Hitched (15 page)

Sebastian pulls me into a hug, but if he's expecting tears, he'll be disappointed. I have none in me.

"I can change a few things in my schedule and come with you," he says.

I adore him more than anything in that moment, but I say no. "Tate will be with me. And we weren't close to her. I'll just be gone a few days. Thank you, though, for the offer. I can't tell you what that means, knowing you'd drop everything to be there for me."

He strokes the side of my face with his hand, then kisses my forehead. "I'm always here for you."

It only takes me a few minutes to pack up my bag and change out of my pajamas. He walks me to my car, and we kiss again. I rest my hands on his chest, memorizing his face, sad that our weekend plans will have to wait. "I'll call you and let you know when I get there and where I'm staying."

"I'll be waiting for your call."

Tate and I say little during our hour-long drive from the airport in Cleveland to Mansfield. He offers to drive the rental, and I don't argue. I wonder how my mother is handling the death of her own mother. As much as I don't want to be home again, I also want to support my mom during what must be a painful time for her.

As we drive, I admire the beauty of Ohio. I couldn't wait to leave this place, but coming back, I have to admit that it has charm. Lush green, even in summer, and there are pastures and trees as far as the eye can see. It's so different from the concrete jungle of Las Vegas, and it brings up childhood memories of building forts and swimming in the lake near our house and cheering for our high school football team on crisp autumn nights.

We are nearly home, and Tate points out our old high school. I can see the stadium and remember my first kiss under those bleachers with Bradley Davis, the quarterback. Tate punched him in the face the next day when Bradley told everyone in the boy's locker room that he'd felt me up.

He hadn't.

After that, no one dared spread rumors about me, but it was a bit harder to get a date. Tate had that effect on potential male suitors.

Ah, memory lane.

"Do you think any of our old teachers still work there?" Tate asks as the school fades from view.

"Probably Mr. Schraeder. I don't think he'll ever retire his reign of terror on the children of Mansfield."

Tate chuckles. "Remember when his bald head turned red yelling at you for leaving class to pee? I thought he'd rupture an artery."

"I certainly hoped he would. It was so stupid. I was done with my test and had turned it in. It wasn't like I could cheat. And I was going to pee, one way or another. I just didn't want to do it on the floor in the classroom."

He turns right, and the houses look familiar. We're close. My palms are slick with sweat.

"I can't believe Mom grounded you for that," he says, frowning.

"Oh, you know our parents. Sticklers for the rules and respect. Heaven forbid a girl is in the right when a male teacher is wrong."

My phone beeps, and I check it, smiling.

Made it safe, I hope? Missing you.

Sebastian. My heart hurts at how much I already miss him.

Missing you too. Just getting to my parents house. Funeral is tomorrow at 2. We should be coming home Sunday.

Not sure I'll make it that long, but I'll try. Would it be inappropriate to say that I miss the feel of being inside of you?

A buzz of remembered pleasure courses through me.

Thanks for making me hot and bothered right before seeing my family for the first time in forever. I owe you for that.

If payment includes you being in my arms, I'll gladly accept it.

We pull into my parents’ driveway, and I take a deep breath and get out, stuffing my phone into my pocket.

It's the smell that hits me first. Too many flowers and the scent of casseroles. It smells like a funeral.

And it looks like old school country with floral everything and knick-knacks everywhere.

My mom comes out of the kitchen wearing an apron, her eyes red-rimmed but nothing else out of place. Her brown hair has faded, leaving more strands of grey than I remember seeing last time, and there are new lines on her face. I realize with shock that my mother is getting old. She smiles when she sees us. "My two long-lost prodigal children home at last."

"Hi Mom." I reach over to give her a hug. "How you holding up?"

She brushes aside my concern. "I'm fine of course. Your grandmother has been sick a long time. We knew it was coming. I just wish you could have come before she died. She would have liked to see you in the end."

I don't know how to reply to that so I don't say anything. Tate saves us from the awkward silence by offering his own hug and then rubbing his stomach. "It smells delicious in here. Any chance some of that food is for me?"

I roll my eyes at him when my mother turns away to lead us into the kitchen, but I follow, because I too could use something to eat.

"Where's Dad?" I ask, looking around. The kitchen hasn't changed at all. The red teapot is still on the same stove, with cast iron pots hanging over the island. The same maple oak table sits to the side, by the window, and I have a flash of sitting there with Tate and our sister Jessica, eating freshly baked cookies and drinking milk. I smile at the memory as we each sit where we always sat as a family, while my mother serves us lunch.

"He's around here somewhere," she says.

As if on cue, my dad comes in. He's a big man with a lot of meat on his bones, though not fat. He fills a room with his presence, and when he sees us, he grins. "Why didn't you tell me you were here!"

He kisses the top of my head, shakes Tate's hand and sits down next to us, waiting for his lunch.

My mom joins us last with her own plate. It's a casserole, of course, but it's good, and I have seconds.

They ask about our business and our lives. We keep our answers brief because they don't really want to know the details of what we do.

"And what about any men in your life, Kacie? I'd love some grandchildren before I'm too old to enjoy them, assuming you’d ever bring them to visit." My mom tries to say this lightly, but it comes out bitter.

"Why do you never ask Tate these questions? He's the same age as me and just as capable of making babies."

My mom collects our dirty dishes and begins washing them and putting them away. "Don't start, Kacie. We don't need your feminist nonsense this weekend. I just want to see you settled down and happy before it's my funeral you're all attending."

Dad looks away, clearly uncomfortable with all this “female emotion” as he always called it. Finally, he clears his throat. "Well, I'd best be getting back to work. Need to mow the lawn and clean up the yard a bit before the funeral tomorrow. Good seeing you kids."

That's my dad. Man of few words.

My mom's not done with us yet, though. "It's different for women, and you know it. Men have time. They don't dry up as fast as us. They don't lose what makes them attractive to the opposite sex. Women have to strike young, while the iron's hot, as they say. Before all the good men are taken, and you lose your looks and ability to get a man."

This is just too much. I can't believe this bullshit. "Because a guy is only going to be interested in me for my looks? Is that really the kind of man you want me to end up with?"

"Women need security in this world, honey. It's how we survive in a man's world."

I stand, ready to be done with this. "Or, we could change the game. Make it a world for both men and women. How about that?"

I don't even wait for her response; instead I head for the car to unload my bag and settle into my old room for two nights. I wanted to get a hotel, but Mom insisted we stay here. "Why waste the money when your old rooms are all set up and ready?"

I conceded only because Tate insisted it would be okay. That we were adults now, on our own, and so things would be different.

But life doesn't change in the Michaels house. That's becoming painfully clear.

***

I'm sitting in my old room, posters of outdated bands lining the walls, my dresser mirror covered in pictures from my senior year in high school. Nothing has changed.

I feel like I'm in a shrine to myself.

I sit at my old oak vanity and pull a picture from the glass. It sticks for a moment before giving way under my fingers. It wasn't so terribly long ago that I was this girl dressed in pink taffeta, smiling big for the camera with my prom date at my side.

He seemed so important to me at the time. That night seemed so important to me. I remember we all snuck liquor into our punch and danced until they turned out the lights and kicked us out. It was a themed dance—as they all were back then—Under the Sea, and being held in the gym. It smelled like a combination of old gym socks and Elmer’s glue. Everything sparkled.

We'd all chipped in and rented a hotel room for the after party, but somehow Lance and I got there first. I didn't lose my virginity that night—that would have been too cliché—but I'd come close. We ended up crossing that milestone a week later in the back of his old station wagon. I had bruises on my back the next day from the metal digging into me. It wasn't entirely pleasant, but it was done.

Sex has gotten a lot better since then. I have a theory that if your first time is in high school, or at least with a high schooler, it's bound to suck. Teenagers don't know what they're doing about much of anything, and sex is no exception.

I put the picture back in place, hiding the dust framed around it and explore the drawers and closets, marveling at what I considered cool to wear back then.

Tate walks in on me trying on the hideous taffeta gown from the picture.

"Nice look, sis. You heading to a blast-from-the-past party?" He closes the door and sits on the edge of my bed while I admire myself in the mirror.

"At least it still fits. The freshman fifteen didn't get me."

"And you look as glorious now as you did that night with, what was his name? Pants?"

I pick a stuffed animal from my corner dresser and throw it at him. "Lance. And I don't know why you were always such an ass to him."

"Because he was a tool. He probably still is. We could look him up while we're here, and you can see how he compares to Dr. Love. Who knows? Maybe you'll discover you've made a big mistake, and you really belong here, married to the new manager at Grease Monkey."

I try to imagine a universe in which that is my life, and the thought makes me shudder. "Turn around. I need to get out of this monstrosity."

He closes his eyes, and I peel the dress off and slip back into my own clothes before sitting on the bed next to him, both of us now leaning against the wall, our feet hanging off the side of the twin mattress covered in a lilac bedspread.

"So, how bad is it with Mom?"

He shrugs. "No worse than normal. Look, I know she's a pain in the ass, but give her a break, Kacie, she just lost her own mother. That can't be easy."

"Great, now I feel like an asshole for refusing to succumb to sexist bullshit." And I kind of do, except I'm not really sure what a proper response would have been. My mother and I are never going to agree on anything. Maybe I shouldn't have come.

I say as much to Tate, and he throws an arm over my shoulder. "I know she's glad you're here. Besides, we all need closure."

I lean my head against his shoulder and sigh. "You're right. You're a pain, but you're right."

"So, you planning on staying locked up in your room all night?" he asks, a mischievous look in his eyes.

"Well, it would be apropos of the old days, wouldn't it?"

"How about tonight we pretend to be adults and head out to those bars we could never get into when we were younger?"

I grin up at my brother, who suddenly seems so much smarter than I give him credit for. "Brilliant. And let's dress to the nines. Show Mansfield how people in Las Vegas like to party."

***

My mom nearly has a heart attack when we walk downstairs an hour later. I've got on a black leather mini-skirt and metallic silver tank top that doesn't cover much more than it has to. My hair is in a messy up-do, and my spiked heels scream “fuck me,” though of course there will be no fucking of anyone tonight, expect in my dreams. Tate looks just as seductive in his bad-boy clubbing outfit.

"You're not going out in public like that, young lady," my mom says.

I laugh, until I realize she's dead serious.

"Mom, I'm an adult."

"Staying under my roof," she reminds me.

"At your insistence. It's not too late for us to get a hotel. And staying here as guests doesn't put us under your rules. Not anymore."

I'm not backing down on this one, and I think she finally realizes that, because she shrugs, sighs, and does all manner of non-verbals to indicate just how very not okay she is with all of this before stomping into the kitchen. "Don't drink and drive," she hollers.