Waking Up to Love (6 page)

“Then why do you look so distracted?” Quinn asked.

Scott ignored the question. His coworkers knew that he missed his wife, that he was embarrassed by her sudden disappearance, that he—well, that his life was not turning out the way he'd hoped. They knew all of that, so he shouldn't have to keep repeating himself. Besides, he finally wasn't thinking about Nessa. This was a good distracted, not a bad distracted.

Quinn raised his eyebrow. He was in his mid-sixties, and had more life experiences under his belt than the rest of them combined. He knew when something was off. “No!” Quinn shouted. “No, no, no! This isn't about your mom. It's Nessa, isn't it?”

“What?” Miguel asked. He had no idea who Nessa Scapizi was. He'd started working with Scott after the marriage fiasco.

“She came back, didn't she?” Quinn asked, his bushy mustache shaking in the wind. “That's what's got you all messed up!”

“It's not that,” Scott said.

“You sure?” Quinn said. “The last time you looked like that … well …”

“She's gone!” Scott shouted. “She's not coming back. It has nothing to do with Nessa.”

“But …” Terry said. Everyone knew there was a “but.”

“But … her twin sister Ramona is pretending to be her,” Scott answered. “At least until Mom is well enough to learn the truth about … everything.”

The three guys stared at Scott.

“I thought I could handle it, but … I don't know. It's just weird.”

No one said anything for a long time. Then Quinn snorted and Miguel mumbled, “Ay ya,” under his breath.

“Dude, that's really freaking weird,” Terry said.

Miguel laughed and slapped Scott on the back. “I have no idea what's going on,” he said, “but this sounds like one of my mom's
telenovelas
.”

Quinn and Terry joined in on the laughter. The only one who remained stone-faced was Scott. He was embarrassed by this whole conversation, and he wished that they could just do their jobs in silence. He hated that Quinn could read him so well, but he hated himself even more for
letting
Quinn read him. Why couldn't he just pull his mind out of the clouds and get back to work?

Pretty soon, all three BLM guys were staring at Scott again.

“Hey, man,” Miguel said. “We're joking. You don't have to—”

Quinn cut him off. “You're okay, right?” he said.

Scott looked away.

“Dude!” Terry said. “You can't get hung up on What's-Her-Name. That's just not right.”

Miguel nodded. “Yeah. My
abuela
had a saying. Every time she caught me chasing after a girl that was clearly not interested, she would whack me across the head and say,
‘Mijo. Eres un estúpido. Piñas que no son las uvas.'
”

“Deep, man,” Terry said. “What does that mean?”

Miguel shrugged. “Dunno. Don't speak Spanish. For me, though, it was more about getting whacked in the head. And it worked.”

Scott wanted to tell Miguel that he'd probably gotten whacked in the head one too many times, but he didn't want to prolong the conversation. Besides, they were right. Scott was acting very
estúpido
. He didn't love Ramona; he didn't even think of her in those terms. They were friends. That was it. But it didn't change the fact that he was—distracted.

“Guys, I'm fine,” Scott finally said. “This Ramona situation will be over in a week or two.”

“I hope you're right,” Quinn said. “I'd hate to see you get your heart broken by
both
twins.”

• • •

Ramona set the last of the decoration boxes onto Debra's bedroom floor. A loud cracking noise came from inside one of the boxes.

I hope that wasn't something valuable,
she thought.
Also, I hope Debra didn't hear.

She'd spent the last half hour hauling these boxes from their dusty corner of the attic. She still had plenty of time before the Welcome Back party, but Debra wanted to get things rolling.

“Thanks so much,” Debra said. She probably didn't hear the crack.

“No problem, Debra.” Now that the heavy lifting was over, Ramona took the opportunity to gaze around the room. Debra's bedroom was remarkably unchanged: the same duck wallpaper (courtesy of her late husband), the same antique furniture, the same woody smell.

Ramona couldn't remember the last time she'd been up in Debra's room. It must've been years, probably not since third grade, when she and Nessa sneaked in and tried on Debra's old perfume. That was one of the only times she'd ever seen Debra get mad at her. At the time, she swore to herself that she would never make Debra McInney angry again.

Ramona loved this house. There was no other way to say it. She loved this house more than any other place in the world. More than Disneyland. As a kid, this was her haven. Most nights, while her parents were busy shouting and throwing plates, Ramona and her sister came here to escape. The place felt magical and grand, even though it wasn't.

When she was six, Ramona started calling it McInney Manor. Debra liked that name, mostly, she said, because she was so impressed that a six-year-old knew the word “manor.” And throughout the years, that name stuck. It had two stories, a grand staircase, and a sprawling yard, but no one would mistake this for a manor. It was a house, a decidedly middle-class house.

But to Ramona—

To Ramona, this was a manor.

She ran her fingertips along the wooden walls. So many memories here.

“Are those the last of the boxes?” Debra asked.

“I think so,” Ramona answered. “Should we start going through them?”

Debra sighed. She was a strong woman, and she hated to admit weakness. “Not today,” she said. “I think that can wait till tomorrow.”

Ramona glanced at the pile of unopened boxes sitting in the middle of the bedroom. Surely there was a better place to keep them. Where they were, anyone could trip over them.

Maybe she should just drag them into the corner of the room. Ramona reached for the closest one.

“Leave them be,” Debra ordered. “They can wait till tomorrow.”

“Sorry,” Ramona mumbled.

“How's your sister?” Debra asked. She always had the amazing ability to change the subject at the drop of a hat.

For one horrifying second, Ramona thought that she was asking about Nessa.
Does she know? Is she testing me?
Then Ramona realized, with a loud gulp, that Debra still thought she was talking to Nessa.

“Ramona?” Ramona said.

“That's the only sister you have,” Debra said. “You two were always so much alike. I could never tell you apart.”

That's for sure.

Ramona sat on the edge of the bed. “Ramona is … she's fine.”

Debra cocked an eyebrow. “You don't sound so sure of that.”

“No, no. She's fine. Period. Full stop. She really wants to visit once you get a little better.”

Debra smiled. “Tell her anytime. I'm not going anywhere.”

“Good to hear,” Ramona said.

“And Nessa?” she added. “Don't ever tell her what I told you on your wedding night.”

Ramona's heart raced. Her veins jump-roped in her chest.
Don't ever tell her what I told you on your wedding night?
What could Debra possibly have said? What kind of secrets were they keeping from her?

Debra could read the confusion in her face, so she said, “You know, about Scott.”

Is it bad? Is this the reason Nessa ran off without saying anything?

“You don't remember, do you?” Debra asked.

“That whole night was such a blur,” Ramona answered.

Debra gestured for Ramona to scoot closer. She did.

“Oh, honey,” the older woman said. “You were such a bundle of nerves. You needed someone to talk to, and it meant so much that you decided to talk to me. But I thought it was strange that you didn't want to talk to your sister.”

“That
was
strange,” Ramona said. After all, she was the maid of honor. She was the identical twin, for crying out loud! She should've known that her sister was having cold feet.

“But I knew the reason,” Debra said. “Right away, I knew. And I'm going to tell you now what I told you then: Scott made his choice. He loves you. Sure, he has a special place in his heart for Ramona, but you're the one he chose. Ramona is his best friend, but you're his wife. And that's all that matters.”

Debra laid it out so plainly. And just like that, Ramona felt the world crash all around her. She'd felt this way when Nessa told her about the engagement. She'd felt this way during the wedding itself. And she felt this way now, when her would-be mother-in-law told her that she was the other one, the unloved one.

This was so much information. She wanted to get it straight. “So
I
told you that I was worried that Scott had feelings for Ramona,” she said.

“Yes.”

“And that was the reason I was having cold feet?”

“That and the fact that you two had only been dating for a month,” Debra said, not in a judgmental way. “Seriously, dear, are you testing my memory or what?”

Ramona didn't want to sound suspicious, so she decided not to ask any more questions. “No. Sorry. And that is good advice,” she said. She felt tears well up in her eyes. She smiled, trying to make them seem like happy tears.

“That's my girl,” Debra said. “Whatever you do, don't let my son get in the way of your relationship with your sister. Blood is the strongest bond there is. And there's more than enough room in Scott's heart for both of you, the wife and the friend.”

“Thanks,” Ramona said. “That means a lot.”

“I'll see you tomorrow.”

Ramona had to concentrate on walking. One foot in front of the other. Repeat. Repeat. Otherwise, she'd trip over those damn boxes, or over her own clumsy feet, and topple down the stairs.

She didn't even bother wiping away the tears.

Deep down, she knew where she stood with Scott. The “Friend Zone,” or whatever they call it on television, has very clear signage. “Welcome to the Friend Zone.” None of this was new to her. But having Debra, the closest mother figure in her life, lay it out like that—Ramona hurt.

She wanted to make a quick exit. Normally, she'd dawdle in the living room, admiring the woodwork and appreciating the family photos. Normally, she'd linger. But suddenly this house didn't seem as inviting. It seemed oppressive.

What was worse, she didn't feel like a part of the house. Not anymore. As a kid, McInney Manor felt like her real home. Here, no one screamed at each other. No one threw plates. Even though it was just wood, and concrete, and plaster, the house always called out to her. It was the X on her pirate map.

But now—now she didn't know how she felt, except for the nagging feeling that she had to leave. Right away.

When she got to the bottom of the stairs, she looked around to see if anyone else was here. She didn't need any more conversation, at least not now. The coast was clear, so Ramona spy-walked through the empty hallway and the empty kitchen. All she had to do was cross the living room. Then she'd make her escape.

But as she entered the living room, she heard a horrible cry of pain. Then another. Then another. Then a gruff voice barked, “Over here, soldiers!”

Great. Someone was watching TV.

No, that wasn't quite right. Someone was playing a video game.

Ramona saw a blond mop of hair peeking out over the top of the couch: Jeffrey. His back was to her. She could see that he was blasting some sort of green creatures with a laser gun.

He seemed completely invested in his mission. Maybe he wouldn't notice her leaving.

Ramona knew every inch of this house, but she seemed to always forget that one inch—that one very important inch of floorboard that creaked every time someone stepped on it.

Creeeeeaaak
.

“Ramona?” Jeffrey asked without turning.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “I was just—”

“Ramona, can I ask you something?” He still didn't turn to look at her.

“Sure?”

“Dad always tells me that lying is bad,” he said. “You know, like about grades and stuff.”

“Your father is a very wise man,” Ramona said.

“Don't flatter him,” Jeffrey corrected. “Everyone knows that lying is bad. Especially when you lie to old people. That's like the worst.”

He killed a few more creatures.

Ramona had the sinking suspicion that she knew where this conversation was headed. “Honey,” she said. “I really have to get going. I'm late for—”

“Why are you lying to Grandma?” the boy blurted out.

Such a simple question. Such a simple, simple question.

“Well,” Ramona said, “your grandma is still sick. And we thought that it would help her get better if we—”

“If you pretended to be Aunt Nessa?”

“Did your daddy tell you that?” Ramona asked.

“Yeah.”

“It's true,” she said. She couldn't lie to him.

He didn't say anything for a long time. The only sounds in that living room were floor creaks and video game death noises. Ramona thought she was finally in the clear, but then Jeffrey said, “Why?”

Ramona smiled down at Jeffrey, but he didn't notice. He was too busy killing space mutants. Or zombies.

“You know what, Jeffrey?” she said. She looked at the TV screen. Yup. Definitely space mutants.

“What?” the boy asked.

“I honestly don't know.”

Ramona grabbed two packets of organic, wheat-based cracker substitutes, and tossed them into her cart. There was a little alligator logo on the covers, which meant that the food company spent a percentage of its profits protecting the Florida wetland.