Page 40

Bailey

I never realized how bad California smelled until I spent time away. The closest comparison to the air in Los Angeles I can come up with is loneliness.

Maybe it’s just me, or maybe it’s being pumped in through the city’s ventilation. Either way, it does nothing to quell the permanent bad mood I settle into as the days wear on at home.

Mom doesn’t speak to me. She comes and goes, leaving me to settle into the dust in my room like a forgotten sock. She must think I’m too far gone.

Savannah is busy most of the time with Spike — yes, he’s still around.

And Mila, well, she’s just Mila.

Three days in and I become accustomed to staying up late and watching old slasher movies in my room with my new friend, Ben and Jerry’s Chocolate Therapy. I can say this type of therapy is much more enjoyable than meeting Kenya, whom I still haven’t told I’m back in town.

It’s not until day five that someone barges into my room while I’m spooning macaroni and cheese in the shape of fish into my mouth.

I pause, mid-bite as Mason steps into my room, the noodles sliding back off my fork and into my bowl.

“It’s time to get out of bed.” It’s not a suggestion.

“I’ve been out of bed,” I reply, looking around my room. It’s a mess. Clothes lay everywhere. My suitcases lay, still full, in the corner, like they’re trying to rat me out. Two empty pints of ice cream sit on the stand beside me and if I had any sense about me, I would be embarrassed.

Mason steps further into the room, looking around him like he’d just stepped into an episode of Hoarders.

“Don’t act like your shop is any cleaner,” I grumble, setting my bowl on the stand next to an empty Chocolate Therapy. I pull the covers closer around myself, like they’ll save me from having to leave my cave.

Without warning, Mason rips the blankets back and I let out a groan, rolling over to stare at the ceiling. “Just let me be depressed in peace.”

He shakes his head. “No can do. Come on, we’re going to have fun today.”

Fun isn’t something I want to have. I want to lay in bed and wallow in my self-pity alone because that’s what I do best.

Mason crosses the room to my closet and throws a random pair of shorts and a t-shirt at me.

“Sheep pajamas won’t do.”

I roll my eyes and clamber out of bed and cross to the bathroom. “I didn’t know I was going to a fashion show. ”

As much as I hate to admit it, it does feel nice to brush my teeth and wash my face. I skip makeup because with my hair-trigger emotions, I don’t care to deal with the cleanup. Once I’ve dressed in the shorts and the t-shirt, I emerge from the bathroom.

“That’s more like it.” Mason nods his approval.

I never thought spending the day with my brother would be something that would ever happen again, but I’m so happy it did. He takes me around town in Dad’s old Mustang, first, going to a pop-up book market and then, stopping for ice cream at the old dairy shack just off the beach. We take our cones — me going for Oreo chip and him going for bananarama — and walk along the edge of the water. I take my shoes off and let the water trickle between my toes and it’s nice, humanizing. I actually forget about my problems for a moment.

The late June winds blow across the water to us, ruffling my hair. People fly kites, others are out on their boats, kids play in the sand at the water line. It’s days like these where I don’t hate the city I grew up in as much.

“So, who is he?” Mason asks finally, breaking the easy silence that had formed between us.

I roll my eyes, angrily licking my cone. It’s like he can see right through me.

“Do you always have to know everything?”

“When it’s hurt my sister, yeah, I do.”

I’ve desperately tried to get Charlie off my mind since I’ve been home. I even went a whole hour the other day where I didn’t even think about him. He came crashing back in, though, when someone said something about whiskey on the movie I was watching. He always does.

“He’s Andi’s brother,” I admit, finally. It feels good to finally tell someone.

“And you like him?”

“I love him,” I murmur, without thinking.

“You loved Drew,” Mason points out.

I shake my head. “This was . . . different. Almost too much.”

“Sounds pretty serious,” Mason says, side-eyeing me.

“It wasn’t supposed to be. Like you said. I get attached too quickly. He made me feel safe, like I would live a normal life with him.”

“What’s normal anymore, Bails?” Mason asks, tossing the cone to his ice cream in the trash. I shake my head. He’s always been weird. “I mean, are Mom and Marcus normal?”

“No,” I answer quickly, sidestepping around a kid in the sand. “Mom and Dad were, though.”

“Mom and Dad were toxic for each other. I know you don’t remember that, but I do. Don’t model your next relationship around them.”

“Dad loved Mom,” I argue.

“But Mom didn’t love him back. Not enough. Sure, she loved him because he was the father to her children, but she didn’t love him as a man. He didn’t have enough money for that.”

“I don’t know,” I grumble. “I guess I just came to realize that I have no prospects here. Nothing I’m passionate about. You have the garage; Savannah has the theatre. Mila has whatever Mila has.” Mason chuckles, kicking a small stone across the sand. “What do I have? ”

“You have me,” he says, his eyes hard. He wraps an arm around my shoulder and gives me a squeeze. “You’ll always have me.”

When I get home, my only plans are to go to my room and clean up the mess I’ve created since I’ve been home and avoid everyone else in the house.

Except, as I climb the stairs to my room, a loud wail sounds from Mom’s end of the house.

“Mom?” I hurry to her, panic welling inside me. I follow the sounds of her cries and as I step into the bathroom, I have to immediately duck out of the way to avoid a flying perfume bottle. It crashes into the floor and spills all over my shoes, soaking my toes.

“Get out!” Mom screeches, the sounds of her voice echoing off the marble walls of the bathroom.

She’s on her knees in a robe on the ground, a cut on her knee. I kneel down beside her, reaching out for her, but she pushes me so hard I fall back on my rear, wincing as pain erupts from my backside.

“Don’t touch me!” she spits, jerking away from me. Her face is bright red and black mascara runs down her cheeks. “Get out!”

“What the hell?” I snap, scooting back and away from her. My mom has never shoved me before. “What’s gotten into you?” That’s when I notice the broken liquor bottle on the floor behind her.

“Him,” she seethes, rising to her knees and pointing at me. “I found Marcus in bed with his slut, Camilla.”

Stupidly, I move to reach for her, again, only for her to slap my wrist.

“Okay,” I muse, standing. I’ll have a bruise on my hip from the fall, but that isn’t what bothers me most. “Are you going to leave him?”

I move to the sink, grabbing the small dustpan and miniature broom under the vanity and start sweeping up the glass. The harsh scent of scotch sears my nostrils and my chest flutters. I bite down on my tongue, tasting blood.

“What did you just say?” Mom asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

I pour the contents of the broken bottle in the bin beside her and put the dust pan back.

“You heard me. Are you going to leave him? Or are you just going to throw a tantrum and forgive him?”

She blinks up at me, disbelieving.

“You don’t speak this way to me. I am your mother.”

I grab a towel and wet it under the sink, then start wiping up the spilled perfume. Chanel doesn’t smell too great when it’s this concentrated and my nose burns.

“Well, you know, Mom, sometimes you’re just a selfish bitch and you need to be put in your place. You think you’re the only one who’s had their heart broken?”

“Bailey Grace Carpenter, what has gotten into you?”

I throw the towel down the laundry chute and turn to her, crossing my arms over my chest .

“You, Mom. You think these men can just treat us however they want to? I was sexually assaulted by Drew and you basically told me to suck it up. Marcus cheats on you constantly and yet, you continue to act like he created the entire world with his magical dick.”

She scoffs, snatching the clean wet washcloth I hand her and patting her face. She straightens her legs out in front of her, kicking her heels off.

“You think we would have anything if I didn’t make sacrifices to keep us here? I mean, look at you,” she starts, gesturing to me. “You don’t work. You don’t have to do anything. You took off to New Orleans without a word and shacked up with that trashy boy for weeks.”

I hold up a finger to stop her. “First of all, I would have a job if you had allowed it. You and Drew both made sure that no one in the city would hire me when I started looking out of college. Second of all, you don’t know what I did in New Orleans and Charlie is one of the best men I know, so don’t even talk down on him.”

“But could he have afforded the life you’re used to?” I blink, anger bubbling inside me. “I didn’t think so.”

“Not that it matters, because we aren’t together, but he wouldn’t have had to. I’m in love with him and I left because I’m too afraid of disappointing you.” I push off the counter where I’m leaning and walk to the bathroom door. “And now I’ll never probably never get the chance to tell him.”

“I was like you,” she says, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. “I loved your father, but he was never going to provide for us the way he should have. I wanted you to stay away from that boy because I knew you would fall in love with him. You’re too much like me.”

I shake my head. “I’m nothing like you. You care too much about money, Mom.”

“We need it, Bailey. I need it. Name one good thing that boy did for you to make you fall in love with him besides be handsome and probably good in bed.”

“First of all,” I sigh. “Ew. Second of all . . . he made me feel like me for the first time in years. Probably since Dad died. I felt beautiful, smart — free. And I’m too afraid to tell him because I know the moment I do, there’s no going back. I could never live with myself if I left you like this, without your blessing. And I know you’ll never give me that.”

She stares at me, eyes narrowed like a toddler who has just been placed in time-out.

I shake my head in disgust. “You need therapy. You’re sick, Mom. Money didn’t clean you up and put you to bed when you had too much to drink. Money didn’t make you pictures in school or tell you your cooking was the best even though it actually fucking sucked. Oh, and money sure as hell didn’t just clean up the broken bottle you threw at the wall because your husband is a piece of shit who can’t keep his dick in his pants. I think you need to think about that.”