Chapter Thirty-Seven. Melanie
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
MELANIE
I’m in a bad mood, though I try not to let it show.
I’d suggested we just hit the San Marcos outlets—good prices, easy parking—but instead we made the hour-long trek through Austin’s stop-and-go circus so they could play dress-up at some fancy boutique.
Hannah blew nearly all the money she’s been saving for a car on one silly dress.
Cat spent hers too. And now the girls are craving Moon Milk Lattes, so I’m navigating this madhouse of a parking lot at the Summer Moon on Burnet.
Last night on the local news, they warned the town of a severe winter storm and cold front.
A blast of Arctic air freezing everything in its path coming down south all the way from Canada.
They say it might actually push its way into Texas.
Probably just another cold snap that’ll melt by noon.
But everyone is out today anyway, driving aggressively, picking up essentials and stocking up on things that will just dust over in the back of their cupboards anyhow.
Texans pride themselves on being self-reliant, and they are, in many ways, but at the same time, they love to get into a tizzy every time the weather drops below thirty-five degrees, going so far as shutting down schools for fear of a little ice.
We enter through the heavy doors and are greeted by a wave of oppressive, manufactured heat. It hits so hard I’m already unwinding my scarf, itching to shed the jacket and sweater layered over my T-shirt. The place is packed—everyone trying to escape the cold—and the air feels close, smothering.
“I’ll get us a table,” I tell Cat. “Just get me whatever.”
A couple near the window starts gathering their things, so I squeeze through bodies, hugging my purse tight, apologizing as I go, aware of the space my body takes up, aware of every shoulder I bump, every chair I knock.
I slide into a seat the second they stand. They’ve left a mess of crumbs, so I brush them into a crumpled napkin, fold it up, and shove it in my pocket, so I won’t lose the table by getting up.
I couldn’t sleep last night, spending hours doomscrolling my phone, researching that plastic surgery boutique listed in the Miss Lone Star Princess prize package, and falling down rabbit holes.
I stumbled upon a story from back in 2015.
Catherine Cando, a nineteen-year-old Ecuadorian beauty queen and a burgeoning medical student with a bright future, won a very similar prize when she was crowned the Queen of Durán.
She refused the free liposuction procedure at first, bright girl that she was, but was pressured into claiming it.
Only, when she went to collect her winnings, the operation went sideways, and Catherine died right there on the table.
Murdered, if you ask me. She’d already been crowned the prettiest of all. Just when is enough enough?
A group of Lululemon moms hover, coffees in hand, eyeing my empty table for four. I feel a bead of sweat forming under my boobs before it rolls down my belly. Why is it so darn hot in here?
I wonder what it would be like to not constantly worry what others might be thinking.
To be comfortable in my own skin, instead of falling over myself to make sure everyone else is comfortable in theirs.
I wonder what I actually am underneath, without this skin—if there’s still the soft heart Oma Greta knew, or only the hard, bitter, rotten parts I keep buried.
Cat’s name is called, and the girls grab their iced coffees topped with whipped cream and caramel drizzle, but when they walk over, they pass right by me, lost in conversation.
As they head out the door, Hannah laughs at something Olivia says, but it rattles me.
It’s not her laugh. It’s borrowed, practiced, the kind of laugh that’s meant to be noticed.
My daughter is trying it on like a new dress, seeing how it fits.
Cat brings our two coffees to the table.
“Where are the girls off to?”
She hands me my drink and takes a seat across from me. “The salon two doors down. Apparently, they need new hair products for the pageant.” She’s looking out the window, her eyebrows pinched tight. “Has that truck been there this whole time?” she asks.
I turn to look over my shoulder. The parking lot is packed with countless trucks.
“The Silverado,” she says.
And I see the one she means, a white pickup parked right out front, facing right into the café’s windows. A man sits behind the wheel. “I don’t know,” I say, turning back to her, but she’s already standing.
She storms out the side door, letting in another gust of chilly air, and I watch her march to the truck, wrapping the sweater tight around herself.
She knocks on the glass. The driver rolls down his window.
Cat is talking fast, heated. I see the man’s face, mid-thirties and so plain and approachable he could be cast in a prescription drug commercial.
He looks confused and a little wary of Cat.
After a brief exchange, he’s rolling up his window, and Cat walks back inside and sits down.
“Honey,” I say, “what on earth was that?”
“I showed that man and his pregnant wife the model home a few days ago. John. That was his name, and his wife was Faith.”
“Okay,” I say.
Her hand goes to her throat, and she begins to scratch. “I’ve seen him, driving by the model home.”
“I’m sure he was just checking out the neighborhood,” I reassure her. “Buying a house is a big decision.”
She nods, but her fingers haven’t left her neck, haven’t stopped their scratching, and her eyes haven’t left the window. Then she leans in quickly and says, “He was following me, Mel. Yesterday. In my rearview. Every turn I made.”
I turn back around to look out the window. The Silverado is backing out of the spot.
“I couldn’t see the driver, but it was that truck. I know it was,” she says.
The truck pulls away, and not two cars behind it, is another white Chevy Silverado.
That make and model has to be one of the most popular in Texas.
Cat has had wild suspicions before, paranoid delusions.
She used to call me at 2 AM, not knowing or caring that I’d worked a twelve-hour shift and would work another the following day.
Someone is after me, she’d say, babbling on about a car parked on her street or a man who looked at her too long at the 7-Eleven.
Always, I stayed up. Always, I talked her down from the ledge.
She is still scratching.
“Stop that,” I snap, harsher than I mean to.
She jerks her hand down immediately and I can see her bare neck, see that she’s picked up her old habit of scratching again. The skin is red and raw.
And I feel panic rising up inside me. Because I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep holding Cat together.