Chapter 4 #2
I bite back my natural reaction and remind myself that Dad doesn’t know. He thinks my snarkiness when it comes to Coy is just me being me. He doesn’t realize I mean it this time.
“Nope,” I say as casually as I can manage.
“I wish you would’ve.”
“And I wish you would’ve been on my side in my war with the neighbor.” I grin as I shift my weight on the loveseat. “I know you like Coy, but I’m your daughter. Like me more,” I tease.
He rolls his head to the side and looks at me. “Clearly, I’m on your side if there are sides.”
“Not if you’re considering fraternizing with the enemy.”
He laughs. It’s warm and not quite full but full enough to ease a bit of the pain in my heart.
I know he loves Coy in his sweet but misguided way. Coy hung around like a little puppy after Mom died. He bothered my dad so incessantly that his father, Rodney, came over to ask Dad if he should make twelve-year-old Coy stay home.
They created some weird bond that year—some strange connection I never really understood. Dad has always had a soft spot for the boy next door.
But he wouldn’t. Not if he knew that I broke down the night we found out that Dad had cancer and that I was so distraught, so hopeless, that I texted Coy.
I’ve read that text so many times that I have it memorized.
Dad has cancer. It’s bad. Really bad. And I don’t think I’m going to make it, Coy. I’m terrified. You told me on the Fourth of July that you would always be here for me. I need you. Please call me.
Unfortunately for me, there was no return text or call to commit to memory. Coy responded a couple of weeks later like he forgot to answer and felt bad about it.
No, thank you.
“I hope I’m around when the two of you stop this bickering nonsense,” Dad says. “I can’t imagine the laughs the two of you will have together instead of at each other.”
I get to my feet. His words send a chill down my spine that I have a hard time shaking off.
“Will you tell him to come by and see your old man when you see him next?” he asks.
“I don’t plan on seeing him again. But if I run into him somewhere, I’ll be sure to …” I look at him. “Nope. Not gonna lie to you. I won’t be asking him to come here. I don’t want him to poison our auras.”
Dad snorts. “Give that boy a break.”
“I will do no such thing. And you can forget the pears now,” I say, winking at him as I slip on my shoes and then head for the door.
His laughter follows me through the kitchen and down the hallway. I slide out the side door.
The Mason house, my favorite place in all of Savannah, towers over me from the other side of the fence. I study it as I walk down the sidewalk and toward the back of the property.
It’s unique for such a large house. Instead of feeling stately or putting off an untouchable vibe, it feels like home. It’s warm and welcoming. It’s been my respite, my safe place away from the storm of my life, more times than I can count.
When I couldn’t stand my house after Mom died, I went to the Mason’s. When I needed advice as a teenager, I went to Siggy. Even now, when I need anything, I go there, and Siggy is more than wonderful to me. She makes me feel at home.
But when Coy is home, I’m reminded that I don’t really belong there. They’re not my family.
I enter the guesthouse that I moved into a few years ago after Dad’s diagnosis.
I loved my little apartment downtown with a terrific view of my favorite shopping district.
I left a job in a dentist’s office that wasn’t going anywhere long term, but I did love it.
It was the perfect job for me to find my footing in life.
But this is where I was needed, so this is where I am.
The John Deere green tile that Larissa and I hung last summer in the kitchen makes me smile. A couple of them are barely hanging on. One is cracked. Overall, it wasn’t too bad of a job for two novices who had a little too much wine and a lot too much self-confidence.
I make a quick cup of tea and then sit at the table.
It’s banged up and cracked and has definitely seen better days.
But that’s also why I love it. It’s imperfectly perfect, and a total swap meet steal.
I often wish it could tell stories of the meals that have taken place on it. God knows I tell it mine.
I drag my finger along an extended cut down the center of the table, spotting a few missed flecks of glitter from this afternoon, and think about the stories it would tell about me.
There would be tales of dancing, recounts of sexual encounters, and lots of spilled wine with Larissa. Conversations about children’s book characters and pianos with Bree. Tons of nachos. Nights of whiskey and stupid comedy movies with Boone.
And there would be quiet tears when I missed my mother, wishing more than anything that I’d had her for longer than ten years. And more recently, louder sobs as I fear losing my father.
Of being totally alone.
Of being twenty-four years old and knowing that I have my whole life ahead of me without either of them.
Of having no one in the entire world that will be there for me unequivocally.
Those moments are the worst. The coldest. When I feel so exposed.
The table could recant the depths of my fears—fears I hide from everyone. It knows how scared I am of being alone, how I loathe feeling so ill-equipped to deal with my life. And how I hate being exposed to anything that might cause me more problems. Or pain.
One thing is also true: your life can’t be destroyed if you don’t allow people access.
Having my heart broken by Coy Mason made me realize that I went against my better judgment and asked him for help. He didn’t deny me. He didn’t even bother to respond when it mattered.
I will never allow someone that access to me again.
I shiver.
“That’s enough feelings for one day,” I say, standing. I find my phone next to the toaster.
Me: Hey, Riss. Wanna get dinner and, by dinner, I mean wine?
Larissa: Meet you at Paddy’s in an hour?
Me: Perfect. See you there