“Come on,” the wasted girl attempted to coo in my ear. All she managed to do was lose her balance, forcing me to have to catch her before she landed face-first into the closet door. “You know you want to.”
“Ah, no, I don’t actually.” I chuckled to soften my tone for her sake, but the words still meant the same. I wasn’t interested. Plain and simple. “I need to go,”
Releasing her, praying she was good to stand on her own, I bolted down the hallway hoping to meet up with Blaire again. I planned on asking her what she was doing next weekend. I knew I’d be back by then to visit with Gramps. Since that wasn’t particularly something to look forward to, I’d come up with the idea of including Blaire in that equation to make it better.
I scanned the tiny, jam-packed apartment after weaving my way through the people in the hall, searching for Blaire. She was nowhere to be found. Opening the front door, I examined every female face outside and none of them were hers. Jogging down the stairs and into the parking lot, I finally spotted her. She was standing next to the innocent-faced girl I recognized from someplace but couldn’t figure out where and the girl I’d met earlier. I paused and watched, unsure whether or not I should walk over and ask her out.
Then it hit me—the girl I couldn’t place was Paige Jacobs, another one of Blaire’s best friends in high school. Jesus, didn’t anyone leave Coldcreek after high school and not come back? Guess I could be lumped in that category now too, because here I was, standing in the parking lot of some apartments near Norhurst University.
Blaire and Lauren broke out in laughter before all three of them hopped into a silver Dodge Charger. My moment to ask her out had come and gone, all because I’d chosen to stand here like an idiot and stare. Running my hands through my hair, I started back to the party, this time in search of Matt so he could take me home. I was done for the night.
* * * *
Forty minutes later I was climbing out of Matt’s Camaro and making my way inside my mom’s house. I told Matt I’d call him tomorrow, but we both knew I wouldn’t; tomorrow would be next weekend, when I came back to this shithole of a town after finals.
Gravel crunched beneath the tires of Matt’s car as he backed away from the house, attempting to turn around. My boots thudded in my ears as I made my way up the wooden steps to the front door. It was locked, like it should be at this hour of the night. Through the glass panes I noticed the living room light was on and I wondered if it had purposely been left on for me this time or if it was for the same reason as last night.
Fumbling in my pocket for my keys, I peered in through the little squares of glass the door was made of, searching for any signs of similarities to last night. I wasn’t able to spot anything right away. Once I found the right key, I attempted to open the door as quietly as I could. It creaked, echoing through the silent house and making me wince. First thing tomorrow I’d have to search for a can of WD-40 and grease the thing.
Kicking off my boots at the door, I tossed my socks on top of them and headed through the smallish kitchen that smelled of burnt lasagna. The Stouffers box was still on the counter, its original contents a charred mess on a pan carelessly left on the stovetop. A grin twisted at my lips. Mom had never been the best cook, but she’d never burned frozen lasagna before.
My smile fell as I noticed the empty bottle of wine on the counter. She’d been drinking again. An ache formed in my chest and I knew exactly what I would find once I rounded the corner into the living room—the same thing from last night. Averting my gaze to the linoleum floor beneath my bare feet, I forced myself forward.
The soft glow of the ceiling fan light gave the room an eerie feel. It spilled over dark hair splayed across the arm of the couch, making it shinier than I knew it was. My heart sank when I made it around to the front and caught the first glimpse of my mother. Sharon Bryant, a woman I used to think of as carefree and overly optimistic, was curled up with a fleece blanket, looking more like a fragile shell of her old self. Her mascara had smeared at some point, leaving smudges beneath her eyes. An empty wineglass rested on the coffee table in front of her, a bag of half-eaten popcorn beside it.
My chest tightened. I took in a deep, pained breath and closed my eyes for a moment. Opening them, I sighed and rubbed my hands over my face. Moving to sit on the end of the coffee table, I stared at her. This was the second night in a row she’d drunk herself to sleep, alone. I wondered how many more had come before these two I’d had the pleasure of witnessing.
I prayed not many.
While struggling to decide what I should do with her—leave her be or attempt to carry her into her room—she shifted in her sleep and muttered my father’s name. I decided then to leave her. If she was dreaming about him, I hoped it was a happy dream, because she deserved it. Tearing my eyes from her delicate frame, I made my way out of the living room and toward the hall. My room was the first door on the left.
This wasn’t the house I’d grown up in—that house was on the other side of town, being lived in by some family who had no clue that some of my best memories happened within those walls. This house was supposed to be our fresh start, a clean slate on the memory plane. And it was, but it didn’t do what my mother had intended it to—it didn’t make the pain of losing my father disappear. It didn’t even lessen it.
Flipping on the light to my room, I closed the door behind me and stripped down to my boxers. Scooping up my phone from on my dresser, I flopped down across the too-small twin bed from my childhood and tapped on my Facebook app. After scrolling through everyone’s new status updates, commenting on a few and liking others when I didn’t know what to say, I tapped on “search” and found myself typing in Blaire’s name. There were about twelve hundred Blaire Hayes to scroll through.
When I finally found her, I tapped on her name to view her profile, praying she wasn’t one of those people who were on Facebook but attempted to make themselves crazy private so people couldn’t learn a damn thing about them. When the page refreshed, I realized she was not necessarily one of those people. While there were things hidden for only friends to view, there was still a crap ton available for me to skim through.
I scrolled through her recent posts first, lured in by a picture of her she’d recently put up. It was from nearly eleven days ago, which I liked. It meant that she wasn’t a Facebook junkie. She had a life other than the Internet. The picture was taken by someone else and it was of her, Lauren, and Paige. She was standing in the middle, dressed in a sundress of sorts. She looked hot as hell with her slight tan, dark hair, and big blue eyes.
After that photo there were a few shares of smoothie recipes and some funny pics she’d found online. It was the throwback Thursday photos she’d posted of herself and Paige that truly made me laugh, though.
I tapped on her “About” section next, ready to learn some interesting tidbits about this girl who was consuming my mind to the point of Facebook stalking. The very first thing I saw caught me completely off-guard: she worked at Cross Meadows—the same nursing home Gramps had moved into a few days ago. The thought of Blaire working there made my mind a little more at ease with Mom’s decision to put him there. Maybe it wasn’t a place where he would be malnourished and mistreated after all. Couldn’t be, not if Blaire worked there.
After I got over the initial shock of that, I moved down the list. She was a student at Norhurst University. She was from Coldcreek. Yada yada. Then came her photos and boy were they captivating.
Blaire wasn’t the type to make crazy duck faces into a camera and take conceited pictures of herself in the bathroom mirror, she was the type who took pictures of shit that mattered to her. There were pictures of everything from fireworks the previous year to a rug she’d bought at some point for in front of her place that said “Got Dirt?” It was the pictures of her with a dirty blonde-haired little girl that stuck out to me the most. The caption underneath them said “Tinley” and nothing more. My heart pounded in my chest at the thought of her having a kid. A
nd then I scrolled down some and read a caption that said “Cutest niece in the world.”
Relief trickled through me at a dizzying pace.
My Internet froze and I wasn’t able to view any more of her photos; what I’d seen had been enough though. I had to find a way to make Blaire go out with me when I came back. I sent her a friend request once my Internet decided to work again and got offline. Turning my phone off, I set it on my rickety nightstand and crossed the room to flip the light switch. Climbing back into bed, I spread out as much as the bed allowed me to and drifted off to sleep, wondering if she’d accept the request I’d sent.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BLAIRE
The little box titled “Friend Requests” glared at me from the screen of my cell phone. I wasn’t sure how long I’d stared at it with Jason’s picture inside and his name in blue letters, but I was sure I’d surpassed the timeframe of a sane person long ago. Why was this such a big deal? It was Facebook for crying out loud. The people who were your “Friends” were never actually your friends in real life, it was just a way to keep tabs on people’s lives from a distance without looking like a stalker, right?
Guys didn’t think of it that way though, did they?
Jason had probably sent the request because he wanted to add another person from high school he’d forgotten about until tonight. Jesus, why was I analyzing his request like some lunatic? Maybe this was the clue that I needed to get out more—that and to loosen up some.
Letting out a loud breath, I tapped on his name and waited for my spotty Internet to catch up. Sometimes it worked and others it didn’t—it was virtually unpredictable. Popping open a tiny can of V8 Fusion, I took a sip while continuing to wait for the page to load. When it did, I read through all of his status updates. He was a funny one—commenting on loads of posts from others and reposting funny pictures. His latest repost was of two model-pretty girls standing side by side in spandex cheerleader shorts with their asses poking out at the cameraman. In the bottom there was a caption that read: What, don’t you see the pirate in the background?
I searched, and sure enough there was some random guy dressed as a pirate in the background. Such a typical guy photo. No girl would think it was funny enough to repost. I sure didn’t.
Scrolling down, I glanced at a few other pictures he’d posted with the same theme. Tapping on his “About” section, I skimmed though his information. He worked at a golf store, lived in Dormere, Tennessee, and went to Dormere University. My stomach clinched at the information, even though I already knew he lived in Tennessee. Coldcreek was a small town and just because I lived close to Norhurst University now didn’t mean I didn’t visit Coldcreek every now and then and get filled in on the town gossip. Jason Bryant’s family just so happened to be the talk of the town a few years ago when his father passed away. This was another reason why I had a biased opinion of him—people said he’d bolted after his father’s death, leaving his grieving mother behind because he couldn’t deal with the pain of it.
Glancing over the pages that Jason had “liked,” I realized he was really into sports shops and enjoyed beer. His album photos caught my attention next. There were some of him standing on top of a mountain with a beer in one hand and a smile on his face as he gazed out at the view in front of him, some of him with his arms draped over his buddies’ shoulders beneath a waterfall, and some with him sandwiched between two beautiful girls with the glow of a bonfire glimmering in front of them. Obviously these were all pictures others had taken of him, but they were also images of memories captured in the moment.
Jason, according to his Facebook page, had lived. He’d gotten out there and seen things I could only dream of. Biting the inside of my cheek, I thought about this more. What did my Facebook page say about me? That I was an aunt who loved her niece, that I had a good job, I was a student, and that I went out on limited occasions with my two closest friends.
I wasn’t exciting. I was a stick in the mud.
Before I knew what I was doing, I’d tapped “Accept Friend Request” and froze. My heart pounded ridiculously loud in my chest. Crinkling my nose, I tossed both the pillow and my phone onto my bed and headed to the kitchen.
The apartment was quiet. Paige had passed out an hour ago and Lauren left well before then. I’d stayed up in the hopes of studying for a bit more, but Facebook had sucked me in. Flipping the kitchen light on, I opened the freezer and searched for the pint of ice cream I knew I’d bought two days ago. The yellow container of mint chocolate chip called to me from in the back. Grabbing it out, I riffled through the dishwasher for a clean spoon and made my way to the living room to watch some reality TV while eating.
* * * *
By 12:30 in the afternoon I’d already showered and left the house, headed toward Coldcreek to scoop up Tinley. Today was the afternoon I said I would spend with her so my sister, Bonnie, could take a much-needed break. Normally I visited home about once a week, but between cramming for finals and squeezing in extra shifts at Cross Meadows when I could, I hadn’t had the time lately.
Coldcreek wasn’t a bad little town, but it did have its drawbacks for some. For me, though, I didn’t care to live the fast-paced life of a city dweller. My life was just as fast-paced and hectic as I could handle as it was. Cruising down Main Street at the designated twenty mph, I took in the town’s charm—people walked down the sidewalks with smiles and shopping bags clamped in their hands, the little shops were vibrant with colors to lure in customers, everything was clean and perfectly manicured.
Coldcreek was decent.
Turning onto Wyatt Street, I took another sip of my vanilla frappuccino and went through the mental checklist of things I’d compiled for Tinley and me to do today. After two more turns, I pulled into my sister’s narrow driveway. She didn’t live in a mansion, but Bonnie did have the whole “white picket fence” thing going for her. She and her husband, Brice, had bought a three-bedroom brick house right after they were married with the hopes of filling both spare rooms with children quickly. That was almost five years ago.
The thought that Bonnie had gotten married—and to Brice Carter of all people—when she was a year younger than I am now, was insane. I was nowhere near ready for marriage—then again, you sort of had to be dating someone for a while to get to that point and I wasn’t near accomplishing that either.
I’d just cut the engine on my crappy Mazda when Tinley came barreling out the front door of the house, shouting my name and waving some little stuffed bunny in the air at me as she ran. It was quite possibly the cutest thing I’d ever seen. When she made it to me, Tinley wrapped her little arms around my thighs and squeezed as tightly as she could. Bonnie appeared in the front door. She leaned against the frame and smirked at the two of us.
“She’s been asking when you were going to get here since yesterday,” Bonnie said. “She heard me talking to Brice about you coming by today and has been ecstatic since.”
I laughed and ran my fingers through her blonde hair. “Aww, well, I’ve been excited to see you too, Tinley.” Bending down, I picked her up and headed toward the house. “What’s that you have there?” I asked her, motioning toward her rabbit.
“Bunny!” Tinley said. Her overexcitement lit her blue eyes and made me smile. “It’s pink!”
“That’s right, the bunny is pink,” I said, amazed she knew the color pink already.
“She’s been learning her colors lately, Aunt Blaire,” Bonnie said with a proud smile. “She already knows pink, white, green, and yellow.”
“Oh, really?” I asked, making a big deal about it.
Tinley nodded her head and her smile grew. “I do.”
She wiggled her tiny frame free from my arms as soon as we passed through the threshold of the house. Her little legs carried her across the living room at breakneck speed to the coffee table, where I could see she’d been coloring a picture.
“See! Pink, white, gween, and wellow!” she said.
She’d used eac
h of the colors she knew in the picture. It was from the Dora the Explorer coloring book I’d brought her the last time I came to visit.
“Pretty,” I said to her. “Is that for me?”
Tinley nodded and then concentrated on finishing the picture. Bonnie walked to the kitchen, just off the living room, and I followed. She stuck her hands into the sink filled with soapy water and continued washing the dishes in it.
“Don’t you use the dishwasher?” I asked. I leaned against the counter and took another sip of my frappuccino.
Bonnie looked at me like I was stupid. “Yeah, it’s full and running. This was what wouldn’t fit.”
“Jesus, you guys eat a lot, don’t you?”
“Well, when you cook three meals a day, plus one afternoon snack, the dishes tend to pile up.”
“I can see that.” I grinned.
Bonnie rolled her eyes. “One day you’ll understand.”
“Not anytime soon.”
“That’s right, not if you aren’t dating anyone.” She shifted her eyes to look at me directly. “Are you dating anyone?”
My eyes fell to the floor. “No, I’ve been busy with finals and work lately.”
“Blaire, you’re at the perfect place to meet guys—college! No dating site in the world could compete with the selection and easy access you’ve got there.”
“Oh yeah, it’s some selection all right—of stoners, idiots, and future alcoholics,” I said with mock excitement.
Bonnie laughed. “They can’t all be bad… I mean, they’ve got to be better than the selection at Cross Meadows, right?”