Damaged In-Law (3 page)

“We may have known each other a long time,” he goes on, as
the sliver of air between us crackles with anticipation, “But there are still a
few sides of me you haven
’
t seen, Callie. They might surprise
you.”

“
Well...I
’
ve
always loved surprises,” I breathe, my eyes flicking down to his perfect mouth.
I can feel my face tilting up towards his as if of its own accord.

“That so?” he says, that lopsided grin blossoming across his
face.

I gasp as I feel his thickly muscled arm circle the small of
my back, tugging me against his firm body. My hands press against the smooth
panes of his chest as every inch of me that touches him sparks with electric
excitement.
Holy shit. This is it
! I think to myself, staring up in
wonder as Jack
’
s lips move ever-so-slightly toward mine. I
let my eyes close, readying my heart and mind to record every single detail of
this perfect moment...

“WHAT
’
S UP, BITCHES!” sings a loud,
tipsy voice as the second set of doors at the other end of the balcony clatter
open.

I spring away from Jack, totally disoriented by the
interruption. All of the anticipation, the delight, and the desire that raced
through my veins just a moment ago is replaced with weary, begrudging
irritation. My sister Avery sways in her own bedroom doorway—of course we share
this balcony between us—clutching a bottle of vodka by the neck and grinning
mischievously. Despite the fact that we
’
re identical
twins, Avery always manages to look more put together than me, even
one-too-many drinks in. Where my dirty blonde hair is piled in a pageant girl
up-do, her dyed-platinum locks hang in sexy, tousled waves. Where my makeup is
prim and girlish, hers is smoky and mature. And of course, where my body is
skinny and unremarkable from hours spent with my nose in a book, hers is toned
and muscular from hours spent cheerleading at Jack
’
s
football games.

Our superficial differences have never really gotten under
my skin all that much. But her penchant for playing the golden child for our
parents while sneaking into the liquor cabinet? That gets a little old.
Especially when they assume that I
’
m the one who
’
s nipping drinks, being the “rebellious” one and all. How many
times have I wanted to shout at them, “The most rebellious thing I
’
ve done is plan on voting democrat and having a career in the
arts! It
’
s your
good
daughter who
’
s
boozing it up and giving backseat blow jobs.”

But of course, I
’
d never throw Avery
under the bus like that. Being curious about sex, booze, and drugs is pretty
standard sixteen-year-old fare. But her insistence on hiding those parts of
herself, out of shame or fear of punishment, makes it hard for her to
experiment carefully. And it makes it damn near impossible for me to protect
her from going overboard. The best I can do is hold back her hair, Google
hangover cures, and cover for her whenever our parents hound me for details of
her whereabouts. I mean, isn
’
t that what sisters are for?

“
I am
so
pissed at you two,”
Avery says now, taking a staggering step onto the icy balcony. Jack
instinctively offers an arm to keep her from falling on her ass. Giggling,
Avery accepts his steadying embrace, tucking herself into the crook of his arm.

“What terrible thing did we do now?” Jack asks, gazing down
at the top of Avery
’
s bobbling, platinum head.

“You
left
me in there!” she says, feigning outrage,
“You left me to fend for myself in that pit of bald heads and Botox.”

“Well, you managed to escape,” I reply, easing the vodka
bottle out of her manicured hand. I help myself to a swig of the smooth, clear
liquor. My nerves are feeling a little frayed after that near-kiss with Jack.
Nothing like that has ever happened between us before. And thanks to Avery
’
s sudden entrance, there
’
s a pretty good
chance that it’ll never happen again.

But I can
’
t much blame her for needing
some liquid courage and an escape plan from the party inside. My parents, in
their ignorance, have once again invited a certain guest that Avery and I would
prefer never to see again in our lives. A friend of theirs
’
who
gave me and my sister our first lesson in not trusting the world around us. But
of course, Howard and Sylvia would have no way of knowing about our more
painful memories. They
’
d have to pay any attention at all
to be privy to that knowledge.

“How
’
re you guys doing that
spinning
thing?” Avery slurs, her eyes going wide as she looks back and forth between
us. “
I don’
t like it...It
’
s making me
dizzy. I...I don
’
t feel so great.”

“Come on Ave,” Jack says, his voice softening as he holds Avery
up. “Let
’
s get you into bed, OK?”

Those two have known each other just as long as me and Jack,
of course. It
’
s so confusing, but the compassion and care
he shows to Avery only make me like him more...even if it
’
s
becoming increasingly obvious that I
’
m not the sister who
’
s going to be spending much time in his arms.

Gently, Jack guides Avery back inside, stealing one last
glance at me over his shoulder. His expression is fixed into a cool mask. Is
that regret I see, at missing out on our moment alone? Or pity, at my deluded
desire for him? I feel like an open book whenever Jack looks at me. But to me,
he
’
s completely unreadable. Sighing as they disappear into
the house, I turn back toward the grounds and take another deep drink.

“Happy birthday to me,” I mutter into the silent, freezing
night.

Chapter Three

Present Day

The harsh fluorescent lights in the motel bathroom are doing
nothing to help my tear-soaked, totally exhausted appearance. My eyes are puffy
from crying, my hair is piled into a messy bun, and I have no idea how I
’
m going make myself look halfway decent for the day ahead. I
smile wryly as I realize that today is February 14th. Valentine
’
s
Day. Leave it to my parents to schedule their daughter
’
s
memorial service on what is supposedly the most romantic day of the year.
Though, considering the fact that their hearts have been frozen solid as long
as I
’
ve known them, I shouldn’t be surprised.

My mother threw a fit yesterday when I arrived in town and
promptly found a cheap motel room for the weekend. I can
’
t
help but replay the scene in my mind
’
s eye. I
’
d stopped by my childhood home to see if there was anything I
could do to help, and watched Mom
’
s eyes bug out of her
head when I informed her I wouldn’t be staying the night.

“A motel? Are you angling for a case of Hepatitis?” she
scoffed.

“Mom, I lived in a motel for a month when I first moved out,”
I reminded her, “And a college dorm for the next four years, which was about
five times more of a wreck than your average motel room.”

“Well, that
’
s what you get for going to
a state school,” she sniffed, turning back to her guest list for the memorial
service reception. “If you
’
d gone to Sarah Lawrence, or
Wellesley, or anywhere halfway decent—

“
Mom, don’
t. Not now,” I reply wearily.
“Just give me something to do, OK? How can I help you?”

She raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow at me, her blonde
bob unmoving. “You
could
have helped by picking your sister up out of
the gutter before it was too late,” she said evenly.

“Avery was not in the gutter,” I snapped, “She
’
d
been struggling with substance abuse since we were kids.”

“That
’
s not true,” Mom replied.

“It is true, whether you choose to believe it or not,”
I insist,
“And this is exactly why I have long since given up
telling you anything at all about my life. You refuse to hear—”

“Calista, I have quite a bit left to do in preparation for
the service tomorrow,” she cut me off. “If you insist on staying in some
flea-bitten hovel, I
’
d prefer that you get a move on and
leave me to my work.”

It probably goes without saying that I didn’t get a “happy
birthday” out of her before I stormed back to my car and hit the road.

Running the motel room shower now, I let an empty sigh
escape my lips. I made up my mind a long time ago not to expect anything from
my mother and father. But I suppose some small part of me had hoped that they
would be different, in the wake of Avery
’
s death. Silly
me. Not even death can sway the resolve of Howard and Sylvia Benson.

I step into the scalding shower, savoring the sting of the
hot water against my tired skin. My body has filled out some since I was a
scrawny sixteen-year-old, but I
’
m still petite at 5
’
4” and 115 pounds. I
’
ve always loved my
soft curves, and cared for my body with yoga and long hikes along the Hudson. I
’
m not much of a gym rat, but I feel comfortable in my skin.

Avery was always the real fitness nut. Though “fitness” was
never really her goal. It broke my heart to know how much she loathed her own
form, the body we had in common. Since we were teenagers, she
’
d
been punishing herself with extreme diets, hours spent in the gym, and any sort
of substance that would “keep the weight off”. I learned from my mother that
this is what had led to her death—a fateful combination of narcotics and
alcohol. Despite my mom
’
s claims, I myself had no idea how
bad off Avery really was, at the end. We
’
d grown further
apart than I ever could have imagined by the time she passed away. I wonder if
I
’
ll ever be able to forgive myself for that.

I dress for my sister
’
s memorial
service in silence, choosing the only clean black dress I could find in my
apartment. As I slip into the garment and look myself over in the mirror, I
feel the breath rush out of my lungs. All at once, I remember where this dress
came from—it
’
s the same one I borrowed from Avery on the
night of our sweet sixteen. It
’
s been hanging in the back
of my closet, following me around from motel, to dorm, to apartment like some
kind of spirit. As if it was just waiting for this day to finally arrive.

If I
’
m completely honest, I
’
m sure that there are plenty of people who would have predicted
Avery
’
s far too early death. The gossip blogs have been
quick to point that out. But today, I resolve to not think of Avery as a tragic
almost-starlet, the way the rest of the world has been quick to do. I
’
ll hold her in my heart as the bright, sensitive, determined
girl she really was. Even if I—and maybe Jack—were the only ones to ever see
that side of her.

With my jaw set, I swipe on a quick coat of deep scarlet
lipstick, grab my purse, and set off for St. Gregory
’
s
Church. I try to keep my eyes on the road, ignoring the familiar contours of my
hometown of old. Remembering everything that happened here would be far too
painful a task to take on today.

The air that fills the church is heavy with the sickly scent
of lilies. As I step inside St. Gregory
’
s and spot the
abundant bouquets of Avery
’
s least-favorite flower, I know
at once that she would have hated everything about this service. Thank god she
at least got her wish of being cremated, rather than buried in this terrible
town. I
’
m sure that
’
s the one part of
this whole charade that wouldn’t have disgusted her. My suspicions are
confirmed as I watch all of our parents
’
friends fill the
pews from my place in the first row.

Avery hated all of these people, and everything they
stood for,
I think angrily, wondering if my mother bothered inviting any of
Avery
’
s actual friends, or anyone who wasn’t abjectly
terrible to her in life. And despite myself, I can
’
t help
wondering as the guests stream in whether or not Jackson Cole will be here today.
He and Avery were engaged, after all—a fact that still boggles my mind. They
were close friends, but I never would have pegged either of them as the kind to
get hitched. But then, I haven
’
t known anything about
their lives these past few years apart from what the gossip blogs have reported
on.

My musings cut off abruptly as an unsightly burst of straw
yellow hair catches my eye at the back of the church. A cold surge of anger
freezes the blood in my veins as I whip around in my seat, hoping that my eyes
have deceived me. But no, it
’
s really him. Daryl Hellman,
the one person I have ever truly despised in my life, is shaking my father
’
s hand and giving my mother his condolences. I haven
’
t seen the man in a decade, and it hasn
’
t
been a good decade for him. His wrinkled skin is tanned a hideous shade of
orange, which clashes with the artificial yellow of his hair. He may have had
the audacity to come here, but that doesn’t mean he
’
ll be
staying for long. Not if I can help it.

Without pausing for a second thought, I stand and march
toward the back of the church, intent on intercepting Daryl Hellman before he
can take another step. I step up to him as he makes small talk with another old
fogey friend of my parents
’
. My hand closes in a vice grip
around his once-muscular arm, now gone flabby. He turns to face me, and I watch
as his eyes flare with agitated recognition.

“Why, Calista,” he says, fighting to keep his expression
neutral. “I had no idea you
’
d be here today.”

“It
’
s my sister
’s
memorial
service” I reply bluntly, tightening my grasp on his arm and discreetly turning
him back toward the exit, “And it
’
s time you were going.”

“Now, wait just one minute,” he chuckles lightly, unwilling
to draw attention to the scene in the making. “Your parents are some of my
oldest friends. I have to pay my respects to—”

“
Respect?
” I hiss sharply,
wrenching the man back through the church doors and out onto the now-deserted
front steps. “I didn
’
t think you were familiar with the
word.”

“Enough with the hysterics,” Daryl sighs wearily, “Don
’
t be so unreasonable.”

“
I don’
t think it
’
s
unreasonable to ask the man who made a habit of molesting my sister to kindly
leave her goddam memorial service.” I tell him evenly.

I watch his Adam
’
s apple bob as he
swallows hard. “Let
’
s leave ugly words out of this,” he
says sternly.

“Oh? What sort of words would you prefer?” I ask, my voice
growing louder as resentment rises like bile in my throat. “Sexual assault?
Child abuse? Pedophile?”

“Keep your voice down, Calista,” he commands, glancing toward
the Church pews, packed with his friends and associates.

“My name is
Callie
,” I all but spit, “And you are out
of your fucking mind if you think I
’
m letting you back in
that church.”

Daryl Hellman gives me a long, searching look. He knows I have
him beat. I know far too much about him, about the things he did to my sister
when she was just a kid. The things he tried to do to me, too. Of course, my
parents
’
set would never believe me if I ever came forward
about his crimes, but Daryl doesn’t know that. I watch the fight go out of his
body, his shoulders slumping pathetically.

“I need to get back inside now,” I say, trying to keep the
tears out of my voice, “If I see you lurking around here again—”

“Alright,
alright
. I
’
m going,”
he grumbles, scowling at me. “You
’
ve become a bit of a
bitch, haven
’
t you?”

“That
’
s right,” I reply with a cold
smile, “Now get out.”

Before Daryl can respond, I watch his eyes flick up over my
shoulder, going wide as he spots something behind me. Or rather,
someone
.

“Is there a problem here?” a familiar, rich voice inquires.
The question is loaded like an unholstered revolver. And I know without looking
who it is with his finger on the trigger.

Jack
.

The sudden nearness of him makes my head spin as I turn
around and take in the sight of Jackson Cole standing before me, towering over
my petite frame as ever. But though I
’
ve seen pictures of
him since we parted ways nearly ten years ago, watched from afar as he grew
from a strapping boy into a staggering Adonis, nothing could have prepared me
for seeing him in the flesh again. He
’
s impossibly
beautiful, his dark blue eyes overflowing with grief, his stubbly jaw pulsing
in anger at the sight of Daryl Hellman.

“I asked you a question,
Mr
. Hellman,” Jack says
through clenched teeth, wringing every ounce of ire out of the man
’
s title.

“There
’
s no problem,
”
Daryl replies shortly, trying in vain to imbue his exit with a scrap of
dignity. “Not unless you count Miss Benson
’
s attitude,
that is.”

“I
’
d advise you to stop right there,” I
snap.

“Yeah. I second that,” Jack puts in, his hands balling into
fists.

Tail wedged firmly between his legs, my sister
’
s
abuser finally scampers away. I watch him go, willing my heart to quit
pounding. Is it my confrontation with Daryl or the presence of Jackson Cole
that has my blood racing so? One thing
’
s for sure—seeing
my one-time friend and hopeless crush is throwing me for the loop to end all
loops.

Jack swings his gaze my way, shoving his hands deep into his
pockets. Of course, my eyes skirt down along his impeccable form. His charcoal
suit is cut to perfection, showcasing the perfectly balanced, muscular figure
that I—and scores of women around the world—can
’
t help but
ogle.