Chapter 2
Shay
My father was the king of our castle, and I was his favorite little princess.
Sure, I was his only daughter, which made me his favorite by default, but Mom always made sure to remind me: “Your father’s love is big, even though he sometimes doesn’t know how to show it.”
That was a true fact. My dad wasn’t a great man, but he was a good father for the most part.
He showed his love in his actions and in his critiques.
Once when I was younger, Mom was studying for her nursing degree, and she asked Dad to help her study.
He told her flatly that he wouldn’t because she had to learn how to do it on her own, seeing as how he wouldn’t be there to help her with the exam.
She passed the exam without his help, and when she told him the news, he had a diamond necklace awaiting her in the living room. “I knew you would pass without my help,” he told her. “You’re smart without me.”
They loved each other. From the outside looking in, it probably appeared that Mom loved him more than he loved her, but I knew better.
My father was a complex man. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d heard him say he loved me, but he offered that love in his looks, in his short nods and his tiny smirks.
When he was pleased with you, he’d nod twice your way.
When he was upset, his ice-blue eyes would pierce a hole through your soul.
When he was very upset, he’d pierce a hole through a wall. When he was sad, he disappeared.
My parents’ love story had years of challenges attached to it.
Dad used to get into trouble when he was younger, dealing drugs in their old neighborhood.
I knew it was an awkward thing to say, but my father was great at what he did.
He was a solid salesman. Mom always said he could sell poop to a person and they’d use it as shampoo.
For a while, we lived a pretty lavish lifestyle.
It wasn’t until he started using the drugs himself that everything began to crumble.
The worst thing a drug dealer could ever do was sample the product.
As he partook in the drugs, his alcohol usage grew too, and he became even colder than before. Distant. Hard.
Cruel.
There were many nights he’d come home drunk and high, hollering and slurring his words. There were other nights he simply wouldn’t come home.
The turning point for him was when a buddy of his got shot and killed, and Dad got caught by the cops. He ended up in prison for a few years.
He’d been out for a while and gotten clean from dealing and using drugs and alcohol.
It had been over a year since he’d come home.
A year, two months, and twenty-one days.
But who was counting?
Mom hated even talking about Dad’s former struggles.
She glossed over it as if it hadn’t even happened.
My grandmother, Mima for short, wasn’t as closed off to talking about my father’s past. She’d moved in with Mom and me when Dad got locked up for dealing.
We needed the help around the house, and Mima stepped right in to help cover the bills.
I was thankful for that. For how cold my father was, my grandmother was the complete opposite.
She was warm, open, and giving. Mima’s heart was made of gold, and she went out of her way to make sure the ones she loved were taken care of.
When it was just us three girls, the house felt so light, so fun, so free.
During that period of time, I slept so much easier without the fear of the unknown that came with my father.
At least when he was locked up, he couldn’t get into any more trouble.
At least when he was locked up, he couldn’t end up dead from a deal gone bad.
It wasn’t a secret that my grandmother and father didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things.
When he was released, he came back home thinking he was just going to be in charge of everything, but Mima had a different point of view.
They butted heads on the regular. Mom tried her best to keep our house a place of peace.
For the most part, it worked. Mima avoided my father, and my father avoided her.
Except for when we all came together for celebrations.
If there was anything my family was good at, it was observing important milestones, and Mom’s birthday was one of them.
She was thirty-six today, and I swore she didn’t look a day over eighteen.
Oftentimes, people confused Mom and me as siblings—boy, did she love that.
I was certain I’d be grateful for those genetics down the line.
My cousin, Eleanor, and her parents, Kevin and Paige, always joined us to celebrate birthdays and holidays.
It seemed even more important to have family around ever since Paige learned she had cancer.
We were all hopeful she’d pull through, though.
She was a fighter, and she also had Kevin in her corner.
Uncle Kevin was my father’s older brother, but I swore he looked five years younger.
Mima set the birthday cake down on the table and began singing “Happy Birthday,” then everyone joined in.
Sometimes, I caught Dad staring at Mom with wonderment in his eyes.
When I called him out on his longing gaze, he shook his head and said, “I don’t deserve her.
I never have, and I never will. Your mother is a saint, too good for me—too good for this world. ”
We could both agree on that. I couldn’t imagine the things my father had put her through.
Mom would never tell me about those things, though.
I was certain that if I knew all their secrets, I’d end up hating my father, which was probably why Mom never told me.
She didn’t want to damage my view of the man who’d raised me.
Mima started cutting the cake, and Paige smiled her way. “You’ll have to give me the recipe for the cake, Maria. It’s to die for.”
“Oh no, sweetheart. My recipes will die with me. I one-hundred-percent plan to be buried with my cookbook,” Mima semi-joked.
I had no doubt she’d take that book to her grave.
Mom would probably be crazy enough to dig it up, though, just for one more taste of Mima’s enchiladas. I wouldn’t blame her, either.
Dad stood up from the table after everyone had their cake in front of them.
He cleared his throat. Dad wasn’t one for speeches.
He was a pretty quiet man. Mom always said he thought all his words to death, and by the time they were ready to leave his mouth, he ended up mute.
But every year, for every birthday, he gave a toast to Mom—excluding the years when he was away.
“I wanted to raise a glass of champagne,” Dad declared, “and sparkling grape juice for me and the underagers. Camila, you have been a light to this family, to this world, and we are lucky to have another go-round with you. Thank you for standing for this family—for me—through thick and thin. You are my world, my breath, my air, and today we celebrate you. Cheers to another trip around the sun, and to many more to come.”
Everyone cheered and drank and laughed. These moments were my favorite ones, the memories being created over laughter and happiness.
“Oh, and of course, your gift,” Dad said as he walked out of the dining room and then came back with a small box.
Mom sat up. “Kurt, you didn’t have to give me anything.”
“Of course I did. Open it.”
Mom shifted in her seat a little as all eyes were on her. If there was anything she hated, it was attention. As she unwrapped the gift and opened it, she gasped. “Oh my gosh, Kurt. This is too much.”
“Not for you.”
Mom held up a pair of diamond earrings that shimmered and shimmered.
Mima raised an eyebrow. “Those look pretty expensive,” she muttered.
Dad shrugged. “Nothing’s too expensive for my wife.”
“Except when it is and you have a part-time janitor job,” she shot back.
“How about you worry about your own finances, Maria? Let me deal with mine,” Dad hissed her way.
And there it was, the tension that lived in the house. I swore the air grew thicker whenever the two of them fought.
“Well, thank you, honey,” Mom said, standing up and hugging Dad. “Though, they do look expensive.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve been saving up for it for some time. You deserve nice things,” he told her.
Mom looked as if her mind was spinning with things to say, but she didn’t often speak her thoughts. Most of the time, she simply overthought them. “Well, OK! Let’s all eat some cake, drink some more champagne, and keep this celebration going.”
The subject of the diamond earrings was put to rest, and I was thankful for that. It probably helped that we had guests that night; otherwise, Mima and Dad’s argument would’ve escalated quickly.
Eleanor sat at the table with a book in her hand, and her eyes danced back and forth nonstop.
“I’m glad to see you’re not much of an introvert anymore, Ellie,” Mima joked, sliding her a piece of cake.
Eleanor shut the book, and her cheeks reddened. “Sorry. I just wanted to finish the chapter before eating.”
“I feel like you’re always trying to finish a chapter,” I said, nudging my cousin.
“Says the girl always trying to finish a script,” she replied.
Touché.
The only thing Eleanor and I had in common besides DNA was our love of words and stories, which was enough to make us each other’s very best friend.
Having an Eleanor in my life was like having a fresh bouquet delivered to me each day.
She was smart, kind, and refreshingly sarcastic.
I swore no one could make me laugh more than Eleanor.
The quiet ones always had the best under-the-breath commentary.
My phone dinged, then it dinged again—followed by about a billion more dings. Mom looked up at me with a knowing grin. “Tracey?”
“Sure is,” I replied. The only person who texted nonstop without ever receiving a reply was my close friend Tracey.
We’d grown up together, and it was no secret that Tracey was chatty.
She was the head of the cheerleading squad and the president of student council, and she oozed school spirit.
I, too, had school spirit in my bones, but Tracey was on a whole other level.
She lived, breathed, and ate everything high school.
It wasn’t shocking that she was one of the most popular girls at our school. She was smart, beautiful, and funny, too. It was just a shame that most of the guys were turned off by her oomph for life.
Tracey: Oh.Em.Gee! Reggie is going to the PARTY @ Land’s this SATURDAY! SHAY WE HAVE TO GO
Tracey: Before you say no (which I know you’re thinking) I NEED NEED NEED this!
Tracey: I need you to be my wingwoman
Tracey: Three words: Reggie will be there
Tracey: Kk, that was four words, but you get it!
Tracey: PLEASEEEE SHAY! I need you. Reggie is IT for me, and a party at Land’s will help him realize it.
Tracey: Say yes?
Tracey: I’ll make sure you don’t even cross paths with Landon, let alone breathe the same air as him.
Tracey: I’ll also buy you a pony or something. Plz?!
I laughed as I read Tracey’s dramatic comments.
She was head over heels for this new kid, Reggie, who had transferred to Raine, Illinois, from Kentucky.
He was the exact type of guy Tracey seemed to always lose her mind over: overly masculine, cocky, handsome in a ridiculous way, and very aware of his good looks.
He also had an accent, which Tracey loved—just like the rest of the girls in town who had their eyes on Reggie.
Tracey: Does your silence mean yes?
Me: I want a blond pony named Marcy.
Tracey: That’s why you’re my fave human.
Going to a party at Landon’s house would be odd. We did pretty good at keeping our hatred for each other strong, and that meant I never went to his place for parties. Ever since his uncle passed away, it seemed he had a party every other weekend.
My hope was that the party would be big enough that I wouldn’t even have to interact with Landon at all.
Even when we were kids, he hated me. Once, he called me a chicken because I wouldn’t smoke pot at a party.
After that, Chicken became his nickname for me.
I called him Satan—for obvious reasons. Over time, he’d shortened Chicken to Chick because he knew I hated when men called women chicks.
I kept his nickname the same, and from there, Chick and Satan were formed.
The two of us never got along. We’d only ever so slightly connected one time, and that was when Mima took me along to Lance’s funeral last October.
The reception after the service was held at his house, and I came upon Landon by accident as I looked for the bathroom.
He was sitting in his bedroom, sobbing his eyes out on his bed, wearing his suit and tie, unable to breathe.
I didn’t know what to do because I wasn’t his friend.
We were hardly even acquaintances. If anything, I was the villain in his story, as he was the one in mine, but at that moment, he looked so alone, so broken.
I might not have liked him much, but I knew the love he had for Lance.
It was no secret that Lance was a father figure to him.
He was pretty much Landon’s father, if you asked me.
His actual father was just a man who deposited money into Landon’s bank account.
As I watched him cry, I did the only thing I could think of. I went and I sat beside him. I loosened his tightened tie and held him in my arms as he sobbed uncontrollably in my embrace. He fell completely apart, and I saw every piece of him shatter.
The next day, I stopped by his house to check on him.
I felt the need to make sure he was OK. He grimaced, his head lowered, and he refused to look me in the eye as he spoke low and controlled: “This isn’t a thing, Chick—you and me talking.
You never cared about my feelings before, so don’t pity me now just because Lance is dead.
I don’t want your charity. Go give your words to someone who gives a shit because I don’t, and I won’t. ”
After that, we went back to disliking one another.
I felt silly for trying to comfort a guy I’d spent so much time hating.
But I had a feeling he would never bring up the situation again, and neither would I .
. . though parts of me still thought about it.
I thought about how sad the most popular kid at school was, yet nobody even noticed.