Pieces of Me (15 page)

Chapter 21

“
Are you hungry?” I ask him after we've been studying for a few hours.

             
Despite the fact that he hasn't even tried to kiss me again since New Year's Eve,  I notice that there is definitely more random accidental touching of my leg, or brushing his fingertips down my arm, or too many reasons for him to be up close and personal when I see him at work. I'm pretty sure he gets some sort of enjoyment from watching me blush and fluster at the slightest touch.

             
I've completely given up trying to pretend to be unaffected by him.  I think it was a lost cause the moment I basically admitted to only enrolling in another science class for the sole purpose of having an excuse for him to continue coming over regularly to ‘study’. 

             
“Yeah, did you want to order a pizza or something?”

             
“I was thinking pancakes.”
              “You can't really order a delivery of pancakes,” he points out with an amused grin.

             
“I wasn't going to order delivery. I was actually suggesting that we put the kitchen to good use. I don't think my stove has ever even been turned on.”

             
“Seriously?”

             
“Yeah. My mom would be so disappointed,” I say with a laugh.

             
“Is she the typical Susie Homemaker Farmer's wife?”

             
“Yes and no actually. I mean, she has a job. She's a therapist but she works out of our house so she gets to do both,” I explain. “She's a working woman but a homemaker at the same time. Does that make sense?”

             
“Yeah, that's actually pretty cool that she can do that.”
              “I guess so.” I shrug. “She tried to teach me how to cook and sew and make bread from scratch. You know, everything that a homemaker should know how to do, all the while drilling in my head the importance of going to college like she did. Like, she thinks that if she could do it all, I can do it too. The thing is, I have never been good at all that stuff. I can hardly use a sewing machine and knitting just frustrates me. I burn pretty much everything except pancakes and macaroni and cheese. I don't really like school all that much so I'm definitely not going to suffer through graduate school. So basically, I’m pretty much a lost cause. C'mon.”

             
I drag him into the kitchen with me.

             
Holden leans casually against the counter  watching me while I wash my hands at the sink. He's making me nervous so I avoid looking at him. My eyes find the black Subaru in the parking lot outside the window. It's sitting in the exact same spot it's been in since July. I laugh to myself because it suddenly occurs to me why my mom is the way that she is—the reason she is so hard on me. I shake my head and look back at Holden. “I'm probably such a huge disappointment to her.”

             
“I doubt that.”

             
I scoff, “Yeah, well, I suck at most things, but I can make amazing pancakes.” Then in mock-seriousness I add, “It's the one thing I can do well.”

             
“Teach me. Show me what you’ve got.”

             
I get out all of the ingredients along with a mixing bowl and set a pan on the stove. I talk Holden through each step and feel like I am the host of our own private cooking show; like a toned down version of Rachael Ray.             

             
We are making a mess all over the kitchen with flour and eggs in our effort to make the pancakes from scratch—which is turning out to be a lot messier than I remembered.

             
Holden shows off, trying to get all fancy with the spatula while attempting to flip the pancake in the air, but his aim sucks and most of the pancakes end up half in the pan, half on the stove top, and more than a few hit the floor.

             
“Okay I give up!” he says with a laugh.

             
“Let the master show you how it's done.” I take over and perfectly flip the pancake. “See? Told you I rock at pancakes.”

             
“Yeah, yeah.”  Holden washes his hands and then dries them on his shirt as he looks around at the giant mess that is now my kitchen. It's going to take longer to clean it up than it did to actually make the pancakes.

             
“I'm thinking next time we get the 'add-water only' mix from the store,” Holden says with a laugh.
              “Once you taste these, you'll never go back,” I assure him.
              “That better be true or this is way too much hassle for pancakes. Look at this place.” He gestures around the room with a look on his face that is equally amused and disgusted.
              “What? Don't like to get messy?” I scoop a handful of flour from the jar on the counter when he isn't looking and hold it behind my back.
              “It's not that. It's—” but he doesn't have a chance to finish his sentence before I fling the flour in his face. I can’t control the hysterical laughter that erupts from me at the sight of him standing there, his eyes scrunched shut tightly and his face covered in white. “Oh, you think that’s funny, huh? You are so about to get it.”
              “Bring it,” I taunt.
              He grabs an egg from the carton we left on the countertop and raises his eyebrows at me mischievously.
              “No.” I back away slowly and put my hand up to stop him. “That's so not even close to the same thing.”
              He tosses the egg up in the air casually, catching it with ease. “What? Don't like to get messy?”  he mocks me.
              “Holden—” I warn as I shift my body to the side with the intention of running past him and locking myself in the bathroom until he agrees to a truce but he blocks my path with ease. I shift to the opposite side but like synchronized dancing he matches my every move.
              “Holden,” I beg. “Please don’t! It will take forever to wash out of my hair!”
              He smiles wickedly at my pleading as he steps closer and closer until he's standing barely an inch in front of me. He leans down with a smoldering look in his eyes that causes my breath to catch in my chest. I find myself tilting my chin up slightly toward him, until his mouth is only a breath away—
              “Sorry, Smalls,” he whispers huskily. “You've left me no choice.”
              Before I can react, he reaches his hand behind me and smashes the egg on top of my head. I hear the crack of shell as he rubs it in for good measure causing the gooey slime to drip down my forehead and into my eyes.
              “Ew. This is so gross.”
              “You started it,” he says nonchalantly.
              I use the sleeve of my shirt to wipe away the grossness from my face.
              “Yeah, about that,” I say as I reach behind my back to the bowl of batter. “I always finish what I start.”
              With that I flick a spoonful of batter at his face but he is on to my game and moves away just in time so I barely manage to hit his shoulder. He's at the flour jar now, grabbing fistfuls and hurling them at me as I continue flicking the wet batter at him.
              We laugh hysterically as we continue to circle the kitchen attacking each other with the pancake ingredients.  I fling open the refrigerator door to try to use it as a shield but that just gives Holden more ammunition to fling back at me.
              “Okay! Fine! I give up!” I feign defeat.
              “So easily?” he mocks. He lowers his hands and I take advantage of the opening. I take the bottle of maple syrup and squeeze it like a water gun.
              The floor is slippery and we collide. He grabs me
around the waist as he starts to fall to the ground, bringing me down with him.
              He lands flat on his back, and I fall on top of him.
              “I think this means I win.” My  voice sounds strangled and out of breath but I don't think it's actually from the exertion of our food fight as much as it is from being this close to him.
              “I let you win,” he says, then adds with a sly smirk, “Of course, it’s obvious that I'm the real winner here.”
              I roll my eyes as I climb off of him and offer my hand to help pull him up. He's a lot bigger than me though and we almost stumble to the ground again but he recovers and manages to keep his footing this time.
              “I guess we should we clean up?”
              “Nah, eat first. Clean later.”
              We devour the delicious pancakes and Holden admits that he will never be able to eat pancakes from a box again. We're almost finished cleaning up the kitchen when he pulls himself up to sit on the counter.
              “So um, my birthday is coming up next month,” he says.

             
“Oh yeah?”

             
“Yeah, I was thinking about having a few people over to my house for a bonfire or something.”

             
“I didn't know you East Coast boys knew what a bonfire was,” I tease him.

             
“If you remember correctly, I might have grown up here but I was born and bred in the Midwest.”

             
“Yeah, yeah. Kansas City hardly makes you a country boy. Is it even going to be cold enough for an authentic bonfire?”

             
“Is that a requirement?”

             
“I think so.”

             
“We should be good then. The days will be nice, but the nights will still be cool enough through April,” he says. “Anyway, I was wondering if you'd want to come.”

             
“Sure.” I point to the calendar on the wall. “There are sharpies in the drawer. Mark the date.”

             
He opens the drawer and laughs. “How many different color sharpies does a person need?”

             
“Each color means something different. Blue means tests, green means work, orange means important events, etc.”

             
“What are the other colors for?”

             
“I don't know yet but they're there just in case I think of something good. Or in case I ever mysteriously develop something resembling a social life.”
              “Well, I'm going to circle March 14
th
in bright red then. Red means Holden.” He takes the red sharpie and circles three or four times and then writes in big letters that overlap the surrounding dates 'Holden's 22
nd
birthday' with smiley face exclamation marks.

             
“Why red?” I shake my head  and laugh at his over-exuberance.

             
“Red's my favorite color.”

             
“You're such a girl.”

             
“What? You don't have a favorite color?” he asks as he flips the page  again to April and circles the 5
th
in the same fashion.

             
“What's that?” I ask.

             
“That's opening day of Movies in the Park and I'm insisting that you go with me. Front row.”
              “I don't know Holden. It didn't exactly work out the last time I tried that.”

             
“Yeah, but things are different now, right?”

             
“Mmm,” I say noncommittally. I turn my attention back to the pancakes because I'm not exactly sure how I want to answer that. Are things different now? I think so. But just thinking that still makes me feel uncomfortable.

             
“So what is it?”

             
“What's what?”

             
“What's your favorite color?”

             
“Um, well, I guess, blue.” I blush even though he has no way of knowing why I chose it.

             
But as I look into his very blue eyes, I can't deny the reason behind the change. My favorite color used to be pink.

             
I can't shake the feeling that I'm somehow cheating on Sean by having these feelings for Holden and I know that's stupid. But it doesn't change the way I feel about it. I can acknowledge that, yes, everything has definitely changed. I just haven't figured out how I feel about that yet.

Chapter 22

Holden didn't tell me where he lived but I assumed it was somewhere close to campus, so I'm surprised when we end up just outside the city limits where all the houses look like mansions and are spaced far enough from each other that it's almost like not having any neighbors at all.

             
In the time that I've lived here, I've noticed that there are several layers of wealth in Kensington. The middle class neighborhoods are scattered throughout the town but the upper class had three distinct neighborhoods on the outskirts: the rich, the richer, and the richest. From the looks of the outside of it, Holden’s house happened to be one of the richest of the rich.  Apparently the coffee house business was more lucrative than I imagined.

             
The front of the house has a circular driveway that leads up to a wide front porch complete with pillars that remind me of the capitol building in DC. I had visited there in the eighth grade over Spring Break. It was cold, but pretty. I'm a bit of a history nerd so I hope to go back there some day. I love how all the buildings echo the architecture of Rome.  A trip to Italy is on my bucket list.

             
Holden pulls into a winding side driveway that leads back to a massive garage.
              He parks his motorcycle and helps me off the back. I take my helmet off and look around.  There are several classic, obviously expensive, cars parked inside that look to be in pristine condition.  There's a cherry red Chevy truck, an orange Dodge Charger with white racing stripes along the sides, a shiny teal Camaro and a baby blue Mustang convertible; all in perfect condition.
              “Um, Holden? Who do these all belong to?”
              “Um, well, I guess these all belong to Mom now. Gramps had a thing for old cars.” He shrugs. “He was in the middle of rebuilding the Chevelle for me when he died.”
              He points over to the familiar blue car that I nicknamed the Piece of Crap. I feel like a big jerk for calling it that now knowing the full story behind it.  The fabric seats that are fraying and the back seat that is ripped all to hell are the least of this car's problems. 
              “You and your mom live here all alone?”
              “Yeah. We moved in when Gran got sick.”
              “Oh. Can I ask what happened?”
              “Cancer. It was terminal by the time the doctors found it. She died 6 months after her diagnosis. Gramps followed shortly after that.”
              There are so many things I want to say to him—just how sorry I am for his loss being at the top of the list. I know he must've been very close to his grandparents. All I can manage to get out of my mouth is, “Oh.”              
              “Yeah.” He runs his hand through his hair the way he does when he is nervous or uncomfortable or doesn't really know what else to say. I reach out and give his hand a comforting squeeze. He raises his left eyebrow and his crooked grin displays his one and only dimple as he says, “Do you want the tour?”
             
I nod and he motions with his head for me to follow him through the french doors on the side of the house that lead into the kitchen. 
              The kitchen is state of the art, complete with stainless steel appliances, dark cherry cabinets and granite countertops. There is a long bar separating the kitchen from the living room. A breakfast nook sits beneath a wide, bay window with bench seating. There's a formal dining room complete with a buffet table.
              The living room features brown leather couches with coordinating twin recliners. A double sided fireplace is shared between the dining room and living room. Two spiral staircases lead to the second floor where four bedrooms are located, all with their own bathroom. A room that could be either an office or a library must sit directly above the kitchen's breakfast nook because it has a similar bay window.  All the rooms upstairs look completely unlived in and for some reason that makes me sad.
              “That door leads to my mother's room. It's the same one that she grew up in. Even after her parents died she didn't want to move into the master bedroom. I guess she isn't really here enough to make it her own anyway.” He shrugs it off like it's no big deal but it must be lonely being by himself in this huge house all the time.
              “Where's your bedroom?” I ask.
              “It's in the basement.”
              “There's a basement?!” I ask shocked that there's more to this already massive house.
              “Follow me.”
              He leads me back down to the kitchen, through a mudroom, and down the hardwood stairs leading to the basement. The basement appears to have just as much space as the first story. There's an additional living area, a rec room complete with weights and a flat screen television mounted on the wall, and two more bedrooms, each with their own bathroom. Apparently Holden's family likes their own space.
              “This one is mine.” He holds the door open and gestures me inside.
              The navy walls are plastered with vintage rock'n'roll posters. A king-sized bed with a black headboard sits in the middle of the room. There is a neat and tidy computer desk in the corner that matches the finish of the bed. One entire wall serves as a display for an extensive movie collection and a floor to ceiling bookcase is filled with a variety of older looking books mixed in between some more recent releases.
              “Well, what do you think?”
              “It's cleaner than I was expecting.”
              He laughs and the sound of it makes me smile in return.
              I walk over to the bookcase and begin running my fingers across the titles when I hear the chime of a doorbell echo through the house.
              “I'll be right back.”
              He runs up the stairs to answer the door just as I find what I'm looking for—
The Princess Bride
.  I smile as I pull the book out gingerly.  When I open it up, a picture flutters to the floor. He must have been using it as a bookmark. I reach down to pick it up and as I slip it back into the book I get a closer look at the photo and suddenly the world spins and my blood runs cold.  It's a picture of a little boy, with unmistakable blue eyes sitting on the shoulders of a man I know. A man whose picture I stared at blankly for months and months while waiting to hear whether he would be convicted of manslaughter.
              A man who changed my world forever the night he decided to drink and drive.
              The book falls out of my hands and hits the floor at my feet with a loud thud as the pieces click in place. Holden told me he was born near Kansas City before he and his mom moved back out to the East Coast. What were the chances given our entwined past, that we would ultimately end up in the same small town a thousand miles from home and that fate would throw us together like some sick cosmic joke?
              “Hey, everyone's here—” Holden says as he comes back in his room. When he sees my face he asks, “Are you okay?”
              “No.”
              “What's wrong?”
              “I don't want to talk about it.”
              “Did I do something?”
              “No.”
              “Aria, what's wrong?”
              “Nothing—everything!” I hold the picture up. “Do you know who this man is?” I demand.
              “Of course I do. It's my dad. Why?”
              “What's his name?” I ask hoping that maybe I'm completely wrong, that it's just a doppelganger but I know in my heart that I am right.
              “Why do you want to know that?” he asks carefully.
              “Because I want to know if I'm right. Is this man John Davis?”
              “Yes,” he says quietly. His face has become expressionless and suddenly it occurs to me why.
              “You know don't you?” I accuse. He flinches slightly and I know I'm right. “You know.”
              “Yeah, I know.”
              If there was ever a good time to get over my anxiety of driving, now would be it because the sudden rush of fight or flight takes over and I'm inclined to take flight, but with no means of getaway, I resort to the only other option. I slap him across the face.
              “Why the hell didn't you tell me?” My hand stings from the abrupt contact and his cheek is red with my hand print.
              “I didn't know how!” His voice finally has some emotion back in it. “What was I supposed to say? 'Hey, Aria, I really like you and I would love to take you out and get to know you better, but first you should know that my scum bag of a sperm donor was the drunken asshole that killed your boyfriend. How's Friday?'”
              “That would've been better than not telling me!” I scream at him. “At least then I'd know you were honest!”
              “I didn't lie to you!”
              “No what you did was worse. How long have you known?”
              “A while.”
              “How long?” I persist. He takes too long to answer me so I yell louder. “Dammit, tell me!”
              “My mom figured it out. She's known since the day she met you but she only told me when she got home from France before she left for Mexico. You were home for Thanksgiving.”
              I can't tell if he's more hurt by his flighty mother holding out on him or if he's really upset that I now know the truth but at the moment, I'm finding it difficult to feel sorry for him.               “How?”
              “She recognized your name. She looked it up and confirmed that it was you. She told me that I should either tell you who I was or stay away from you.  But I couldn't do that. I didn't know how to tell you and staying away from you would never be an option.  So I just foolishly hoped that it would never come up. It's not like I have a relationship with the guy, Aria.”
              “You've known all this time? All these months? And you never said a word? How could—”
              “Hey, we heard shouting,” Olivia says as she peeks her head into the room. “What's up?”
              “Nothing, can you take me home?”
              “Right now? But—” I shoot her a meaningful look and she stops and says. “Yeah, okay, let's go.”             
              “Aria, what happened?” she asks as soon as she pulls into the parking lot. “Please just talk to me.”
              I know that if I say the words out loud, I will break and if I'm going to break, I'd rather be alone in my room where no one else has to see my pain.
              Olivia pulls into the parking lot of my complex.  “Thanks for the ride,” I manage to choke out before I sprint up the stairs to my apartment without looking back.
              Holden's dad. He doesn't even know his father—he made that much clear before. But that doesn't change the fact that his dad killed my boyfriend. I don't even know what to think or how to feel. I just want to be alone and take time to process all this.
              All I know is that all those fairy tales I read as a kid totally screwed me over. They don't prepare you for what happens to the princess when her prince dies. In real life there is no waking up from a coma with a simple kiss, or clapping three times to make everything magically okay again. People say fairy tales give girls a false perception of love, but I think they give you a false perception of life. Because, let's face it, reality is not always sunshine and rainbows. But I guess nobody wants to read the story about how the princess tries to move on with her life after her fairy tale ends.              
              Well, screw you happily-ever-after.