Crossing Paths
Copyright © 2013 by Melanie Stinnett
All rights reserved.
Cover Designer: Sarah Hansen,
Okay Creations
Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley,
Unforeseen Editing
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except
for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Visit my website at
www.melaniestinnett.com
ISBN-13:
978-0-9898324-1-0
To Fonty and Ms. J
You made a difference in my life, and you still inspire me to follow my passion today.
Sunday
Standing in the driveway of my parents’ home, I take in the scene from the end of the cul-de-sac. Two-story brick homes, manicured lawns, and friendly smiles line each side of the beautiful street. Our neighbors are most likely enjoying a late Sunday afternoon with their families today.
I reminisce about the times my mother and I would take walks down this street, waving hello to friends or stopping to admire the new landscape in a neighbor’s yard. I loved those walks with my mother, like I loved the roses in Mrs. Harris’ yard. I used to clip a few in secret and bring them to my mother on hot summer days. It was peaceful. It was quiet. It was full of love.
Most of our neighbors assumed the inside of our home matched the demeanor of the neighborhood. Unfortunately, this was not so. One member of our family strived to make sure our existence was anything but peaceful and quiet.
“Liam, put me down! Softly!”
My brother laughs with enduring triumph. Flying swiftly through the air, I think of ways I can smack the smile off his face before I remind him there’s no trophy for scaring the crap out of me.
“I’m going to kill you!” I shout, brushing grass, dirt, and pride off my jeans.
“Not in front of Mom.” He smirks as he jogs into the house.
As she slowly steps up from the curb to join me, Caroline can’t take her eyes off the front door where my brother’s presence graced its opening.
“No way, Caroline. My brother is off-limits. He can’t even hold his own head on straight, much less manage a meaningful relationship.”
“You never told me he was a Chris Pine on the hotness scale.”
“Probably because he’s my brother, and Texas isn’t known for incest.”
My best friend, Caroline, is having dinner with my family for the first time tonight. We met during our freshman year of college on the East Coast. Caroline’s family lives near Seattle, so we were both far from home. Friendship came easily as we bonded over alcohol consumption, ridiculous roommates, and relationships with losers. We complemented each other with our differences.
Caroline—and I mean this in the best way—is completely full of herself. Of course, she has every right to be. She’s tall, gorgeous, and a natural blonde with clothes and shoes that fit perfectly over her size two body. Caroline would never be caught out of the house in her pajamas with frizzy hair.
On the other hand, if she ever saw me putting on makeup or doing my hair, she would assume aliens had inhabited my body. Most of the time, my hair is a dirty-blonde mess. Someone once told me that I have dishwater blonde hair. I’m not even sure what that means, but it doesn’t sound nice. I take every chance I get to throw my hair up in a ponytail or a quick bun. I wear worn blue jeans because they fit better than a new pair and simple tank tops or T-shirts with tennis shoes or flats in varying colors. I figure it’s best to keep it simple, so the struggle is minimal.
After graduation in May, Caroline and I moved into our apartment in Texas, which is about twenty-five minutes away from my parents. It’s far enough that I don’t have to deal with them unless I want to, but it’s still close enough to run home for the afternoon if Mom decides to fix my favorite dessert.
Before starting her job last week, Caroline went out of town with her family on one last vacation. They were in Hawaii for eight days, and Caroline’s deep tan gives away how much time she spent on the beach. I don’t think I’ll ever figure out how to not be jealous of the way her skin turns to olive perfection from the sun.
As we walk through the front door into the main hall of our large but quaint home, I smell childhood and innocence, also known as the sweet scent of pot roast combined with a hint of chocolate cake. Caroline keeps step with me as we enter the kitchen. My mom is bent over, pulling out her beautiful creation of chocolate moist goodness from the oven.
“Hey, Mom. Caroline and I made it. Do you need any help?”
“Sweet little June,” my mother says, “just take these potatoes to the table, and we’ll be ready to eat. Hi there, Caroline. So glad you’re here. I hope your first week of work went well.”
“Sure did, Mrs. Derkert. Thanks for having me over.”
Complete with a dollop of butter on top, the soft white mashed potatoes look heavenly. I hurry to the table, so I’m not tempted to make a pit stop at the kitchen island and eat them all.
The rest of my family is sitting around the dining room table. Made of dark wood and large oak planks, it’s centered in the room and covered with a purple tablecloth that reminds me of the lavender growing in our backyard. Beneath the tablecloth, the wood is marked and stained from childhood incidents. Solid and sturdy, the table is held together by the love, tears, and laughter shared over the years. The chairs surrounding it are filled with a caring and close family. This is how I imagine my mother sees our dining room table.
After twenty-four years of having more meals than I care to count at my parents’ table, I see it through a different set of lenses today. It is where my sister, Addison, can sit properly with her elbows off the table as she gloats about the perfection that is her life. It’s a place my brother can lean back in his chair, balancing it on two legs, as he swiftly speaks about his great new job or a steady girlfriend we’ve never met. It’s a space our father can lay down his rules on us kids while also giving our mother the much-needed attention and adoration she yearns for.
