by K. Bromberg
They also both look like they don’t belong anywhere near Sunnyville. They stand out like an anomaly. Sidney, with her dirty blonde colored hair and brown eyes and legs for days, looks like the picture of California, but one where there are stars on the avenue instead of vines on the hills.
It’s a stark reminder of how different our lives are. She’s more like Claire than either of us wants to admit, and I’ll always be me. A Malone.
I’ve been coasting along with this . . . whatever this is . . . telling myself that we could make this work, that she could be content here. Seeing her like this—looking so out of her element, has the realization that I’ve been lying to myself fall like an anvil onto my chest.
The pressure from it is debilitating.
I stand squarely in the picture window of Better Buzz and just stare. Somehow, some way, she senses me. Her feet falter. Her head turns. Our eyes meet.
She smiles.
Waves.
I may be staring at her, but I don’t acknowledge her in the least. I can’t. I’ve already gotten too close, when I’ve been convincing myself that I’ve kept her at arm’s length.
So I don’t nod. I don’t smile. I don’t react at all. Instead, I turn my back and walk deeper into the coffee shop, to where Desi and Luke are laughing. To where I can bury my thoughts. To where I can get mad at myself for even thinking I could let anything more happen between us.
Over the last few weeks, I’d allowed those thoughts—those ideas, possibilities, emotions—to creep in.
Seeing her on the street was a solid one-two punch to the gut, reminding me why shit like that can’t be.
Fuck this. Fuck Sidney. Fuck her looking just like Claire with that air about her that screams money and privilege and everything that doesn’t want someone like me.
In the back of my mind, I know I’m being a dick. I know she can’t help but be herself . . . the woman who has invaded my life without warning. But the sting of my past, the feeling of déjà vu, is real and raw and tattooed in invisible ink. It’s a scar on my heart I can’t fucking get rid of.
One she doesn’t deserve to have to deal with.
One I’m hiding behind instead of facing the truth.
I’m fucking falling for her.
Desi looks up and smiles at me as I sit across from them, but her smile freezes and her eyes narrow when she looks closer.
“You okay?”
“Yep.”
I’m perfectly fucking fine.
Wait. Actually, I’m far from it.
She stares at me a bit longer, not believing me, and then saves my ass from having to pretend with Luke by turning her attention back to him.
I watch them joke, build a castle out of sugar packets, and have a staring contest. I’ve never been more grateful for her and her quirky sense of humor.
Because seeing Sidney like that—looking so much like Claire—brought me right back to that time, to the night Claire came home.
Luke was four months old—crying any time you set him down or moved the wrong way or God for-fucking-bid breathed the wrong way. She walked in the door drunk. I’ll never forget that. The look on her face. The smear of her mascara down her cheeks. The shame in her eyes.
Our fights had been more frequent. I chalked it up to having a newborn—a colicky one at that. It was why I wasn’t upset that she had gone out. She needed space, time to think and decompress.
“I have something I need to tell you.” Her words were slurred, her eyes averted.
“I don’t care that you went out. I know he gets to be overwhelming with the crying, but it’s a phase. It’s all just a phase.” I reiterated the same calming words my mom had told me when I had called her out of desperation.
“It isn’t a phase,” she said softly. “It’s a life sentence.”
“How can you say that?” I looked down at Luke, the life we’d created. He was a little bit of perfection in such a fucked-up world, and I was unable to comprehend how she couldn’t see it.
“I can’t do this, Gray. This isn’t me.”
My laugh must have sounded so ridiculous to her, but it was all I could give above Luke’s crying. “I know we’re young and don’t have much, Claire, but—”
“That’s exactly it. We don’t have anything!” she shouted, and I paused in the bounce, bounce, shift rhythm that usually calmed Luke.
“Your parents got to you again, didn’t they?” I shake my head and try to move toward her without upsetting Luke, but she won’t look at me. “This is all we need, Claire. Us. Luke.”
“I need more than that.” Her voice was barely a whisper, but every single syllable was like a nail being driven into my heart. It was then that I knew . . . I knew they had won. I knew she had gotten drunk so she’d have the courage to tell me. I knew she was leaving.
I knew, in her mind, she’d already left.
Luke started crying again. I wanted to put him down so I could beg and plead with her, but I couldn’t do that to him. I couldn’t abandon him when I already knew one parent was going to.
“Claire-bear—”
“Don’t.” Her hand came up as she squeezed her eyes closed for a second. “Fuck. Don’t call me that.”
“Don’t you love me? Don’t you love us?” Fear was all I could hear in my own voice. Fear rioted in my veins. “Don’t you love him?”
“I just don’t know anymore.”
“Yes, you do!” My shout was loud enough that the windows in our tiny apartment rattled as my chest constricted. I couldn’t seem to breathe.
“I’ll have my attorney draft up something—”
“You mean your parents’ attorney.”
“Yes.” Still no eye contact. Still absolutely zero acknowledgment of our son.
“You’ve told them to fuck off a million times. Rebelled when you dated me because I wasn’t part of your cotillion bullshit. What’s so different now? What changed?” Confusion owned every part of me.
“There’s a way to give up all my rights. It’s called voluntary relinquishment of rights.”
“You know the term?” I shout. “You’ve already done it, haven’t you?”
“I’ll sign the paperwork so you don’t ever have to worry about me coming back for him.” Her voice . . . God, her fucking voice was so devoid of emotion it made me want to scream and give up at the same time. The Hoskins’ brainwashing had finally worked.
“How can you do this? Look at him! Look. At. Him.” She lifted her eyes and took him in, her bottom lip quivering before she stared me dead in the eyes.
“It’s the money, isn’t it?”
“It’s a lot of things, Gray.”
“They finally threatened your trust fund?” Her lack of an answer was the only answer I needed. Fear turned to anger. Anger to rage. Rage to hysteria. “Get the fuck out! Our son—MY SON is worth more than any goddamn bank account.”
The first tear leaked over her eyelashes and slid along the mascara track that was already on her cheek. She had cried for someone else but could barely muster a fucking tear for us. She didn’t bother to brush it away. She just stared at me with regret and a sadness that to this day, I have never been able to fathom. How could money be more important than your own flesh and blood?
“One of these days, Claire, you’re going to look in the mirror and realize you’re a selfish piece of shit. You’re going to want to know my son. Don’t bother knocking on that door because I’d rather die than let you see what an incredible person he’s going to be. I’ll make damn sure of it.”
She didn’t react. Didn’t fucking care.
All I know is that when she turned her back and left without so much as a second glance at her son, I cried more than he did that night. And for more nights than I cared to remember, I fell asleep in a bed she bought, under a comforter she selected, beside a son who had eyes shaped just like hers.
When I look away from where I’d zoned out staring at my coffee, Desi is making faces and Luke is falling backward giggling like a
loon, clutching his sides and gasping for breath. I know we’re better off without Claire’s selfishness. I know she would not have stayed trapped in this life of runny noses and little league games. She wouldn’t have given up a single piece of herself to make someone better. I know I would be worrying every single day that she was going to give in to the temptation of her parents and their house high up on the hill above the vineyards.
I know we’re better off for it, but fuck if it still doesn’t sting.
Fuck you, Claire.
“You sure you’re okay?” Desi asks with a soft smile and a pat on my knee.
“Yeah. I’m sure. Thanks for this. With Luke. I needed a minute to figure shit out.”
“Did you get it figured out?”
“Nah. It’s a work in progress.”
“Isn’t everything?”
I don’t know why I hesitate before knocking on the front door. Maybe it’s the ten or so texts I’ve sent Grayson that have gone unanswered.
Maybe it’s my overthinking everything about us since Zoey left yesterday.
Maybe it’s my not wanting to admit I miss him after only six days of being apart.
He’s canceled on me every time we’ve set to meet because Luke has been sick, so I’ve attempted to do something nice and bring them some dinner.
Okay, so I have ulterior motives for doing it. I wanted to talk to him. To see him. To just be with him even if it’s only to drop the food off at the door for five minutes.
Just as I go to knock, the front door opens. The man facing me freezes at the same time I do. The bag of food rattles in my hand.
“Hello there, young lady, what can I do for you?” He’s Grayson in thirty years. That’s my first thought when I see the kind but hardened eyes and the smile that turns up just like his.
“I was coming to see Grayson?”
“You say that like it’s a question.” He laughs, and the rumble of it makes me smile. “I’m Grayson’s dad. Everyone calls me Chief.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Sidney Thorton.” I reach out and shake the hand he offers.
“I knew your dad well before he left town. How is he doing? Well, I hope.”
“Yes. He is.”
“I’m ready, Poppy!” Luke’s voice screeches as he skids to a halt right behind Chief, and then his eyes widen when he sees me. Maybe not as much as mine, though. “Miss Sidney!”
“Wow, you look like you’re feeling better! That’s so good to hear.”
Luke’s little brow furrows as he brushes his hair off his forehead. “What do you mean? I wasn’t sick.” He shakes his head as if I’m being silly, but I catch the confused look on Chief’s face. “Did you come to play Creepers with me?” And before I can even respond, Luke’s arms are around my waist.
My body wars with emotions, and I do my best to hide them. I just don’t understand how my heart can swell for this little boy and feel broken in half by his father at the same time.
“Hey, Luke. I’m sorry, maybe later. I stopped by to talk to your dad about the contest.” It’s a little white lie, but at least it allows me to save face.
“What’s in the bag?” he asks.
Chicken noodle soup. Oyster crackers. Brownies. “Nothing. I just stopped by the store and didn’t want the food to spoil in my car.”
“Cool. Did my dad win?”
“Not yet. We’re almost ready to announce the top five,” I say and give him a wink. “Then the voting for that round will start soon after . . . and then we’ll be done. We’ll have a winner.”
“He’s gonna win,” Luke says right before his hand finds mine as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Chief takes notice of the action but doesn’t say anything about it.
“I think he’s gonna win, too,” I whisper. “But I’m not allowed to say things like that.”
Chief and I hold each other’s gazes for a brief but awkward moment as questions flicker through his eyes but don’t manifest on his lips.
“Are you ready to head out, Luke-ster?” Chief asks.
“Poppy is taking me to the car races in Millville.”
“Car races, huh?” My voice breaks. He definitely is not sick.
“They even have a demolition derby.” There is so much excitement in Luke’s voice that I manage a halfway genuine smile in response.
“It’s something we do once a month,” Chief says.
“It’s our thing.” Luke gives a nonchalant shrug and drops my hand.
“It’s very cool.” I hold the smile as I look from Luke to Chief. “It was very nice to meet you.”
“Likewise. Tell your father hi for me.”
“I will.”
“Gray’s out back. I’ll assume you know where to go.” He points through the house to the back door and then walks down the pathway, Luke following on his heels. I enter and shut the door behind me.
I stand there and take in a deep breath.
I will not cry.
I repeat the words to myself as I walk through the familiar living room. Past the signs of a life well lived—photos of the two of them here and there, a half-built tower of Legos on the floor. Past dishes drying in the rack beside the sink—a coffee cup half-filled, an apple half-eaten.
After setting the bag of food on the counter, I stand there for the briefest of seconds to gather my scattered thoughts currently tinged by hurt.
I should just leave.
Grayson’s made it clear he’s done with me—the lies say that.
I should stay.
I want to go out there and confront him because he has no right to make me . . . want something, only to slam the door in my face.
The sound of the lawnmower pulls me to the back door when every part of my pride tells me I shouldn’t be where I’m not wanted.
When I open it, my breath catches. There is Grayson, shirtless, sweaty, and pushing the lawnmower from one side of the yard to the other. He moves slowly over the small patch of grass, his biceps flexing with each turn of the corner.
Domesticity has never been sexier.
The sight of him has never been more painful.
Eventually, he notices me, but even after he does, he keeps going until he’s finished with the yard.
“Hi.”
“Hey.” Head down, eyes focused on cleaning the mower.
“You aren’t working at the station,” I finally say, when he doesn’t say anything more.
“Nope.”
Okay. What’s going on here?
“You haven’t answered my texts, so I thought maybe you were on shift.”
“Nope. Just busy.”
I hate the dread that slowly trickles into my belly. He isn’t looking at me. He’s not really talking to me.
“Looks like Luke made a full recovery.” Now that? That puts a hitch in his step, but he still doesn’t say anything more. “You lied to me, Grayson. Luke said he hasn’t been sick.”
He grunts in response but still refuses to look my way as he fiddles with this and that on the lawnmower.
“Have I done something wrong?”
“Nothing you can help.”
He hoses off the mower and moves it to a shed in the far corner of the yard, then rolls the trashcans to the side of the house without another word.
I try not to take it personally. I try not to overthink what exactly has caused this shift in him—that he’s done with me and has moved on to the next person in line. When he finally walks my way, I try to engage him again.
Things just aren’t adding up, and every single one of them is making my stomach churn and chest constrict.
“I saw you the other day.”
His steps falter. “I see you a lot of days.”
“But you saw me and acted like you didn’t.” It’s stupid to be hurt by it, but I am. I had spent all afternoon talking to Zoey about him, acknowledged out loud for the first time that I had feelings for him. Then when I waved to him, hoping he would come out so I could introduce him to Zoey, he looked at me a
s if I had done something to him or, even worse, as if he didn’t even know me, and damn it if it didn’t really hurt my feelings.
His only response is to grunt again.
“Did I do something wrong, Grayson?”
“Nope.”
Sick of being ignored, I walk over to where he is busying himself snapping cushions onto the chairs of the patio furniture. “What’s your problem?”
For the first time, he straightens and turns to look at me. I see confusion. Hurt. Uncertainty. And when he speaks, his voice is a low, even tone. “You just reminded me of someone I used to know.”
Past tense? Reminded?
“We’re back to this again?” I throw my hands up in frustration.
“You don’t know the half of it, Princess.” His derisive chuckle forewarning of a storm waging beneath the surface.
“Grayson, what in the ever-loving hell are you talking about?”
“You don’t fit in here.” Confused, I reach out to touch his arm, and he steps back so I can’t. He can spew any words at me—I have tough skin—but that action hurts more than I want to admit. “You and your friend in your designer clothes and loaded shopping bags . . . you don’t fit in here. Isn’t there some fancy party you need to attend or something?”
“You aren’t making any sense.” But he is. He’s making perfect sense. He saw me with Zoey last week, and instead of seeing two ladies having fun, he saw Claire. He saw what he thinks is my getting bored of Sunnyville and preparing to move on. I know exactly what he saw, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
“Sid.” He hangs his head for the briefest of seconds and sighs, defeat in every part of his posture. “It’s probably best if you just go. I’m in a shitty mood, and I’m dealing with crap that makes no sense to you and . . .” His words fade as he turns from me, laces his hands on the back of his head, and paces to the end of the yard.
“I’m not Claire.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Goddammit, Grayson! I’m not Claire!”
“Aren’t you, though?”
“Fuck. You.” Every part of me screams the words that my lips speak in such an even tone.