over most meal prep while Poppy handled the dishes. Being only two, Chris’s initial contribution was banging pots and pans on the kitchen floor while I cooked or baked. When he got old enough to wash up, my sister shoved that task his way and took over mowing the lawn from me. I’d never eaten anything made by my brother, and I wasn’t sure my stomach was experiment ready.
He served me a heap of mixed greens and roasted veggies, and I dutifully poured the dressing on top. Mom stopped rearranging the serving dishes to watch, either to see my reaction to Chris’s cooking or to assure herself I was eating.
“This looks great,” I said, because, honestly, it did. I took a bite and an explosion of unexpected flavors hit my tongue. “What’s in this?” I asked, going in for another forkful.
Chris beamed and shot Mom a smug look. “Curried chickpeas with a lime-coconut dressing.”
“Your brother has been watching cooking videos on YouTube,” Mom said, finally taking a seat. “He says we need to eat healthier.”
“We do,” Chris said, lifting a huge portion of salad onto his plate. “But just because it’s healthy doesn’t mean it has to taste bad.”
“Rowan, pass me your plate,” Mom said. “You can eat rabbit food later. You need real calories.”
Poppy grabbed it before I could protest and gave it to Mom, who loaded on more food than I could eat in a week.
“I was able to get you a physical therapy appointment tomorrow morning,” Mom said, passing back my plate.
“Is it in town?” I asked, suddenly ravenous. I bit into a fried chicken breast and moaned.
Mom shot Chris a smug look and he shrugged.
“Right on Main Street,” Mom said. “I’ll take you and bring you home after, unless you’d rather borrow my car.”
I shook my head. “I’m on some pretty strong pain killers. It’s best I don’t drive.”
Mom nodded. “Hopefully Cal can get you sorted, so you can get off that stuff. I hear it can be addictive.”
I choked on the piece of waffle in my mouth and coughed hard enough to send my back into a painful spasm. Poppy shoved my water at me. I pushed it away, coughing until I could breathe again.
I only knew of one Cal who lived in Peace Falls, but maybe someone else with the name had moved to town while I was in DC. “Cal as in Caleb Cardoso?” I sputtered.
“Dr. Cardoso now,” Mom said. “He’s usually booked solid, but the receptionist fit you in at eight. I bet he’s opening early as a favor.”
“Why would Caleb Cardoso do us a favor?” I asked.
Mom looked at me like I’d grown a second head. “Why wouldn’t he?”
“He doesn’t know us,” I said.
“He doesn’t know you,” Chris said, around a mouth full of salad. “Cal bought the Hilberts’s house when they moved to Florida last fall. I walk his dog every afternoon during the week, and sometimes Cal and I run together.” Chris’s eyes widened, and he put down his fork. “Maybe I should ask him to help me train before tryouts. He played wide receiver, same as me.”
“That’s a wonderful idea,” Mom said, dumping a mound of mashed potatoes onto her plate.
“You collected Caleb Cardoso’s dog’s poop?” I shrieked.
“Why do you keep saying his full name?” Poppy asked, narrowing her eyes.
“Of course, Chris cleans up after the dog,” Mom snapped. “I haven’t raised degenerates.”
Chris laughed so hard he snorted, which sent Poppy into an uncharacteristic fit of giggles.
“Have you been drinking?” Mom asked her.
“No, but I think we should start,” Poppy said, rising from the table. “Poop collector, help,” she added, smacking Chris on the back of the head.
“Eat,” Mom ordered.
I attempted another bite of waffle. Mom seemed content to sit in silence as long as I kept eating, which gave me way too much freedom to think about Cal.
Infatuated. There is no other word to describe how teenage me felt about Caleb Cardoso. Though in my defense, every girl at Peace Falls High was obsessed with him. It’s true, he probably had no idea who I was. We never had a class together since he was two grades ahead of me, and our extracurriculars and friend groups didn’t overlap. He was a star on the varsity football team and dated Avery Peterson. Yes, the Avery of milk and tampon fame. She was in Cal’s grade, captain of the cheerleading team, homecoming queen, and a total bitch to anyone who didn’t fit in, aka me and my best friend Lauren. It would have been easy to lump Cal in with Avery and hate him on principle, but he wasn’t a bully like her. Whenever Cal and Avery were together, I knew she wouldn’t mess with me or anyone else. She was too busy touching him or kissing him to give the rest of us any attention. Can’t say I blame her. I wouldn’t have been able to keep my hands or tongue to myself if he were my boyfriend. Thick brown hair, a jaw line that could cut glass, and a pair of lips so full they’d look feminine on anyone else. On Cal, they were just the cherry on top of an irresistible sundae. My stomach fluttered every time our paths crossed, and I’d go mute. No lie, I could be in the middle of a conversation with Lauren, and the words would dry up in my mouth. Just thinking about him made me ache in the only places my body hadn’t over the past week.
“I’m glad to see you eating,” Mom said with a small smile, interrupting my inappropriate highlight reel of Cal Cardoso sightings.
I had made a serious dent in my plate while I fantasized.
“Who’s ready to get shitfaced?” Chris asked, returning with an open bottle of champagne and four flutes. “Half a glass,” Mom said, pointing at him. “Same for Rowan, assuming she can drink at all while she’s on drugs.”
Poppy followed, carrying the most detailed cake I’d ever seen. Three stacked tiers of black fondant with gold-painted details. Each tier was edged with an abundance of red flowers: poppies, chrysanthemums, and roses so realistic I thought for a moment they were real. On top, a fondant sculpture of me, in a red dress with a wreath of Rowan berries woven in my hair, shoved a sculpture of Brad off the side of the cake. Poppy had somehow captured the moment before the fall. Brad’s arms flailed above his head, and his feet hovered at a forty-five-degree angle off the cake.
“My name is not Chrysanthemum,” Chris huffed.
“Only because you aren’t a girl,” Poppy said. “But I wouldn’t have put it past Mom if you weren’t born a brunet.”
“It’s symbolic, Chris,” Mom said. “How else was Poppy supposed to represent you?”
“You made this?” I asked my sister, my eyes misting again. “You baked a cake for me?”
“Calm your tits,” she said, flicking a napkin at my face. I grabbed it and dabbed at my eyes. Guess I had rehydrated enough for tears.
“You hate baking,” I blubbered.
“I bought the cake. The decorations are mine, though.”
“It’s incredible, sweetie,” Mom said, leaning over the table to get a better look. “You did all this last night?”
Poppy shrugged and pulled a massive knife from the sideboard. “Rowan, do you want to impale Brad or should I?”
“I will if she won’t,” Chris said.
“Get in line, son,” Mom said.
I held out my hand for the knife and they all cheered, but as I served the cake, I couldn’t stop imagining how Cal Cardoso would look in a pair of scrubs.