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Calista

I look just like my mother, and I couldn’t loathe it more.

There is nothing more that I wish than to hate this woman, but I don’t.

Therapy has helped, I can’t walk around with this heavy weight always bearing down on me. Even if I do blame her for where I am, and for the mess that's haunted me like an unwanted pregnancy in a Christian household.

“Sweetie, did you hear me?”

I’ve been stirring my coffee at my parents' kitchen island, trying to hold a conversation, but with so much on my mind it’s hard to concentrate. I’ll need to get back on my ADHD meds or I won’t make it through these next couple of months with this inconceivable task I’m about to embark on.

I’m grateful that Genevieve has a boyfriend who let her move in for the time being. Not me, single as a minimalist design with no furniture. I’ve been here with my mom and stepdad for three days, and now that I’m alone with her, I still can’t seem to gather the courage to ask what I’ve needed to since my house burned down.

“Yeah, you were saying that Mallorie has a property she’s trying to sell.” I tap my spoon against the edge of the black mug, setting it down on the counter before picking it up and taking a sip.

It’s cold. Of course it is . Karma is truly a bitch.

“Taylor’s property, not Mallorie. Cal, if you can’t—”

“Sorry, Mom,” I sigh and set down my cup. “I’ve got a lot on my mind and, no offense, being here isn’t helping.”

“Your father and I aren’t home that much.”

Their house is in downtown Denver, minutes from a concrete jungle. She knows what I mean. I don’t want the sounds of taxis, the homeless asking for change, or the sketchy corner store food. But while those aren’t the real reasons I want to get out of this house, they’re still part of it.

When I look up at her, she has her arms crossed over her chest. She’s dressed for the office, and I know she wants to hurry along with this conversation.

I’m twenty-seven years old and I’m so sick of this bullshit. I’m not one for handouts; I’ve been making good money since I graduated college, and even more now that I’ve contracted with an expansion company that's building and modernizing vacation homes across Colorado.

I’ve always loved design—fine lines and perfection for everyone else. But for me? My room, like my life, is a constant mess, though it remains locked away, just like I am. I’ve always gone to my boyfriends' or hookups' houses, allowing my chaos to stay my own.

Colorado, in general, isn’t cheap, and unfortunately I don’t have any savings to fall back on. That’s why I’m using it as an excuse to ask my mom for a handout.

“The cabin…” I fumble around with my fingers. “Until I get the insurance money, can I stay there? Please?”

She furrows her eyebrows. “You’ll be so far outside of the city. That will be like an hour’s drive to work, sweetie.”

“I’ve talked to my boss, he said I’d just need to come in once a week but the rest of the days I can work from home.”

A sigh lazily falls from her mouth. “I’ll have to talk to your father.”

I don’t mind that she refers to him as that, but he’s my stepfather—always has been and always will be. I loved my dad, and after losing him to cancer, I had hoped it would just be my mom and I.

That said, Eamon really is amazing. He treats my mom well and helps keep her on track after I got her there. I love him, but he’ll never be my dad. He’s her husband, and while I’m happy for her, it’s a complicated happiness.

“Technically it’s yours.”

“No, it’s ours, sweetheart. When you finally get married and share your space, you’ll understand.”

I groan. “Please? Why would he tell me no?”

Her eyes wander away from me. “I’ve not had a lot of time to talk with him over the past week. We’ve had such opposite schedules. I fear it’ll be the same this week as well… I can just quickly text him.”

Another strained, thunderous groan forces its way from my lips. “How about… instead…” I’m such a manipulator and I fucking love it. With my blonde hair, bright green eyes, and a body I can sway to get what I want, I know how to play the game. Sure, that doesn’t work with my family, but my tactical words definitely do. “We don’t tell him, and I’ll fix up the cabin. I’ve got some contractor friends that owe me big time. Then, in six months, we can surprise him with how much better it looks. How’s that?”

I give her the ‘ Pleaseeee, Mommy!’ look. Rounded eyes with pouty lips that I know pulls at her heart strings.

She rolls her lips together, the wrinkles around her mouth showing even through the heavy makeup she uses to conceal them. She’s in her late fifties, while Eamon is in his forties, which makes it hard not to tease her about being a cougar.

“Your contractor friend’s going to do the work for free?”

“Well… no…”

“I can’t have you up fronting those costs.”

I bite my lip. That isn’t a no…

She digs into her purse and pulls out her wallet. “Six months, and then I’m telling him. Only use the card for the housing expenses.” She looks at me and nods as if reminding herself that I’m her daughter and that I’ve never misused our money before.

“He won’t care that I’m there.” When she presents me a black card, I snatch it. “I’m sure if we told him he’d be elated to know I’m cleaning up the place.”

Rolling her eyes playfully, she flashes me a big smile, one that I know is meant to warm my heart. “Insurance claims have been taking some time recently, and the upcoming election could cause delays with a lot of things. If you need anything, just let me know, Cal. Money, a girls night out. We never spend time together anymore.”

We never really did… not after losing Dad.

I don’t say that, even if I want so badly to. Instead, I produce a big grin. “Thank you.” I round the counter and swing my arms around her waist, knowing it’s all a part of the ruse.

“Love you, sweetheart.”

“Love ya, Mom.”

The drive takes just over an hour, and thankfully I only hit the tail end of traffic leaving Denver. Southwest of Highway 285 lies the small town of Maple Falls. The town itself is small but has a few bars I’m sure I’ll visit from time to time to drown out my problems, along with a Walmart and a handful of locally owned stores that line the main drag between stretches of highway. It’s eclectic, much like my cabin.

It's also home to a residential area called Sapphire Valley, which boasts a large lake owned by four families. I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting the other three, unsure why, it just hasn’t happened.

Our portion of the lake has been handed down from my great-grandfather on my dads side. The houses are spaced nearly a mile apart, if not more in some cases, connected by a single road. The cabin sits at the farthest western point, accessible only by a narrow road flanked by trees on either side. With no lights illuminating the path and the clock creeping toward six in the afternoon, the fading sun barely provides enough light to see the curve ahead.

The cabin is called Sanderson Pine, named after my father, James Sanderson. I’m happy I was old enough to have a say in keeping my dad’s last name, whereas my mother changed hers to Byrne when she remarried. I’m my father’s daughter, and though I plan to marry one day, I hope whoever it is won’t mind taking my name instead.

As I come up on the rustic A-frame style wooden exterior that blends nicely into the nature surrounding it, I breathe a sigh of relief. No cars and no lights on: absolute silence. It’s secluded enough that I can scream through an orgasm and the neighbors would be none the wiser.

It’s situated right at the edge of the lake, and under the faintly orange sky, I can see the dock where a pontoon boat used to bounce against it. I think one of the neighbors has it now, from a comment Eamon once made, and I may try to get it back.

I come to a stop and grab my backpack, which holds a set of clothes for the night. I’ll get my suitcases and the few boxes I have later; most of it is left over from my parents’ place since I lost nearly everything in the fire.

As I quietly shut the door to my Mustang, I make my way up the gravel pathway. The large wooden oak door of the A-frame cabin looks untouched, but I know I’ll have to do a thorough cleaning of both the exterior and interior. It’s beautiful, and I wish I didn’t have to taint it with my disease.

Sliding the key in, I stay quiet as I slip in and shut the door behind me. I pop on the light and the open concept living room expands in front of me. White sheets are draped over the elongated L-shaped sofa and what I think is a rocking chair. A floor to ceiling fireplace faces me at the furthest wall, and around are other fitting decorations, from a grandfather clock to a coffee table.

This single-story cabin took ‘being together’ seriously. There are only two rooms, one of which is the master with a remodeled bathroom; it’s the only space my mother had to have redone.

The kitchen I’m walking toward is on the other side of a wall-to-wall window that opens onto a patio looking out at the forest. I always thought it was strange that there isn’t a patio on the lake side, but if I remember correctly, it was due to the garage’s design. I might consider shifting the layout, depending on how much effort I’m willing to invest.

The worst part of this kitchen is the god-awful design. Brown cabinets sit atop brown and tan tiles, paired with an equally unattractive backsplash. To top it off, the white appliances are outdated, and the sink is chipping. This place definitely needs a lot of work.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I quickly pull it out. I’m automatically connected to the Wi-Fi, though I don’t question how it’s on. It seems like whenever my mom or stepdad request something, it gets done in no time. Why would asking for their services to be reactivated be any different?

Gene-Vee lights up my phone, and I answer it.

“Hey, sweet cheeks.”

“Hey, babe. What’s cookin’?” she says with a soft laugh.

“Not our townhouse that’s for—”

“Oh my god, Cal!”

I press my lips together, holding back a snort, and lean onto the counter while setting my backpack down as I tap my foot. “Who am I to not make a joke about our misfortune?”

A groan rolls straight through the speaker. “I wish you wouldn’t. I think about it, and I wasn’t even there.” Even though Gene was never actually in danger, I’m grateful she wasn’t home for some unexpected reason.

“My bad.” I say the words, though the apology behind them isn’t genuine. “So, what’s up? How’s the boytoy?”

“Travis is great, not a boytoy. Though, I will be moving back in with you. This is too soon for us.”

“You’ve been together for a year, Gene.” I glance over my shoulder down the dark hall, then back at the disgusting grout between the tiles. Dragging my freshly manicured brown nails across it, I shake my head.

Am I really ready for this?

“Men are disgusting.” I hear a “Hey, I heard that” in the background and let out a light laugh. “I’m serious. At least you kept your filth in your room, Cal, and the rest of the place spotless.”

“ADHD!” I coo. “I can focus on everyone else and their problems but screw my own. I just can’t be bothered. How vile that translates to literally everything .”

We both giggle, and once more my head turns down the hall, as if something is lurking there. I don’t hear anything, but—

“You up for a round of drinks this weekend?” It’s Thursday, and while a trip back might be nice, I’d rather stay here a few more days. Something about rushing back to the city doesn’t exactly appeal to me.

“I moved up to Sanderson Pine until we get the insurance money.”

She gasps. “You bitch. And you didn’t even ask ME to come with you?!”

“I swore you’d be happy with boytoy!”

“It’s Travis!”

I clap a hand over my mouth, leaning further against the counter, but my laughter slips out anyway. It’s contagious, and soon she’s laughing right along with me.

“You can’t get dick out here as often.” I try to ease the pain I know me not offering her to come with me caused. “You can come up, maybe in a week or so. Let me get things settled.”

Just then, I hear the creak of a door and my heart lurches in my chest. A faint shuffle follows, echoing from the darkness, and a cold prickle creeps up my spine. Every muscle tenses in my body and I am left immobile.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Fear numbs my fingers, causing me to drop my phone. I jerk around, angling my body toward the deep, thunderous voice, scanning the darkness for its source. Which I don’t have to search long to find.

I blink a few times; if it weren’t for the tattoos, I’d swear it was my stepdad, Eamon, stalking down the dimly lit hallway toward me. This gladiator before me is dripping wet, with only a towel around his waist.

Holy shit…

His body is chiseled—no, it’s crafted by some long-forgotten god. As he steps into the illuminated living room, both of his hands curl into fists at his sides. Now that the light bounces off his tawny skin, I can see that every inch, from his defined hip bones to his sharp jawline, is covered in tattoos.

“Cal??” I hear Gene’s faint call for me.

The man before me has eyes nearly as blue as the lake outside, and they drift down to the ground. “Hang it up.” He speaks again, and Jesus, I never thought a voice could make my thighs tremble like this.

“Hello? Is the signal fucking shit out there? Never mind, I’m not coming to force myself to live there.”

I can't tear my eyes away from him, caught in a terrified daze. In any horror movie, I’d be the first to die.

The expression he is giving me suggests he’d hurt me for the slightest inconvenience.

“Hang… it… up.” He delivers slowly this time, snapping his fingers and pointing down at the phone.

I scramble, keeping my gaze trained on him as I bend over and grab the phone. “I-I’ll call you back.” Before she can say anything, I hit the button to hang up the call.

That was stupid, wasn’t it? I probably should’ve told her someone was in the house, label him a squatter. She’d call the police right away and send someone here. But I don’t. This is why I need therapy. It’s also why I’m single. Instead of triggering my flight response, the thought of pain sparks a strange eagerness in me.

I should hope he doesn’t want to hurt me, but that’s the last thing I want. Pain helps me forget yesterday and reminds me that I’m unfortunately still alive today.

“I won’t ask again.” He tilts his head. His short, wet black hair slicking down the sides of his face and across his temple where a single tattoo rests just above his eyebrow, reading ‘SIT’.

“Who… the fuck are you?”