My heart is plummeting, and I need CPR.
911, what’s your emergency? Death by a beautiful God staring back at me, reflecting my hopes and dreams.Don’t bother, send the casket.
“I think I’m…”
“You think what, baby?” His breathing becomes heavier, syncing with mine, suspended until the world interrupts when a car horn blares from the street, followed by the distant sound of someone calling for him from the garage.
I think I’m falling in love with you.
He steps back, exhaling. “Damn it, I forgot my uncle Fred was coming today. What are you doing later?”
Shivering inside from how intoxicating it felt to have him on the brink of breaking. “Mom is at the gallery all day. I have an errand with Mimi at three.”
Joe nods absentmindedly. “See you tonight?” It’s more of a request than a question.
“Yes, I’ll come by.”
He leaps closer, smiling. “Okay.” And gently kisses me on the forehead, erupting hundreds of butterflies.
When he turns and jogs down the path toward the garage, my eyes trail his waist, his broad, strong back, his tattoo, and I have to take a deep breath to regain control of myself.
His uncle Fred pauses at my sight, waving at me, dressed in expensive beige linen. Clearly, handsome men with striking facial structures run in the family.
Making my way inside the house, walking down the hallway, I take in the family photographs lining the walls. The twin brothers, with their arms slung over each other, Liam sticking his tongue out, Joe flashing a peace sign. Happiness radiates from the frames.
My gaze drifts further to another picture, landing on their beautiful mother, laughing as she tosses Joe into the air, Liam on his knees in the dirt tugging at her dress. A soft, unexpectedache pinches my chest, briefly disorienting me as I remember the days when my mother held me like that. When I was mothered unconditionally. The phone call she received about my brother’s death has become its own ghost, a haunting memory that plagues me with the echo of his absence.
I snap out of my thoughts, and espresso shots glisten on the marble countertop in the kitchen, catching my attention. I could use a little pick-me-up.
With my eyes closed and a frown, I drink one, letting the bitter taste jolt me as I swallow. I can't fathom why anyone enjoys the taste of coffee, yet I love how it makes me feel.
When I open my eyes, I'm startled by Liam standing against the opposite side of the island with his strong tattooed arms, dark brown hair, and ethereal blue eyes that hold underneath a somber hardness to him. I hadn't sensed his presence, but there's no denying it now that he gazes at me, almost scrutinizing.
“Make yourself at home?” he asks with venom.
“Wouldn't that be your dream come true?” I retort.
“It would feel like that coffee that went down your throat — painful,” he shoots back.
He's such a jerk and can't help himself. If I could twist a small blade in his shoulder to watch his obnoxiousness squirm away, I'd do it.
“I guess it’s a good thing I’m the only one in charge of what I swallow.” I challenge, narrowing my eyes so little imaginary blades poke straight through his eyeballs. I think the word swallowing is the trigger considering his murderous gaze.
“I’ll see you later,” I say, smiling, embodying someone who’s unbothered, yet further from the truth. I’m so bothered by him.
With my breath steady and avoiding eye contact, I walk past him, sending shivers down my spine, and head back to my house.
Two
Sara
Years of tropical sun and ocean wind distorted our beautiful, thick wooden front door of our house and when I come home and the door scrapes against the floor, it sounds like a screech. I have never figured out how to ease it open quietly, so even in the middle of the day, even barefoot, even when I am trying to slip in unnoticed, there’s no way to avoid the announcement that I’m home.
Honey,I’m home!
Despite the relentless front door’s animosity, I never truly know which version of my mother awaits me on the otherside, and I’d take a screeching door repeatedly over the anxious rotting feeling in the pit of my stomach every time I walk through that damn door. Will I face the half-loving spirit or the grieving, resentful shadow?
Hesitantly, I linger in the entryway in case she is home. I don’t want to fight with her again about dating Joe, and I’ve quieted my own needs to be mothered at the risk of weighing her down. She exhausts me. She’s the epitome of class, even when she’s drowning, that should tell you something about her expectations of me. Always dressed in black and white Chanel style, her hazel whiskey eyes intensified by black kohl, eyes that could kill with a glance, concealing years of pain, mystery, and untold strength. She’s one of the most brilliant minds I know, a force not to be crossed, but she’s also as toxic as a radioactive field.
