Almost Like Being in Love (36 page)

“I'm not arguing about this anymore, Margo. I came here to stage a home, not get involved with Kade Webster again. My job is done.” She pulled the keys out of her purse. “Now tell me goodbye because I'm going home. To Alex.”

Margo said nothing as Caron hugged her. “I'll see you for your wedding—and Alex will be with me. And I hope as my friend, you'll support me.”

A plane lifted off the runway, seemingly effortless in its defiance of gravity. Within seconds, it was a mere speck on the horizon.

Alex would enjoy Sunday lunch with their families and then be waiting for her at the airport tonight. She'd leave all this . . . confusion behind her in Colorado. Return home to the stability of two years with a man who knew her. Trusted her. Needed her.

A
lex needed to get up and get dressed. He'd slept through church, but he needed to pull it together and show up for another Sunday afternoon at the Hollisters'. And then he'd pick Caron up from the airport.

Everything would get back to normal.

The alarm clock by his bed—the one he'd used since high school—warned him that it was almost noon. If Caron had been in town—instead of returning from working for Kade Webster—she'd have called him hours ago. Checked on him. Insisted he made it to church.

Once she was back home, she'd make everything okay again.

An image of Jessica's face appeared, and just as quickly dissipated. He wouldn't be receiving any more concerned phone calls from Jessica. They'd both made sure the customer–repairman boundary was well in place when they said goodbye three weeks ago.

And now here he was—wide awake and still in bed. Of course, sleep had evaded him for days as he alternated between
going to work, coming home to pace the confines of his bedroom, and crawling back into bed, only to toss and turn, staring at the ceiling. What was he waiting for? Some still-invisible handwriting to appear and reveal the answers he needed? During his brief phone calls with Caron, he'd managed to hide his struggles from her. No need to add any more stress on her, when she'd been wrapping up the Peak Tour of Homes.

Jessica's words had taunted him, lyrics to unwanted background music of his disastrous life story.

“You've shoved this family secret into a closet, thinking you can ignore it. But it's still there—banging at the door, screaming to get out. Your brother's death . . . your mother's drinking . . . even your father's choices are still hurting you. Keeping secrets in your family certainly hasn't helped you, your mother, or your father, has it? Maybe it's time to be honest about all that.”

Who did Jessica think she was, telling him things needed to change? That secrets needed to be told? They barely knew each other—and she thought she had the right to tell him what to do to fix everything that was so wrong with his life?

And yet . . . he couldn't escape the harsh ring of truth in her words. How her probing had found the wound he'd ignored for years. He couldn't summon the strength to get up. Get dressed. Go over to the Hollisters' and pretend everything was okay. Not without Caron sitting beside him. Holding his hand.

After the car accident, life returned to the family routine. His mother in a self-medicated haze. His father at work. Always at work. The empty hallway, devoid of any family photos, seemed longer than ever.

He was so tired of doing and saying the right thing.

My mother's an alcoholic.

What if he finally said the truth out loud? What would change?

Nothing.

His mother wouldn't suddenly realize she needed help. She'd never exchange inebriated unreality for sober truth. She'd still choose memories of her dead son over the living and breathing son standing right in front of her. His father wouldn't be there for him after years and years of expecting Alex to handle it. If he wasn't there for Alex when he was a young boy, why would he be there for him when he was an adult?

How did he do life without secrets? If he kept the secret—all of the secrets—no one got hurt.

But where was the truth in that kind of life?

A knock sounded on his door, followed by his father's voice. “You in there?”

“Yes, sir.” His voice sounded hoarse. Gravelly.

His door opened halfway, his father standing shadowed by the hallway light. “You sick?”

“No.” Alex cleared his throat and forced himself to sit up, the blankets falling around his waist. “Didn't sleep well.”

“Caron's mother called and I told her that we'd be over later. Your mother's having a good day, so it'll be the three of us.”

“Great.”

“You'll make it, right?”

“Of course. And I go get Caron later tonight. She gets back from Colorado.”

“I forgot about that.” His father was nothing more than a dark figure in his doorway. “Your mother and I already ate breakfast, so there's coffee. Do you want anything?”

“Coffee's good.”

Alex welcomed the darkness as his father closed the bedroom door again.

He wanted a lot of things. Years of his life, lost in the twin vortices of his mom's drinking and his dad's absence. He
wanted to know what it felt like to wake up and not wonder if his mother was sober or drunk. Not to have to adjust his day around his mother's choices.

He wanted to be able to miss his brother . . . not resent Shawn for dying and twisting their lives into a misshapen family tree bent over into a never-ending posture of mourning.

No healing. No comfort.

His cell phone clattered on his bedside table. Kenny G's “Songbird,” the song Caron had programmed in as her ringtone.

Alex leaned back against his pillow as he answered. “Hello?”

“Hi.” Caron's voice was a soft whisper. “I just called to say I'm looking forward to seeing you soon.”

“Thanks.” He swung his feet over the side of the bed, shoving aside the blankets. “Your flight on time?”

“So far. I got to the airport extra early, so I've been watching everyone else's plane take off.”

“Feel good to have the job done?”

“Yes. Everyone was happy with how things went.” Caron paused, the sound of an overhead announcement playing in the background. “I wanted to share some surprising news with you.”

“What's that?”

“I've got a job.”

Alex clutched a handful of blanket. He couldn't have heard her right. “A job? In Colorado?”

“No. I mean, yes, I got a job in Florida. My father called and told me that he wanted me to come back and work for him again.”

“Caron, that's fantastic!”

“I can hardly believe it myself. Are you going to have lunch with our families today?”

“Of course.”

“Well, don't
say anything, please. I'm going to try harder to keep business and family separated this time.”

“Whatever you say.” Caron didn't need to know he'd be lucky to manage any sort of conversation at all.

“I know you're probably getting ready to head over to my parents'.”

“In a bit.”

After he showered. And shaved. And downed a couple of cups of coffee.

“See you soon. Love you.”

“Love you, too.” His response to Caron was automatic. He could only hope it was enough to cover up his exhaustion. His lack of any sort of emotion.

•  •  •

Despite a quick shower and two cups of hot coffee, Alex arrived at the Hollisters' home half awake. Even though he'd shaved and caffeinated himself, he still sat at the dining room table with his emotions scraped raw.

How many Sundays had he sat in this house? Eaten lunch. Participated in pleasant small talk. Enjoyed a home-cooked meal. And tried not to count how many drinks his mother indulged in before lunch. Watched as his father accepted another glass of wine for her as Alex resisted the urge to say, “No. She doesn't need another one.”

It was a well-practiced dance, this routine between his parents, one where Caron's parents watched without intruding. Where Caron provided a buffer. But not today.

His mother had started the day in a pleasant enough mood, chatting in the kitchen with Caron's mother, sipping a glass of sangria while Mrs. Hollister tossed a green salad and removed a steaming tray of lasagna from the oven.

But now, as they finished lunch, Alex couldn't pull himself away from the mental math. Had his mother had one or two drinks before they came over? She'd become less and less talkative, her focus more inward, the piece of bread and lasagna on her plate untouched. His father and Mr. Hollister talked business, and Mrs. Hollister began to clear the table. As his father started to pour his mother another serving of sangria—her second glass? Third?—Jessica's question echoed in his mind:

And you just accept that things are like this? That things will never change?

“No.”

He hadn't realized he'd spoken the word out loud until Mrs. Hollister asked, “
No
what, Alex?”

He blinked, focusing on Mrs. Hollister. Mr. Hollister. His own father, who stared at him, the glass pitcher of sangria suspended above his mother's goblet. “No . . . no, my mother doesn't need anything more to drink.”

“Alex, I don't think that's your decision to make.” His father tipped the pitcher so the sparkling liquid flowed into his mother's glass.

“And whose decision is it, then? Yours? When was the last time you told Mom no? When was the last time you decided she had enough?”

“This is not the time or place for this conversation—”

“What? You don't think the Hollisters—your oldest, dearest friends—don't realize Mom has had too much to drink? Again?”

“Alex—” Mrs. Hollister set the empty salad bowl down, moving to sit beside his mother.

“What? I know we don't talk about this. We never talk about it. But you and your husband are hoping your daughter will marry me, right? Marry into my family. My secret will become
her secret. Let's be honest—it already is your secret. Are you certain you want to pollute your family tree with alcoholism?”

“That's enough—” His father's voice cut across the room.

“Oh, now you want to tell me what to do—after all these years of telling me to handle everything? To take care of Mom? To not bother you at work?” Alex rose to his feet, shoving his chair away from the table. “It's a little late for that, don't you think? I'm tired of handling it. Of taking care of . . . everything. Mom stays in her room and drinks. You go to work—the only place you have any sort of relationship with me. And what do I have?”

A throbbing silence descended on the room. His mother sat, cradled in Mrs. Hollister's embrace, tears streaming down her face. His father stood immobilized, his face flushed red. Mr. Hollister remained seated at the head of the table.

“I know you're upset, Alex.” Mrs. Hollister's voice was an echo of Caron's calm, measured tone. “But I think you've said enough.”

He clenched and unclenched his fists, his chest rising and falling. What was he thinking, saying all of that? What good had he done?

“I need to go.” He shoved past his chair, causing it to fall to the floor. “I know you all think I should apologize. But I can't. I'm sorry for how I said what I did . . . but it doesn't mean I wish I hadn't said it.”

H
er street was shrouded in darkness, the houses seemingly sketched in pen and ink, with an occasional porch light creating a small circle of color. Two boys played basketball in a driveway, illuminated by a light over the garage, their laughter and jests punctuated by the thud of the ball against the backboard, breaking the silence.

After Alex greeted her just past the security area, the ride back from the airport had been an odd mixture of extended silences interrupted by brief bits of conversation. He'd hunched over the steering wheel, making no attempt to hold her hand, his gaze straight ahead. Without a word, he pulled the car alongside the curb in front of her house, turning off the engine, palming the keys.